Chapter IX: Part 9

“My liege lady, seeing this, thought it best to deal with Adicia in a friendly fashion, in order to put an end to strife, and to establish rest both for herself and her people. She therefore sent me on a message to treat with her, by way of negotiation, as to some final peace and fair arrangement, which might be concluded by mutual consent.

“At all times it is customary to afford safe passage to messengers who come on a just cause, but this proud dame, disdaining all such rules, not only burst into bitter words, reviling and railing at me as she chose, but actually thrust me like a dog out of doors, miscalling me by many a bitter name, who never did any ill to her. Then lastly she sent those two knights after me to work me further mischief, but thanks to Heaven and your valour, they have paid the price of their own folly.”

So said the damsel, and showed herself most grateful to Prince Arthur and Sir Artegall for their aid.

The Knights, having heard of all the wrongs done by the proud dame Adicia, were very indignant, and eagerly desired to punish her and her husband, the Sultan. But thinking to carry out their design more easily by a counterfeit disguise, they arranged this plot: first, that Sir Artegall should array himself like one of the two dead knights, then that he should convey the damsel Samient as his prize to the Sultan’s court, to present her to the scornful lady, who had sent for her.

This was accordingly done.

Directly the Sultan’s wife saw them, as she lay looking out of the window, she thought it was the Pagan knight with her prey, and sent a page to direct him where to go. Taking them to the appointed place, the page offered his service to disarm the Knight, but Sir Artegall refused to take off his armour, fearing to be discovered.

Soon after, Prince Arthur arrived, and sent a bold defiance to the Sultan, requiring of him the damsel whom he held as a wrongful prisoner. The Sultan, filled with fury, swearing and cursing, commanded his armour to be brought at once, and mounted straight upon a high chariot, dreadfully armed with iron wheels and hooks, and drawn by cruel steeds, whom he fed with the flesh of slaughtered men.

Thus he came forth, clad in a coat of mail, all red with rust. The Prince waited ready for him in glistering armour, right goodly to see, that shone like the sun. By the stirrup Talus attended, playing his page’s part, as his master had directed.

So they went forth to battle, both alike fierce, but with different motives. For the proud and presumptuous Sultan, with insolent bearing, sought only slaughter and revenge; but the brave Prince fought for right and honour against lawless tyranny, on behalf of wronged weakness, trusting more to the truth of his cause than in his own strength.

The Sultan in his folly thought either to hew the Prince in pieces with his sharp wheels, or to bear him down under his fierce horses’ feet, and trample him in the dust. But the bold Knight, well spying that peril if he came too near the chariot, kept out of the way of the flying horses. Yet as he passed by, the Pagan threw a dart with such force that, had he not shunned it heedfully, it would have transfixed either himself or his horse. Often Prince Arthur came near, hoping to aim some stroke at him, but the Sultan was mounted so high in his chariot, and his wing-footed coursers bore him so fast away, that before the Prince could advance his spear, he was past and gone; yet still he followed him everywhere, and in turn was followed by him.

Again the Pagan threw another dart, which, guided by some bad spirit, glided through Prince Arthur’s cuirass, and made a grisly wound in his side. Furious as a raging lion, the Prince sought to get at his foe; but whenever he approached, the chariot wheels whirled round him, and made him fly back again as fast; and the Sultan’s horses, like hungry hounds hunting after game, so cruelly chased and pursued him that his own good steed, although renowned for courage and hardy race, dared not endure the sight of them, but fled from place to place.

Thus for a long while they rushed to and fro, seeking in every way to find some opening for attack; but the Prince could never get near enough for one sure stroke. Then at last from his victorious shield he drew the veil which hid its magic light, and coming full before the horses as they pressed upon him, flashed it in their eyes.

Like the lightning which burns the gazer, so did the sight of the shield dismay their senses, so that they turned back upon themselves and ran away with their driver. Nor could the Sultan stay their flight with reins or accustomed rule, as he well knew how; they did not fear him in the least—their only fear was that from which they fled dismayed, like terrified deer. Fast as their feet could bear them they flew over hill and dale. In vain the Pagan cursed and swore and railed, and dragged with both hands at the reins; he called and spoke to them, but nothing availed. They heard him not, they forgot his training, they went which way they chose, heedless of their guide. Through woods and rocks and mountains they drew the iron chariot, and the wheels tore the Sultan, and tossed him here and there from side to side, crying in vain to those who would not hear his crying.

