Chapter XIII: Of the Rebellion of Mordred and the Death of King Arthur 333 (6)

On the morrow they pursued their way, and followed the green road out of the ruined city until they reached the forest. And in the heat and brightness of the high noon the green and coolness of the forestways were sweet, and the sound of tiny streams hidden beneath the leaves was refreshing.

Then they came upon a plain where was a village surrounded by a bank of earth, on which was a palisade. And there was a wailing and weeping coming from between the little mud-cabins therein; and as they approached they saw in the middle green four knights in armour and a crowd of poor frightened folk about them.

As they passed the gate of the village a poor man ran from the group, and threw himself before Sir Geraint.

'O sir knight,' he cried full piteously, 'if thou art a good knight and a brave, do thou see justice done here. For these four lords would cut my father's throat if he say not where his money is hid.'

'Are they his proper lords?' asked Geraint.

'Nay, sir knight,' said the man. 'Our land is Geraint's, and these lords say that he sleeps all day, and so they will be our masters. And they do ever oppress us with fine and tax and torture.'

Therewith Sir Geraint rode through the gate of the village and approached the group. He saw where the four knights stood cruelly torturing a poor old man whom they had tied to a post, and the sweat stood upon the peasant's white face, and the fear of death was in his eyes.

'Lords! lords,' he cried in a spent voice, 'I have no money, for you did take all I had when you told us our lord Geraint was become a court fool.'

'Thou miser!' jeered one of the knights, 'that was two months agone, and thou hast something more by now. Will this loose thy secret, carrion?'

At the cruel torture the man shrieked aloud, and by reason of the pain his head sank and he slid down the post in a swoon. And a young woman rushed forth, threw her arm about the hanging body, and with flashing eyes turned and defied the knights.

Next moment it would have gone ill with her, but the voice of Sir Geraint rang out.

'Ho, there, sir knights,' he cried, 'or sir wolves--I know not which ye are--have ye naught to do but to squeeze poor peasants of mean savings?'

The knights turned in rage, and laughed and sneered when they saw but one solitary knight in old and rusty armour.

'Ah, sir scarecrow!' cried one, leaping on his horse, 'I will spit thee for thy insolence.'

'Knock him down and truss him up with this starveling peasant,' cried another.

All now had mounted, and the first prepared to run at Sir Geraint, who backed his horse through the gateway into the open plain. Anon the first knight came, hurling himself angrily upon him. But deftly Sir Geraint struck the other's lance aside with his sword, and as the rider rushed past him, he rose in his stirrups, his blade flashed, and then sank in the neck of the felon knight, who swayed in his saddle and then crashed to the ground.

Then the second horseman attacked him furiously, being wroth at the death of his companion. But Sir Geraint couched his lance, and caught the other on the edge of his shield, and the spear passed through his body.

And by good hap also he slew the other two, one with his lance, the other with his sword on foot.

Enid, full of fear while the fight was raging, felt gladness and sorrow when she saw how nobly her husband had smitten these torturers with justice, and she said that of a truth she had been wrong, and that there was no sloth in his heart, no weakness in the strong arm of her lord.

Then Sir Geraint took off the armour from each of the four knights and piled them on their horses, and tied them together, and bade her drive them before her.

'And do thou go forward some way,' said he sternly, 'and say not one word to me unless I speak first unto thee.'

As he mounted his horse, the man that had been tortured came forward with his people and knelt before him, and kissed the mail-clad shoe in his stirrup, and in rude few words they thanked him tearfully, asking for his name, so that they could speak of him in their prayers.

'I am called Sir Slothful,' said Sir Geraint, 'and I deserve not your worship. But, hark ye, if other evil lords come upon these marches and seek to oppress thee, tell them that though Sir Geraint sleeps now, he will soon awake and they shall not stand before his vengeance.'

And so he rode on, leaving the poor folks marvelling but happy.

Then in a little while they came upon a highroad, and the lady went on first, and for all his anger, Geraint was sorry to see how much trouble Enid had in driving the four horses before her, yet how patient she was.

Soon they beheld a wide valley below them, the fairest and richest in homesteads and farms that they had yet seen. A river ran through the middle of it, and the road on which they passed ran down to a bridge over the river, beyond which was a castle and a walled town.

Sir Geraint took the road towards the bridge, and soon a knight came cantering towards them.

'Fair sir,' said Sir Geraint, 'canst thou tell me who is the owner of this fair valley and that walled city?'

'Of a truth,' said the other, 'these are the lands of King Griffith, whom men call the Little King. He holds them of King Erbin, whose son, that was so famous, men say has become a worthless court dandy.'

'I thank thee for thy words, fair sir,' said Geraint, and would pass on.

'I would counsel thee not to attempt to cross the bridge,' said the knight, 'unless thou dost intend to fight the little king. For armed strangers he will not suffer to pass, and I doubt me if thy arms are of much use to thee.'

And the knight smiled at the rusty arms and shield of Sir Geraint.

'Nevertheless,' said Sir Geraint, 'though my arms are old, I will go this way.'

'If thou dost so,' said the knight, 'thou wilt meet with shame and defeat. For the little king is a man of giant strength.'

But Sir Geraint passed down towards the bridge and crossed it, and went along the road beyond towards the town. Presently Sir Geraint heard the sound of hoofs behind him, and looking round he saw a knight following him upon a great black horse, tall and stately and stepping proudly. The knight was the smallest that Sir Geraint had ever seen.

When the stranger had come up to him, he said:

'Tell me, fair sir, is it by presumption or by ignorance that thou comest armed along this road?'

'I knew not that in any of the lands of King Erbin, a peaceful man, though he be armed, could not go without hindrance,' replied Sir Geraint.

'That was so,' replied the knight, 'when King Erbin's son Sir Geraint was a man of prowess, not a soft fool. Then his name alone kept his borders clean of robber lords and bandit knights; but now that he is less than naught, I myself must keep my land clean of thieves in rusty armour that would frighten and oppress poor folk.'

'Nevertheless,' said Sir Geraint, 'I will travel by this road, and ye hinder me at your peril.'

'Have at thee, then,' said the little knight, and together they spurred towards each other.

Sir Geraint marvelled to feel how powerful were the lance-strokes of the little man, while, as for himself, so high was the little knight's horse and so small was the rider, that he was hardly able to get a good blow at him. But they jousted until at the third bout the little king's lance broke short, and then they dismounted, and lashed at each other with their swords.

At first Sir Geraint thought it was nigh unseemly that one so strong and tall as himself should have to do with so small a knight; but if he thought that he had advantage in his longer reach and greater strength he quickly saw his error.

For the little king was a man of marvellous strength and agility, and for all Sir Geraint's knowledge and strength, the other's strokes were so boldly fierce, so quick and powerful, that it was not long ere Sir Geraint found he had need of great wariness.

Soon their helmets were cracked and their shields dented and carved and their hauberks in rags, and hardly could they see between the bars of their vizors for the sweat and blood in their eyes.

Then at last Sir Geraint, enraged that one so small should give him so much trouble to conquer, gathered all his strength in one blow, so that the little king was beaten to his knees, and the sword flew from his hand ten yards away.

'I yield me!' cried King Griffith, 'and never have I fought with so valiant and strong a knight. Have mercy and spare me, and I will be thy man.'

'Be it so!' said Sir Geraint, 'but thou hast already sworn to be my man.'

And he lifted up his vizor and showed his face, whereat the little king did off his own helm quickly and came and kneeled humbly before him.

'Sir Geraint,' he said, 'forgive me my words concerning thee, but men told me that ye had forgotten that you had once been so glorious a man, and were softening to a fool.'

'Nay,' said Sir Geraint, 'they were the fools that said so. And now I will depart, for I see these marches are in safe keeping in your hands, fair king.'

But the little king wished Geraint to come to his castle to be rested and healed of his wounds, and Geraint and Enid went and abode there a few days. But ever Sir Geraint was cold and stern to his wife, for he was still angry at her disbelief in him.

Sir Geraint would not stay longer, though his wounds were but half healed, and on the third day he commanded Enid to mount her horse and to go before him with the four other horses.

While the sun climbed up the sky they rode through the wilderness, by tangled woods, deep valleys and quaking marshes, until they reached a deep dark forest. Suddenly as they rode they heard a great wailing of distress, and bidding Enid stay, Geraint dashed through the trees towards the crying, and came out upon a great bare upland, and beside the wood were a knight, dead in his armour, and two horses, one with a woman's saddle upon it.

And looking further Geraint saw three small dark shaggy trolls making swift way up the hill towards a great green mound, and in the arms of one of them was a damsel, who shrieked as she was borne away.

Fiercely Sir Geraint spurred his horse up the slope, bidding the trolls to stop, but they only ran with an exceeding great swiftness. But he pursued them, and when they were within a few steps of a small door in the hillside, the one dropped the maiden, and the three of them turned at bay. And the damsel ran shrieking away down the hill.

The trolls had dark thin faces, with curly black hair and fierce black eyes, and their rage was horrible to see. They were lightly clothed in skins, and in their arms they held, one a bar of iron, another a great club, and the third a long sharp stick.

Sir Geraint commended his soul to Heaven, for he knew he was to battle with evil dwarfs who lived in the hollow hills, and whose strength was greater than any man's, and whose powers of wizardry were stronger than Merlin's.

He dashed with his lance at the one with the iron bar, but the hill-troll slipped away, and brought the great bar with a heavy blow upon his lance, so that it snapped in twain. Then one leaped like a wild cat upon the arm that held the rein, but happily Sir Geraint had drawn his sword, and with one stroke slew him. Then the two others leaped towards him, but the blows of the bar and club he caught upon his shield and slew the troll with the club.

Ere Sir Geraint could draw his sword back from this blow, he felt his horse fall under him, for the dwarf with the iron bar had with one blow broken the beast's back. Quickly avoiding the horse, Sir Geraint dashed at the dwarf, who ran towards the hole in the hill, but ere he could reach it Sir Geraint gave him a blow on the crown of his head, so fierce and hard, that the skull was split to the shoulders.