And all the while Prince Arthur pursued closely behind, but could find no means of smiting his foe.

At last the horses overthrew the chariot, which was turned topsy-turvy, and the iron hooks and sharp knives caught hold of the Sultan and tore him all to rags. Nothing was left of him but some bits of his battered and broken shield and armour. These Prince Arthur gathered up and took with him that they might remain as a token, whenever the tale was told, of how worthily that day, by Heaven’s decree, justice had avenged herself of wrong, so that all men might take warning by the example.

Therefore, on a tree in front of the tyrant’s door, he caused them to be hung in the sight of all men, to be a memorial for ever.

When the Lady Adicia from the castle height beheld them she was appalled, but instead of being overcome with fright, as another woman might have been, she immediately began to devise how to be revenged.

Knife in hand, she ran down, vowing to wreak her vengeance on the maiden messenger whom she had ordered to be kept prisoner by Sir Artegall, mistaking him for her own knight; and coming into her presence she ran at her with all her might. But Artegall, being aware thereof, stayed her cruel hand before it reached Samient, and caught the weapon from her. Thereupon, like one distracted, she rushed forth, wherever her rage bore her, frantic with passion. Breaking out at a postern door, she ran into the wild wood, where, it is said, on account of her malice and cruelty she was transformed into a tiger.

The Adventure at the Den of Deceit

After the defeat of the Sultan and the flight of his wicked wife, Prince Arthur and Sir Artegall wished to hand over the place and all its wealth to Samient to hold for her lady, while they departed on their quest; but the maiden begged them so earnestly to go with her to see Queen Mercilla that at last they consented.

On the way she told them of a strange thing near at hand—to wit, a wicked villain who dwelt in a rock not far off, and who robbed all the country round, and took the pillage home. In this his own wily wit, and also the security of his dwelling-place, both of which were unassailable, were of great assistance. For he was so crafty both to invent and execute, so light of hand and nimble of foot, so smooth of tongue and subtle in his tale, that any one looking at him might well be taken in. Therefore he was called Deceit.

He was well known for his achievements, and by his tricks had brought many to ruin. The rock, also, where he dwelt was wondrous strong, and hewn a dreadful depth far under ground; within it was full of winding and hidden passages, so that no one could find his way back who once went amiss.

The Knights, hearing this, longed to see the villain where he lurked, and bade Samient guide them to the place. As they came near, they agreed that the best plan would be for the damsel to go on in front, and sit alone near the den, wailing and raising a pitiful uproar. When the wretch issued forth, hoping to find some spoil, they, lying in wait, would closely ensnare him before he could retreat to his den, and thus they hoped to foil him easily.

Samient immediately did as she was directed, and the noise of her weeping speedily brought forth the villain, as they had intended.

He was as dreadful a creature as ever walked on earth, with hollow, deeply set eyes, and long shaggy locks straggling down his shoulders. He wore strange garments all in rags and tatters, and in his hand he held a huge long staff, the top of which was armed with many iron hooks, to catch hold of everything that came within reach of his clutches, and he kept casting looks around in all directions. At his back he bore a great wide net, with which he seldom fished in the water, but which he used to fish for silly folk on the dry shore, and in fair weather he caught many.

When Samient saw close beside her such an ugly creature she was really frightened, and now in earnest cried aloud for help. But when the villain saw her so afraid, he tried guilefully to persuade her to banish fear; smiling sardonically on her, he diverted her mind by talking pleasantly and showing her some amusing tricks, for he was an adept at jugglery and conjuring feats. Whilst her attention was engaged, he suddenly threw his net over her like a puff of wind, and snatching her up before she was well aware, ran with her to his cave. But when he came near and saw the armed Knights stopping his passage, he flung down his burden and fled fast away.

“=The Damzell straight went, as she was directed,
Unto the rocke; and there upon the soyle
Gan weepe and wayle, as if great grief had her affected.=

=The cry whereof entering the hollow cave
Eftsoones brought forth the villaine, as they ment.=”
]

Sir Artegall pursued him, while Prince Arthur still kept guard at the entrance of the den. Up to the rock ran Deceit, like a wild goat leaping from hill to hill, and dancing on the very edge of the craggy cliffs. It was useless for the armed Knight to think of following him, but he sent his Iron Man after him, for Talus was swift in chase.