So then Sir Geraint turned and walked slowly down the hill, for he was dazed, and his old wounds had broken afresh. But he came to where Enid stood comforting the damsel mourning over the dead knight, and when he was there, straightway he fell down lifeless.

Enid shrieked with the anguish of the thought that he was dead, and came and knelt beside him and undid his helm and kissed him many times. And the sound of her wailing reached an earl named Madoc, who was passing with a company along the road from a plundering expedition, and he came and took up Geraint and the dead knight, and laid them in the hollow of their shields, and with the damsels took them to his castle a mile along the road.

Now the earl was a tyrant and a robber, and had done much evil on the borderlands of Geraint, in burning, plundering and slaying, since he had heard that Geraint was become soft and foolish. And he had recognised Sir Geraint while he lay in the swoon, and rejoiced that now he was like to die.

As he rode along he thought that if he could prevail upon the Lady Enid to wed him, he might get much land with her, as the widow of the dead Sir Geraint, future King of Cornwall. And he determined to make her marry him.

When, therefore, he and his host had reached his castle, he ordered the dead knight to be buried, but Sir Geraint he commanded to be laid in his shield on a litter-couch in front of the high table in the hall. So that Sir Geraint should die, he commanded that no leech should be sent for.

While his knights and men-at-arms sat down to dine, Earl Madoc came to Enid and begged her to make good cheer. But, thinking to gain more from secrecy, he did not tell her that he knew who she was, nor did he show her that he knew who was her lord.

'Take off thy travelling clothes, fair lady,' he said, 'and weep not for this dead knight.'

'I will not,' she said, and hung over Geraint, chafing his hands and looking earnestly into his pallid face.

'Ah, lady,' the earl said, 'be not so sorrowful. For he is now dead, and therefore ye need no longer mourn. But as ye are beautiful, I would wed thee, and thou shalt have this earldom and myself and much wealth and all these men to serve thee.'

'I tell you I will rather die with my dead lord, if indeed he be dead,' cried Enid, 'than live in wealth with you or any one.'

'Come, then,' said the earl, 'and at least take food with me.'

'Nay, I will not,' said Enid, 'and never more will I eat or be joyful in life.'

'But, by Heaven, thou shalt,' said Madoc, furious at her resistance to his will.

And he drew her from beside the litter, and forced her to come to the table where his knights sat eating, and commanded her to eat.

'I will not eat,' she cried, straining from his hold towards where Geraint lay, 'unless my dear lord shall eat also.'

'But he is dead already, thou mad woman,' cried the earl. 'Drink this goblet of wine,' he commanded, 'and thou wilt change thy mind.'

'I will not drink again until my dear lord drink also,' said Enid, and strove to free herself from the grasp of the earl.

'Now, by Heaven!' said Madoc wrathfully, 'I have tried gentle means with thee. Let this teach thee that I am not to be baulked of my will.'

With that he gave her a violent blow on the ear, and tried to drag her away out of the hall. And Enid shrieked and wept and cried for help, but none of the knights that sat there dared to oppose their lord.

But suddenly men started up from their seats in terror to see the corpse of Geraint rise from the hollow of the shield. Enid's cries had roused him from his swoon, and his hand as he raised himself felt the hilt of the sword beside him.

He leaped from the litter, and, drawing his sword, he ran towards the earl, who by now had almost dragged Enid to the door. Raising the sword, Geraint struck him with so fierce a blow that he cleft his head in twain.

Then, for terror at seeing what they thought was a dead man rise up to slay them, the knights ran from the hall and left Geraint and Enid alone.

Enid threw her arms about Geraint, her face bright with happiness.

'My dear lord, I thank God thou art not dead, as this man said thou wert. And I pray thy forgiveness for doubting that thou hadst forgotten thy manhood, for of a truth none is so brave, so good as thou art.'

Geraint kissed his wife, smiling wanly the while.

'Sorry I am, my dear wife,' he said, 'that I was swooning when thou hadst need of me. And as for any doubts thou hadst of me, why, let us both forget them from this time forth. And now we must away, ere this lord's men recover their fright and pursue us.'

Enid led him instantly to the stalls where she had seen the horses had been led, and Geraint took the spear and the horse of the knight whom the trolls had slain, and, when he had mounted, he took up Enid from the ground and placed her before him.

Thus they rode out of the castle, and away as rapidly as they could. And now that they were reconciled, much joyful and loving talk was between them.

But night was coming on, and Geraint was weak from his wounds and loss of blood, and Enid was full of trouble for the pain her husband suffered. She prayed fervently that soon they might reach a town where she could obtain help for him.

Suddenly she heard far away in the distance the tramp of horses, and Enid could have wept for sorrow. But she kept her face calm, though her lips trembled, Geraint also heard the beat of the hoofs, and turning in his saddle he looked up, and saw on the skyline of the narrow road the glint of spears between them and the sky.

'Dear wife,' he said, with a faint brave smile, 'I hear some one following us. I will put thee in hiding behind this thicket, and should they slay me, do thou make thy way homeward to my father Erbin, and bid him avenge my death.'