Then wherever Deceit went Talus pursued him, so that he soon forced him to forsake the heights and descend to the low ground. Now Deceit tried a new plan: he suddenly changed his form. First he turned himself into a fox, but Talus still hunted him as a fox; then he transformed himself to a bush, but Talus beat the bush till at last it changed into a bird, and passed from him, flying from tree to tree, and from reed to reed; but Talus threw stones at the bird, so that presently it changed itself into a stone, and dropped to the ground; whereupon Talus took the stone up in his hand and brought it to the Knights, and gave it to Sir Artegall, warning him to hold it fast for fear of tricks. While the Knight seized it in a tight grip, the stone went unawares into a hedgehog, and pricked him, so that he threw it away; then it began to run off quickly, returning to Deceit’s own shape; but Talus soon overtook him and brought him back.

But when he would have changed himself into a serpent, Talus drove at him with his iron flail, and thrashed him so that he died. So that was the end of Deceit the self-deceiver.

Leaving his dead body where it fell, the two Knights went on with the maiden to see her Lady, as they had agreed. Presently they beheld a stately palace, mounted high with terraces and towers, and all the tops were glistering with gold, which seemed to outshine the sky, and with their brightness dazzled the eyes of strangers. There alighting, they were directed in by Samient, and shown all that was to be seen. The magnificent porch stood open wide to all men, day and night; yet it was well guarded by a man of great strength, like a giant, who sat there to keep out guile and malice and spite, which often under a feigned semblance works much mischief in Princes’ courts. His name was _Awe_.

Passing by him they went up the hall, which was a wide large room, filled with people, making a great din. In the thickest of the press the marshal of the hall, whose name was _Order_, came to them, and commanding peace, guided them through the throng. All ceased their clamour to gaze at the Knights, half terrified at their shining armour, which was a strange sight to them; for they never saw such array there, nor was the name of war ever spoken, but all was joyous peace, and quietness, and just government.

So by degrees they were guided into the presence of the Queen. She sat high up, on a throne of bright and shining gold, adorned with priceless gems. All over her was spread a canopy of state, glittering and gleaming like a cloud of gold and silver, upheld by the rainbow-coloured wings of little cherubs. Thus she sat in sovereign majesty, holding a sceptre in her royal hand, the sacred pledge of peace and clemency. At her feet lay her sword, the bright steel brand rusted from long rest, yet when foes forced it, or friends sought aid, she could draw it sternly to dismay the world. Round about her sat a bevy of fair maidens, clad in white, whilst underneath her feet lay a great huge lion, like a captive thrall, bound with a strong iron chain and collar.

Now at the instant when the two stranger Knights came into the presence of the Queen, she was holding, as it happened, a great and important trial. Having acknowledged their obeisance with royal courtesy, she gave orders to proceed with the trial; and wishing that the Knights should see and understand all that was going on, she bade them both mount up to her stately throne, and placed one on each side of her.

Then there was brought forward as prisoner a lady of great beauty and high position, but who had blotted all her honour and titles of nobility by her wicked behaviour. This was no other than the false Duessa, who had wrought so much mischief by her malice and cunning. Seeing the piteous plight in which she now stood, Prince Arthur’s tender heart was touched with compassion; but when he heard the long roll of her crimes read forth, he could no longer wish that she should escape punishment. Sir Artegall, for the sake of justice, was against her, and she was judged guilty by all. Then they called loudly to the Queen to pronounce sentence. Mercilla was deeply moved at the sight of Duessa’s wretched plight, and even then would gladly have pardoned her; but in order to save her land from further evil, which would grow if not checked, she was obliged to keep to the stern law of justice. Melting to tears, she suddenly left her throne, unable to speak the words that doomed the prisoner to death; and she never ceased to lament with bitter remorse the fate which the wretched Duessa had brought on herself.