'O my dear Geraint!' said Enid, sobbing, for all her bravery, as she thought that he would surely be slain, and that, after all their trouble, they were not to be allowed to enjoy the happiness of their reconciliation. 'I would liefer die with thee, my dear, dear lord. Let them kill us both, if it is to be.'

'Nay, dear wife,' said Geraint, 'I would not have thee slain. Revenge my death if they slay me.'

So, with many lingering kisses, he set her down upon the road, and saw her hide in the thickets.

By now the gloom of evening had settled upon them, and the sound of trampling horses had rapidly approached. And painfully, by reason of his stiff wounds, Geraint dressed his armour as best he could, and laid spear in rest, and drew his shield before him, and so waited in the dark road.

He heard a single knight riding before the others, and soon saw his figure issue from the gloom with couched lance. And Sir Geraint made him ready also, resolved to sell his life dearly at the last.

But as they began to spur their horses, there came the voice of Enid from the hedgerow beside them. And she cried out piteously in the dark:

'O chieftain, whoever thou art, what renown wilt thou gain by slaying a dead man?'

The stranger stopped his horse, and called out:

'O Heaven, is it my lord, Sir Geraint?'

'Yes, in truth,' said Enid, 'and who art thou?'

'I am the little king!' said the other, and rode swiftly towards Sir Geraint. Then he leaped from his horse and came to the stirrup of his chief.

'My lord,' he said, 'I learned that thou wert in trouble, and came to see if I could aid thee.'

And Enid ran forward with joy at hearing this, and welcomed the little king, and told him in what a hard pass was Sir Geraint.

'My lord and my lady,' said Griffith, 'I thank Heaven sincerely for the favour that I come to you in your need. I learned of thy fight with the trolls and of thy slaying of Earl Madoc, and that thou wert wounded. Therefore I rode on to find thee.'

'I thank thee heartily,' said Sir Geraint, 'and my dear wife also thanks thee. For of a truth I am spent, and must needs get me rest and a leech for my wounds.'

'Then come at once with me,' said the little king, and after he had helped Enid to her place before Geraint, he leaped on his own horse.

'Now thou shalt go to the hall of a son-in-law of my sister which is near here,' said King Griffith, 'and thou shalt have the best medical advice in the kingdom.'

At the hall of the baron, whose name was Tewder, and a most knightly and gentle lord, Sir Geraint and the Lady Enid were received with great welcome and hospitality. Physicians were sent for, and they attended Geraint day by day until he was quite well again.

The fame of his adventures began to spread along the borders of his kingdom, and at length reached his own court. And the robber lords and brigands of the marches, hearing of his deeds, ceased their evil-doing and made haste to hide from his wrath. Also his father Erbin and the host at his court repented of their hard thoughts and sneers concerning him, and praised the strength of his arm, the gentleness of his courtesy, and his justice and mercy.

When Sir Geraint and the Lady Enid returned home, all the people gathered to welcome them. And thenceforth he reigned prosperously, and his warlike fame and splendour lasted with renown and honour and love, both to him and to the Lady Enid, from that time forth.

VII

HOW SIR PERCEVAL WAS TAUGHT CHIVALRY, AND ENDED THE EVIL WROUGHT BY SIR BALIN'S DOLOROUS STROKE

It befell upon a time when King Arthur was Pendragon, or overlord of the island of Britain, that Earl Evroc held an earldom of large dominion in the north under King Uriens. And the earl had seven sons, the last being but a child still at play about his mother's chair as she sat with her maidens in the bower.

Lord Evroc was a valiant and a mighty warrior, ever battling against the hated pagans, when their bands of blue-eyed fierce fighters landed on his coasts. And when peace was on the land, he went about on errantry, jousting in tournaments and fighting champions.

His six elder sons did likewise, and all were famed for their knightly prowess.

But the mother sat at home, sad of mood. For she hated war, and would rather have had her lord and her six tall sons about her in the home. And in her heart she resolved that she would plead with Evroc to let her have her little son Perceval to be a clerk or a learned bard, so that he should stay at home with her and run no risk of death.

The sorrow she was ever dreading smote her at length. For a messenger came one day, saying that Earl Evroc her lord had been slain at Bamborough, in a mighty melee between some of the best and most valiant knights of Logres and Alban, and two tall sons with him.

As the years passed, and her little son began to run, three black days came within a little of each other, for on these days messengers came with the sad news of the death of her other boys. One of them had been done to death by an evil troll on the lonely wastes by the Roman wall, two others were slain by the shores of Humber, repelling a horde of fair-haired Saxon raiders, and the other was killed at a ford, where he had kept at bay six bandit knights that would have pursued and slain his wounded lord.

Then, in her grief, the widow dame resolved that she would fly with her little son, and make a home for him in some wilderness, where never sounds or sights of war or death would come, where knights would be unknown, and no one would speak to him of arms and battles. And thus did she do, and she left the hall where she had lived, and removed to the deserts and wastes of the wilderness, and took with her only her women, and a few boys and spiritless men, too old or feeble to fight, or to think of fighting.

Thus she reared the only son left to her, teaching him all manner of nobleness in thought and action and in learning, but never suffering him to see a weapon, nor to hear a tale of war or knightly prowess.

He grew up loving all noble things, gentle of speech and bearing, but quick to anger at evil or mean actions, merciful of weak things, and full of pity and tenderness.

Yet was he also very strong of body, fleet of foot, quick of eye and hand. Daily he went to divert himself in the great dark forest that climbed the high mountains beside his home, or he roamed the wide rolling moors. And he practised much with the throwing of stones and sticks, so that with a stick he could hit a small mark at a great distance, and with a sharp stone he could cut down a sapling at one blow.

One day he saw a flock of his mother's goats in the forest, and near them stood two hinds. The boy wondered greatly to see the two deer which had no horns, while the goats had two each; and he thought they had long run wild, and had lost their horns in that way. He thought he would please his mother if he caught them, so that they should not escape again. And by his great activity and swiftness he ran the two deer down till they were spent, and then he took them and shut them up in the goat-house in the forest.

Going home, he told his mother and her servants what he had done, and they went to see, and marvelled that he could catch such fleet creatures as the wild red deer.

Once he overheard his mother say that she yearned for fresh venison, but that the hunter who was attached to her house was lying wounded by a wild boar. Always Perceval had wondered what the little dark man did whom they called the hunter, who was always so secret, so that Perceval could never see where he went or when he returned from the forest.

So he went to the hut where Tod the hunter lay sick, and charged him by the love and worship he bore to the countess, that he should tell him how he could obtain fresh venison. And the dwarf told him.

Then Perceval took a few sticks of stout wood, with points hardened by fire, and went into the forest as Tod had told him, and seeing a deer he hurled a stick at it and slew it. And then he brought it home.

The countess was greatly wroth that Tod had taught him how to slay, and she said that never more should the dwarf serve her. And Tod wept, but when he was well again the countess would not suffer him to stay, but said he should leave the hall and never come there again.

She commanded Perceval never to slay any more living things, and the lad promised. But hard was it to keep his word, when he was in the forest and saw the wild things passing through the brakes.

Once, as he strayed deep in the wood, he came upon a wide glade or laund, with two green hillocks in the middle thereof. And feeding upon the grass was a great buck, and it had a silver ring round its neck. Perceval wondered at this beast being thus adorned, and went up to it to stroke it.

But the buck was fierce, and would have gored him with its horns, but Perceval seized them, and after a great struggle he threw the animal, and held it down, and in his wrath he would have slain it with a sharp stick. With that a swarm of little angry trolls poured from the hollow hillocks with great cries, and seizing Perceval would have hurt him.

But suddenly Tod ran among them, and commanded them to release him. And in the end Tod, who came himself of the troll folk, made the little people pass the words of peace and friendship with Perceval, and ever after that the boy went with the trolls, and sported with them in wrestling, running and other games; and he learned many things of great wisdom from them concerning the secrets of the earth and air and the wind, and the spirits that haunt waste places and standing stones, and how to put to naught the power of witches and wizards.

Tod ever bade them treat the young lord with reverence. 'For this is he who shall do great deeds,' he said. 'He shall be a stainless knight, who shall gain from evil the greatest strength, and, if God wills, he shall beat down the evil powers in this land.'

But the lad knew not what he meant, though he was very content to have the trolls for his friends.

One day Perceval was in the forest far up the mountain, and he looked over the blue distance far below across the moor, and saw a man riding on a wide road which he had never noticed before. And the man rode very fast, and as he went the sun seemed to flash from him as if he was clothed in glass. Perceval wondered what he was, and resolved to go across the moor to the road he had seen.

When he reached the road he found it was very broad, and banked on either side, and went straight as the flight of a wild duck right across the moor, and never swerved by the hills or pools, but went over everything in its way. And as he stood marvelling what mighty men had builded it, he heard a strange rattling sound behind him, and, turning, he saw three men on horseback, and the sun shone from them as he had seen it shine from the first horseman.

The foremost checked his horse beside Perceval, and said:

'Tell me, good soul, sawest thou a knight pass this way either this day or yesterday?'

'I know not what a knight is,' answered Perceval.

'Such a one as I,' said the horseman, smiling good-naturedly, for it was Sir Owen, one of King Arthur's knights.

'If ye will tell me what I ask, I will tell you,' said Perceval.

'I will answer gladly,' said Sir Owen, smiling, yet wondering at the fearless and noble air of this youth in so wild a waste.

'What is this?' asked Perceval, and pulled the skirt of the hauberk.

'It is a dress made of rings of steel,' answered Sir Owen, 'which I put on to turn the swords of those I fight.'

'And what is it to fight?'

'What strange youth art thou?' asked Sir Owen. 'To fight is to do battle with spears or swords, so that you would slay the man that would slay you.'

'Ah, as I would have slain the buck that would have gored me,' said Perceval, nodding his head.