The Adventure of the Tyrant Grantorto

While Prince Arthur and Sir Artegall were staying at the court of Queen Mercilla, there came one day two noble youths to implore aid for their mother, for their father was dead. A cruel tyrant, the son of a giant, had ravaged all her land, setting up an idol of his own, and giving her dear children one by one to be devoured by a horrible monster. Prince Arthur, seeing that none of the other knights were eager for this adventure, boldly stepped forward, and begged the Queen to let him undertake it. She gladly granted permission, and the following morning he started on his journey. In due course he reached the land which had been laid waste, fought with the tyrant, and overcame him, slew the vile monster, and restored the lady to her rightful possessions.

Sir Artegall, meanwhile, had started again on his first quest, which was to set free the Lady Irene and punish Grantorto. He fared forward through many perils, with Talus, as usual, his only attendant, till he came at length near the appointed place.

There, as he travelled, he met an old and solitary wayfarer, whom he knew at once as the attendant of Irene, when she came in sorrow to the court of the Faerie Queene to entreat protection. Saluting him by name, Sir Artegall inquired for news of his Lady, whether she were still alive, and if so why he had left her. To whom the aged knight replied that she lived and was well, but had been seized by treachery and imprisoned by the tyrant Grantorto, who had often sought her life. And now he had fixed a day by which, if no champion appeared to do battle for her and prove her innocent of those crimes of which she was accused, she should surely suffer death.

Sir Artegall was much cast down to hear these sad tidings, and sorely grieved that it was owing to his own long delay in captivity that the misfortune had happened.

“Tell me, Sir Sergis,” he said, “how long a space hath he lent her to provide a champion?”

“Ten days he has granted as a favour,” was the answer; “for he knows well that before that date no one can have tidings to help her. For all the shores, far and wide, which border on the sea, he guards night and day, so that no one could land without an army. Already he considers her as good as dead.”

“Now turn again,” said Sir Artegall; “for if I live till those ten days are ended, be assured, Sir Knight, she shall have aid, though I spend my life for her.”

So he went back at once with Sir Sergis.

Then as they rode together they saw in front of them a confused crowd of people, rudely chasing to and fro a hapless Knight, who was in much danger from their rough handling. Some distance away, standing helpless in the midst of the mob, they spied a lady, crying and holding up her hands to him for aid. Sir Artegall and Talus put to flight the rascally rout who were assailing the Knight, and then inquired of him the cause of his misadventure. He replied that his name was Burbon, and that he had been well known and far renowned till mischief had fallen on him and tarnished his former fame. The lady was his own love, whom the tyrant Grantorto had tried to bribe from him with rich gifts and deceitful words, and now he had sent a troop of villains to snatch her away by open force. Burbon had for a long time vainly tried to rescue her, but was overcome by the multitude of his assailants.

“But why have you forsaken your own good shield?” said Artegall. “This is the greatest shame and deepest scorn that can happen to any knight, to lose the badge that should display his deeds.”

“That I will explain to you, lest you blame me for it, and think it was done willingly, whereas it was a matter of necessity,” said Sir Burbon, blushing half for shame. “It is true that I was at first dubbed knight by a good Knight—the Knight of the Red Cross, who, when he gave me arms to fight in battle, gave me a shield on which he traced his dear Redeemer’s badge. That same I bore for a long time, and with it fought many battles, without wound or loss. With it I appalled Grantorto himself, and oftentimes made him fall in field before me. But because many envied that shield, and cruel foes greatly increased, to stop all strife and troublous enmity I laid aside the battered scutcheon, and have lately gone without it, hoping thereby to obtain my Lady; nevertheless I cannot have her, for she is still detained from me by force, and is perverted from truth by bribery.”

“Truly, Sir Knight,” said Artegall, “it is a hard case of which you complain, yet not so hard as to abandon that which contains the blazon of your honour—that is, your warlike shield. All peril and all pain should be accounted less than loss of fame. Die rather than do aught that yields dishonour.”

“Not so,” quoth Sir Burbon, “for when time serves I may again resume my former shield. To temporise is not to swerve from truth, when advantage or necessity compels it.”

“Fie on such forgery!” said Artegall. “Under one hood to hide two faces! Knights should be true, and truth is one in all. Down with all dissembling!”

“Yet help me now for courtesy against these peasants who have oppressed me,” said Burbon, “so that my lady may be freed from their hands.”

Sir Artegall, although he blamed his wavering mind, agreed to aid him, and buckling himself at once to the fight, with the help of Talus and his iron flail soon dispersed the rabble.