Many other questions the youth asked eagerly, as to the arms they bore and the accoutrements and their uses. And at length he said:

'Sirs, I thank you for your courtesy. Go forward swiftly, for I saw such a one as ye go by here but two hours ago, and he flashed in the sun as he rode swiftly. And now I will be as one of you.'

Perceval went swiftly back to his mother's house and found her among her women.

'Mother,' he said, 'I have seen a great and wonderful sight on the great road across the moor.'

'Ah, my dear son, what was that?' she asked.

'They were three honourable knights,' he said. 'And, mother, I will be a knight also.'

With a great shriek his mother swooned away, and the women turned him from the room and said he had slain his mother.

Much grieved was Perceval that he had hurt his mother, and so, taking his store of pointed sticks, he went off into the forest, and strayed there a long time, torn between his love for his mother, and the strange restlessness which the sight of the three warriors had caused in him.

As he wandered, troubled, his quick ear caught the clang of metal, though he knew not what it was. And swiftly he ran towards the sound a long way, until he came into a clearing, and found two knights on horseback doing mighty battle. One bore a red shield and the other a green one.

He looked eagerly at this strange sight, and the blood sang in his veins. And then he saw that the green knight was of slighter frame than the other, and was weakening before the strokes of the red knight.

Full of anger at the sight, Perceval launched one of his hard-wood javelins at the red knight. With such force did it go, and so true was the aim, that it pierced the coif of the knight, and entered between the neck and the head, and the red knight swayed and then clattered to the ground, dead.

The green knight came and thanked Perceval for thus saving his life.

'Are knights then so easy to slay?' asked the lad. 'Methought that none might pierce through the hauberk of a knight, and I sorrow that I have slain him, not thinking what I did.'

'He was a full evil knight,' said the other, 'and deserved death richly for his many villainies and oppressions of weak orphans and friendless widows.'

The knight took the body of the dead knight to be buried in a chapel, and told Perceval he could have the horse. But the lad would not have it, though he longed greatly to possess it, and the green knight took it with him.

Then Perceval went home, sad, yet wild with wonder at what he had done. He found his mother well again, but very sorrowful. And for fear of giving her pain, he did not tell her of the knight he had slain.

She called him to her, and said:

'Dear son of mine, it seems I may not keep thy fate from thee. The blood of thy warlike generations before thee may not be quenched, whatever fond and foolish plans I made to keep thee from knowledge of battle and weapons. Dear son, dost thou desire to ride forth into the world?'

'Yes, mother, of a truth,' said Perceval. 'I shall not be happy more until I go.'

'Go forward, then,' she said weeping, 'and God be with thee, my dear son. And as I have no man who is strong of his hands, thou must go alone, yet will I give thee gold for thy proper garnishing and lodging. But make all the haste ye may to the court of King Arthur at Caerleon-upon-Usk, for there are the best and the boldest and the most worshipful of knights. And the king will give thee knighthood. And wherever thou seest a church, go kneel and repeat thy prayers therein; and if thou hearest an outcry, go quickly and defend the weak, the poor and the unprotected. And be ever tender towards women, my son, and remember that thy mother loves thee and prays for thy stay in health and life. And come thou to see me within a little while.'

And he thanked her, saying he would do naught that should shame her, but would remember all the nobleness of her teaching; also, that he would return to see her within a little while.

Perceval went to the stable and took a bony, piebald horse, which seemed the strongest, and he pressed a pallet of straw into the semblance of a saddle, and with pieces of leather and wood he imitated the trappings he had seen on the horses of the knights.

Then, after taking leave of his mother, he rode forth, sad at first for leaving her in sorrow and tears, but afterwards glad that now he was going into the world to become a knight. And for armour he had a rough jerkin, old and moth-eaten, and for arms he had a handful of sharp-pointed sticks of hard wood.

He journeyed southwards two days and two nights along the great straight road, which went through the deep dark forests, over desert places and over the high mountains. And all that time he ate nothing but wild berries, for he had not thought to bring food with him.

While he was yet but a little way from the court of King Arthur, a stranger knight, tall and big, in black armour, had ridden into the hall where sat Gwenevere the queen, with a few of the younger knights and her women. The page of the chamber was serving the queen with wine in a golden goblet richly wrought, which Lancelot had taken from a knight whom he had lately slain.

The stranger knight had alighted before the chair of Gwenevere, and all had seen that full of rage and pride was his look. And he caught sight of the goblet in the hand of Gwenevere, and he snatched it from her, spilling the wine over her dress and dashing it even into her face.

'Now am I well lighted here,' he said, 'for this is the very goblet which thy robber knight Sir Lancelot reaved from my brother, Sir Wilder. And if any of you knights here desire to wrest this goblet from me, or to avenge the insult I have done your queen, let him come to the meadow beside the ford, and I will slay him, ay, if it be that traitor Sir Lancelot himself.'

All the young knights hung their heads as he mounted his horse and insolently rode out of the hall; for it seemed to them that no one would have done so daring an outrage unless, like Sir Garlon whom Balin slew, he fought with evil magic, so that the strength and prowess of the mightiest knight would be put to naught.