But when they came to where the lady now stood alone, and Burbon ran forward to embrace her, she started back disdainfully, and would listen to nothing he said. The Knights rebuked her for being so fickle and wayward, and Sir Artegall’s grave words so abashed her, that she hung down her head for shame, and stood speechless. Seeing this, Burbon made a second attempt, and she allowed him to place her on his steed without resistance. So he carried her off, seemingly neither well nor ill pleased.

Then Sir Artegall took his way to the sea-shore, to see if he could find any shipping to carry him over to the savage island where Grantorto held the Lady Irene captive. As good fortune fell, when they came to the coast they found a ship all ready to put to sea. Wind and weather served them so well that in one day they reached the island, where they found great hosts of men in order of battle ready to repel them, who held possession of the ground and forbade them to land. Nevertheless they would not refrain from landing, but as they drew near, Talus jumped into the sea, and wading through the waves, gained the shore, and chased the enemy away. Then Artegall and the old Knight landed, and marched forward to a town which was in sight.

By this time those who first fled in fear had brought tidings to the tyrant, who summoned all his forces in alarm, and marched out to encounter the enemy. He had not gone far when he met them; he charged with all his might, but Talus set upon the tyrant’s troops and bruised and battered them so pitilessly, that he killed many. No one was able to withstand him; he overthrew them, man and horse, so that they lay scattered all over the land, as thick as seed after the sower.

Then Sir Artegall, seeing his rage, bade him to stop, and made a sign of truce. Calling a herald, he sent him to the tyrant to tell him that he did not come thither for the sake of such slaughter, but to try the right of Irene’s cause with him in single fight. When Grantorto heard this message, right glad was he thus to stop the slaughter, and he appointed the next morrow for the combat betwixt them twain.

The following morning was the dismal day appointed for Irene’s death. The sorrowful maiden, to whom none had borne tidings of the arrival of Artegall to set her free, looked up with sad eyes and a heavy heart, believing her last hour to be near. Rising, she dressed herself in squalid garments fit for such a day, and was brought forth to receive her doom.

But when she came to the place, and found there Sir Artegall in battle array, waiting for the foe, her heart was cheered, and it lent new life to her in the midst of deadly fear. Like a withered rose, dying of drought, which glows with fresh grace when a few drops of rain fall on her dainty face, so was Irene’s countenance when she saw Sir Artegall in that array waiting for the tyrant.

At length, with proud and presumptuous bearing, Grantorto came into the field. He was armed in a coat of iron plate, and wore on his head a steel cap, rusty brown in colour, but sure and strong. He bore in his hand a great pole-axe, with which he was accustomed to fight, the blade of which was iron-studded, but not long. He was huge and hideous in stature, like a giant in height, surpassing most men in strength, and had moreover great skill in single fight. His face was ugly, and his expression stern enough to frighten one with the very sight of it; and when he grinned, it could scarcely be discerned whether he were a man or a monster.

As soon as he appeared within the lists he surveyed Artegall with a dreadful look, as if he would have daunted him with fear, and grinning in a grisly fashion flourished his deadly weapon. But the Knight of the Faerie Queene, who had often seen such a sight, was not in the least quelled by his ghastly countenance, but began straight to buckle himself to the fight, and cast his shield in front of him to be in readiness.

The trumpets sounded, and they rushed together with terrific force, each dealing huge and dangerous strokes. But the tyrant thundered his blows with such violence that they rent their way through the iron walls of his enemy’s armour. Artegall, seeing this, took wary heed to shun them, and often stooped his head to shield himself; but Grantorto wielded his iron axe so nimbly that he gave him many wounds. But lifting his arm to smite him mortally, the Knight spied his advantage, and slipping underneath, struck him right in the flank. Yet the tyrant’s blow, as he had intended, kept on its course, and fell with such monstrous weight that it seemed as if nothing could protect Sir Artegall from death. But betwixt him and the blow he cast his shield, in which the pole-axe buried itself so deep that Grantorto could in no way wrest it back again. He tugged and strove, and dragged the Knight all about the place, but nevertheless he could not free the axe from the shield.

Artegall, perceiving this, let go of his shield, and attacking the tyrant with his sword Crysaor, swiftly cut off his head.

When the people round about saw this they all shouted for joy at his success, glad to be freed from the tyrant who had so long oppressed them. Joyously running to the fair Lady Irene, they fell at her feet, doing homage to her as their true liege and princess, while the glory of her champion was sounded everywhere.

Then Sir Artegall led Irene with fitting majesty to the palace where the kings reigned, and established her peaceably therein, and restored her kingdom again to her. And all such persons as had helped the tyrant with open or secret aid he punished severely, so that in a very short space not one was left who would have dared to disobey her. During the time he remained there all his study was how to deal true justice, and day and night he gave his anxious thoughts as to how he might reform the government.

Thus, having freed Irene from distress, he took his leave, and left her sorrowing at his departure.

Sir Calidore, Knight of Courtesy

The Quest of the Blatant Beast

One of the best loved knights at the court of the Faerie Queene was Sir Calidore, for even there, where courteous knights and ladies most did throng, not one was more renowned for courtesy than Calidore. Gentleness of spirit and winning manners were natural to him, and added to these, his gallant bearing and gracious speech stole all men’s hearts. Moreover, he was strong and tall, and well proved in battle, so that he had won much glory, and his fame had spread afar. Not a knight or lady at the Court but loved him dearly; and he was worthy of their affection, for he hated falsehood and base flattery, and loved simple truth and steadfast honesty.

But like all Queen Gloriana’s other knights, Sir Calidore was not allowed to spend his days in slothful ease at the court. He had his task to perform, and the adventure appointed to him was a hard and perilous one.

As he travelled on his way, it happened by chance that he met Sir Artegall, who was returning half sadly from the conquest he had lately made. They knew each other at once, and Sir Calidore was the first to speak.

“Hail, noblest Knight of all that live and breathe!” he cried. “Now tell me, if it please you, of the good success you have had in your late enterprise.”

Then Sir Artegall told him the whole story of his exploits from beginning to end.

“Happy man to have worthily achieved so hard a quest!” said Calidore, when he had finished. “It will make you renowned for evermore. But where you have ended I now begin to tread an endless track, without guide or direction how to enter in or issue forth—in untried ways, in strange perils, and in long and weary labour. And even although good fortune may befall me, it will be unseen of any one.”

“What is that quest which calls you now into such peril?” asked Sir Artegall.

“I pursue the Blatant Beast,” said Sir Calidore, “and incessantly chase him through the world until I overtake and subdue him. I do not know how or in what place to find him, yet still I fare forward.”

“What is that Blatant Beast?” asked Artegall.

“It is a hideous monster of evil race, born and brought up in dark and noisome places, whence he issues forth to be the plague and scourge of wretched men. He has oftentimes annoyed good knight and true lady, and destroyed many, for with his venomous nature and vile tongue he wounds sorely, and bites, and cruelly torments.”

“Then, since I left the savage island, I have seen such a beast,” said Artegall. “He seemed to have a thousand tongues, all agreeing in spite and malice, with which he barked and bayed at me, as if he would have devoured me on the spot. He was set on by two hideous old hags, _Envy_ and _Detraction_. But I, knowing myself safe from peril, paid no regard to his malice nor his power, whereupon he poured forth his wicked poison the more.”

“That surely is the beast which I pursue,” said Calidore. “I am right glad to have these tidings of him, having had none before in all my weary travels. Now your words give me some hope.”

“God speed you!” said Sir Artegall, “and keep you from the dread danger, for you have much to contend against.”

So they took a kindly leave of each other, and parted on their several ways.

Sir Calidore had not travelled far when he came upon a comely Squire, bound hand and foot to a tree, who seeing him in the distance called to him for aid. The Knight at once set him free, and then asked him what mishap had brought him into such disgrace. The Squire replied it was occasioned not by his fault, but through his misfortune.

“=Sir Calidore thence travelled not long,
When as by chaunce a comely Squire be found,
That thorough some more mighty enemies wrong
Both hand and foote unto a tree was bound.=”
]

“Not far from here, on yonder rocky hill,” he said, “stands a strong Castle, where a bad and hateful custom is kept up. For whenever any knight or lady comes along that way (and they must needs go by, for it is the pass through the rocks), they shave away the lady’s locks and the knight’s beard to pay toll for the passage.”

“As shameful a custom as ever I heard of, and it shall be put a stop to!” said Sir Calidore. “But for what cause was it first set on foot?”