Then Perceval entered the hall, and at sight of him upon his rough piebald horse, with its uncouth trappings, and the old and mouldy jerkin upon the youth, the knights and others broke forth in excessive laughter, as much at the sight as to cover their discomfiture and fear of the knight who had just gone.

But Perceval took no note of their laughter, but rode up the hall to where Sir Kay the seneschal stood, wrathful at the outrage on the queen which he had not dared to avenge instantly. And Perceval looked about and saw a knight more richly dressed than the others, and, turning to Kay, he said:

'Tell me, tall man, is that King Arthur yonder?'

'What wouldst thou with Arthur, knave?' asked Kay angrily.

'My mother told me to seek King Arthur,' responded Perceval,' and he will give me the honour of knighthood.'

'By my faith, thou farmer's churl,' said Kay, 'thou art richly equipped indeed with horse and arms to have that honour.'

Thereupon the others shouted with laughter, and commenced to throw sticks at Perceval, or the bones left by the dogs upon the floor.

Then a dwarf pressed forward between the laughing crowd and saluted Perceval. And the lad rejoiced to recognise him. It was Tod, who had been his friend among the trolls of the mountains, and with Tod was his wife. They had come to the court of Arthur, and had craved harbourage there, and the king of his kindness had granted it them. But by reason of the prophecy which the trolls knew of concerning the great renown which Perceval was to gain, they had been dumb of speech since they had last seen the young man.

And now at sight of him their tongues were loosed, and they ran and kissed his feet, and cried together:

'The welcome of Heaven be unto thee, goodly Perceval, son of Earl Evroc! Chief of warriors art thou, and stainless flower of knighthood!'

'Truly,' said Kay wrathfully, 'thou art an ill-conditioned pair, to remain a year mute at King Arthur's court, and now before the face of goodly knights to acclaim this churl with the mouldy coat, chief of warriors and flower of knighthood!'

In his rage he beat Tod the dwarf such a blow, that the poor troll fell senseless to the ground; and the troll-wife he kicked, so that she was dashed among the dogs, who bit her.

'Tall man,' said Perceval, and men marvelled to see the high look on his face and the cold scorn in his eyes, 'I will have vengeance on thee for the insult and ill-treatment thou hast done these two poor dwarfs. But tell me now which of these knights is Arthur?'

'Away with thee,' shouted Kay, enraged. 'If thou wouldst see Arthur, go to the knight with the goblet who waits for thee at the ford, and take the goblet from him, and slay him. Then when thou comest back clad in his armour, we will speak further with thee.'

'I will do so, angry man,' said Perceval, and amid the shouts of laughter and the sneers of the crowd he turned his horse's head and rode out of the hall.

Going to the meadow beside the ford, he saw a knight riding up and down, proud of his strength and valour.

'Tell me, fellow,' said the knight, who bore on his shield the device of a black tower on a red field, 'didst thou see any one coming after me from the court yonder?'

'The tall man that was there,' said Perceval, 'bade me to come to thee, and I am to overthrow thee and to take from thee the goblet, and as for thy horse and thy arms I am to have them myself.'

'Silence, prating fool!' shouted the knight, 'go back to the court and tell Arthur to come himself, or to send a champion to fight me, or I will not wait, and great will be his shame.'

'By my faith,' said Perceval, 'whether thou art willing or unwilling, it is I that will have thy horse and arms and the goblet.'

And he prepared to throw his javelin-sticks.

In a proud rage the knight ran at him with uplifted lance, and struck him a violent blow with the shaft between the neck and the shoulder.

'Haha! lad,' said Perceval, and laughed, 'that was as shrewd a blow as any the trolls gave me when they taught me their staff play; but now I will play with thee in my own way.'

Thereupon he threw one of the pointed sticks at the knight, with such force and with such sureness of aim that it went in between the bars of his vizor and pierced the eye, and entered into the brain of the knight. Whereupon he fell from his horse lifeless.

And it befell that a little while after Perceval had left the court, Sir Owen came in, and was told of the shameful wrong put upon the queen by the unknown knight, and how Sir Kay had sent a mad boy after the knight to slay him.

'Now, by my troth,' said Owen to Kay, 'thou wert a fool to send that foolish lad after the strong knight. For either he will be overthrown, and the knight will think he is truly the champion sent on behalf of the queen, whom the knight so evilly treated, and so an eternal disgrace will light on Arthur and all of us; or, if he is slain, the disgrace will be the same, and the mad young man's life will be thrown away.'

Thereupon Sir Owen made all haste, and rode swiftly to the meadow, armed; but when he reached the place, he found a youth in a mouldy old jerkin pulling a knight in rich armour up and down the grass.

'By'r Lady's name!' cried Sir Owen, 'what do you there, tall youth?'

'This iron coat,' said Perceval, stopping as he spoke, 'will never come off him.'

Owen alighted marvelling, and went to the knight and found that he was dead, and saw the manner of his death, and marvelled the more. He unloosed the knight's armour and gave it to Perceval.

'Here, good soul,' he said, 'are horse and armour for thee. And well hast thou merited them, since thou unarmed hast slain so powerful a knight as this.'