“The lady who owns the castle is called Briana, and no prouder one lives,” replied the Squire. “For a long time she has dearly loved a doughty Knight, and sought to win his love by all the means in her power. Crudor, for that is his name, in his scornful and selfish vanity refuses to return her affection until she has made for him a mantle, lined with the beards of knights and the locks of ladies. To provide this, she has prepared this castle, and appointed a Seneschal, called Maleffort, a man of great strength, who executes her wicked will with worse malice.

“As I came along to-day with a fair damsel, my dear love, he set upon us. Unable to withstand him, we both fled, and first capturing me he bound me to this tree till his return, and then went in pursuit of her. Nor do I know whether he has yet found her.”

While they were speaking they heard a piteous shriek, and looking in the direction whence the cry came, they saw the churl dragging the maiden along by her yellow hair. When Calidore beheld the shameful sight he immediately went in pursuit, and commanded the villain to release his prey. Hearing his voice, Maleffort turned, and running towards him, more enraged than terrified, said tauntingly—

“Are you the wretch who defies me? And will you give your beard for this maid, whose part you take? Yet it shall not free her locks from ransom.”

With that he flew fiercely at him and laid on the most hideous strokes. But Calidore, who was well skilled in fight, let his adversary exhaust his strength, and then attacked him with such fury that the churl’s heart failed him, and he took flight to the Castle, where his hope of refuge remained. But just as the warders on the Castle wall opened the gates to receive him, Calidore overtook him in the porch, and killed him, so that his dead body fell down inside the door. Then Calidore entered in and slew the porter.

The rest of the Castle inmates flocked round him, but he swept them all aside. Passing into the hall he was met by the Lady Briana herself, who bitterly upbraided him for what she termed his unknightly conduct in slaying her servants.

“Not unto me the shame, but award it to the shameful doer,” replied the Knight. “It is no blame to punish those who deserve it. Those who break the bonds of civility and make wicked customs, those are they who defame both noble arms and gentle courtesy. There is no greater disgrace to man than inhumanity. Then for dread of disgrace forego this evil custom which you here keep up, and show instead kindly courtesy to all who pass. This will gain you more glory than that man’s love which you thus seek to obtain.”

But the Lady Briana only replied to Sir Calidore with the most scornful insolence, and despatching a hasty message to Crudor, bade him come to her rescue. While they waited for the return of the messenger, she treated Sir Calidore with every indignity, so that an iron heart could scarcely have borne it; but the Knight wisely controlled his wrath, and bravely and patiently endured her womanish disdain.

In due course the answer came back that Crudor would succour his lady before he tasted bread, and deliver up her foe, dead or alive, into her hand. Then Briana immediately became quite blithe, and spoke more bitterly than ever, yet Calidore was not in the least dismayed, but rather seemed the more cheerful. Putting on his armour, he went out to meet his foe, and soon spied a Knight spurring towards him with all his might.

He guessed at once this was Crudor, and without staying to ask his name couched his spear and ran at him. The Knights met with such fury that both rolled to the ground; but while Calidore at once sprang lightly again to his feet, it was some time before Crudor rose slowly and heavily. Then the battle was renewed on foot, and after a fierce and terrible struggle Calidore at last brought his foe to the ground. He could easily have killed him, but Crudor, seeing the danger in which he was placed, cried out—

“Ah, mercy, Sir! Do not slay me, but spare my life which fate has laid under your foot.”

“And is this the boast of that proud lady’s threat, which menaced to beat me from the field?” said Calidore quietly. “By this you may now learn not to treat strangers so rudely. But put away proud looks and stern behaviour, which shall gain for you nothing but dishonour. However strong and fortunate he may be in fight, nothing is more blameful to a Knight, who professes courtesy as well as arms, than the reproach of pride and cruelty. In vain he seeks to suppress others who has not learned first to subdue himself. All flesh is frail and full of fickleness, subject to the chance of ever-changing fortune: what happens to me to-day may happen to you to-morrow. He who will not show mercy to others, how can he ever hope to obtain mercy? To pay each in his own coin is right and just.

“Yet since you now need to crave mercy, I will grant it, and spare your life, on these conditions: First that you shall behave yourself better to all errant knights, wherever they may be; and next, that you aid ladies in every place and in every trouble.”