He helped Perceval put on his armour, and when he was fully dressed Owen marvelled to see how nobly he bore himself.

'Now come you with me,' he said, 'and we will go to King Arthur, and you shall have the honour of knighthood from the good king himself.'

'Nay, that will I not,' said Perceval, and mounted the dead knight's horse. 'But take thou this goblet to the queen, and tell the king that wherever I be, I will be his man, to slay all oppressors, to succour the weak and the wronged, and to aid him in whatever knightly enterprise he may desire my aid. But I will not enter his court until I have encountered the tall man there who sent me hither, to revenge upon him the wrong he did to my friends, Tod the dwarf and his wife.'

And with this Perceval said farewell and rode off. Sir Owen went back to the court, and told Arthur and the queen all these things. Men marvelled who the strange young man could be, and many sought Tod and his wife to question them, but nowhere could they be found.

Greater still was their marvelling when, as the weeks passed, knights came and yielded themselves to King Arthur, saying that Perceval had overcome them in knightly combat, and had given them their lives on condition that they went to King Arthur's court and yielded themselves up to him and his mercy. The king and all his court reproved Kay for his churlish manner, and for his having driven so splendid a youth from the court.

And Perceval rode ever forward. He came one day towards the gloaming to a lonely wood in the fenlands, where the wind shivered like the breath of ghosts among the leaves, and there was not a track or trace of man or beast, and no birds piped. And soon, as the wind shrilled, and the rain began to beat down like thin grey spears, he saw a vast castle rise before him, and when he made his way towards the gate, he found the way so overgrown with weeds that hardly could he push his horse between them. And on the very threshold the grass grew thick and high, as if the door had not been opened for a hundred winters.

He battered on the door with the butt of his lance; and long he waited, while the cold rain drove and the wind snarled.

After a little while a voice came from above the gateway, and glancing up he saw a damsel looking through an opening in the battlements.

'Choose thou, chieftain,' said she, 'whether I shall open unto thee without announcing thee, or whether I shall tell her that rules here that thou wishest to enter.'

'Say that I am here,' said Perceval. 'And if she will not house me for the night, then will I go forward.'

Soon the maiden came back and opened the door for him, and his horse she led into the stable, where she fed it; and Perceval she brought into the hall. When he came into the light and looked at the girl, he thought he had never seen another of so fair an aspect.

She had an old garment of satin upon her, which had once been rich, but was now frayed and tattered; and fairer was her skin than the bloom of the rose, and her hair and eyebrows were like the sloe for blackness, and on her cheeks was the redness of poppies. Her eyes were like deep pools in a dark wood. And he thought that, though she was very beautiful, there was great arrogance in her look and cruelty in her lips.

When Perceval went towards the dais of the hall he saw a tall and stately lady in the high seat, old of years and reverend of aspect, though sorrowful. Several handmaids sat beside her, sad of face and tattered of dress. All welcomed him right kindly. Then they sat at meat, and gave the young man the best cheer that they had.

When it was time to go to rest, the lady said:

'It were well for you, chieftain, that you sleep not in this castle.'

'Wherefore,' said Perceval, 'seeing that the storm beats wildly without and there is room here for many?'

'For this reason,' said the lady, 'that I would not that so handsome and kindly a youth as you seem should suffer the doom which must light upon this my castle at dawn.'

'Tell me,' said Perceval, 'what is this castle, and what is the doom you speak of?'

'This castle is named the Castle of Weeds,' replied the lady, 'and the lands about it for many miles belonged to my husband, the Earl Mador. And he was a bold and very valiant man; and he slew Maelond, the eldest son of Domna, the great witch of Glaive, and ever thereafter things were not well with him. For she and her eight evil sisters laid a curse upon him. And that in spite of this, that he slew Maelond in fair fight, for all that he was a false and powerful wizard. And Domna came to my husband, when he was worn with a strange sickness, and as he lay on his deathbed. And she said she should revenge herself upon his daughter and mine, this maiden here, when she shall be full twice nine years of age. And she will be of that age ere dawn to-morrow morn, and at the hour will the fierce Domna and her fearful sisters come, and with tortures slay all that are herein, and take my dear daughter Angharad, and use her cruelly.'

The maiden who had opened to Perceval was that daughter, and she laughed harshly as her mother spoke.

'Fear not for me, mother,' she cried. 'They will deck me in rich robes, and I shall not pine for fair raiment, as I have pined these ten years with thee.'

The lady looked sadly upon her as she heard her words.

'I fear not, my daughter, that they will take thy life,' she said, 'but I dread this--that they will destroy thy soul!'

And Angharad laughed and said:

'What matter, so it be that I live richly while I live!'

'Nay, nay,' said Perceval, and in his voice was a great scorn, 'it is evil to speak thus, and it belies your beauty, fair maiden. Rather a life of poverty than one of shamefulness and dishonour. Thus is it with all good knights and noble dames, and thus was it with our dear Lord.'

Then turning to the lady, he said:

'Lady, I think these evil witches will not hurt thee. For the little help that I may give to thee, I will stay this night with thee.'