The wretched man, who had remained all this while in dread of death, gladly promised to perform all Sir Calidore’s behests, and further swore to marry Briana without any dowry, and to release her from his former shameful conditions. Then Calidore called the Lady, and soothing her terror, told her of the promise he had compelled Crudor to make.

Overcome by his exceeding courtesy, which quite pierced her stubborn heart, Briana threw herself at his feet, and acknowledged herself deeply indebted to him for having restored both life and love to her. Then they all returned to the Castle, and she entertained them joyfully with feast and glee, trying by all the means in her power to show her gratitude and goodwill. To Sir Calidore, for his trouble, she freely gave the Castle, and professed herself bound to him for ever, so wondrously was she changed from what she had been before.

But Calidore would not keep for himself land or fee as wages for his good deed, but gave them at once as a rightful reward to the Squire whom he had lately freed, and to his damsel, in recompense for all their former wrong. There he remained happily with them till he was well and strong from the wounds he had received, and then he passed forth again on his first quest.

The Proud Discourteous Knight

As Sir Calidore rode on his way he saw not far off a strange sight—a tall young man fighting on foot against an armed Knight on horseback; and beside them he saw a fair lady standing alone on foot, in sad disarray. Before he could get near to ask what was the matter, the armed Knight had been killed by the youth.

Filled with amazement, Sir Calidore steadfastly marked the latter, and found him to be a goodly and graceful youth, still only a slender slip, not more than seventeen years old, but tall and fair of face, so that the Knight surely deemed him of noble birth. He was clad in a woodman’s jacket of Lincoln green, trimmed with silver lace; on his head he wore a hood with spreading points, and his hunter’s horn hung at his side. His buskins were of the costliest leather, adorned with golden points, and regularly intersected with stripes, as was then the fashion for those of gentle family. In his right hand he held a quivering dart, and in his left a sharp boar-spear.

Calidore, having well viewed him, at length spoke, and asked him how it came that he, though not yet a Knight, had dared to slay a Knight, which was plainly forbidden by chivalry.

“Truly,” said the youth, “I was loath to break the law of chivalry, but I would break it again rather than let myself be struck by any man. He assailed me first, regardless of what belongs to chivalry.”

“By my troth,” then said Sir Calidore, “great blame is it for an armed Knight to wrong an unarmed man. But tell me why this strife arose between you?”

Then the youth, whose name was Tristram, told him that, as he was hunting that day in the forest, he chanced to meet this man, together with the lady. The Knight, as Sir Calidore had seen, was on horseback, but the lady walked on foot beside the horse, through thick and thin, unfit for any woman. Yet not content with this, to add to the disgrace, whenever she lagged behind, as she must needs do, he would thump her forward with his spear, and force her to go on, while she vainly wept, and made piteous lament.

“When I saw this, as they passed by,” continued Tristram, “I was moved to indignation, and began to blame him for such cruelty. At this he was enraged, and disdainfully reviled me, threatening to chastise me as one would a child. I, no less disdainful, returned his scornful taunts, whereupon he struck me with his spear, and I, seeking to avenge myself, threw a slender dart at him, which struck him, as it seems, underneath the heart, so that he quickly died.”

Sir Calidore inquired of the lady if this were indeed true, and as she could deny nothing, but cleared Tristram of all blame, then said the Knight—

“Neither will I charge him with guilt. For what he spoke, he spoke it for you, Lady; and what he did, he did it to save himself, against both of whom that Knight wrought unknightly shame.”

Then turning back to the gallant boy, who had acquitted himself so well and stoutly, and seeing his beautiful face, and hearing his wise words, Sir Calidore was filled with admiration, and felt certain that he came of heroic blood. Then, because of the affection he bore him, he begged the youth to reveal who he was, “for since the day when I first bore arms,” added the Knight, “I never saw greater promise in any one.”

Then Tristram replied that he was the son of a King, although by fate or fortune he had lost his country and the crown that should be his by right. He was the only heir of the good King Meliogras of Cornwall, but his father dying while he was still a child, his uncle had seized the kingdom. The widowed Queen, his mother, afraid lest ill should happen to the boy, sent him away out of the country of Lyonesse, where he was born, into the land of Queen Gloriana, and here he had dwelt since the time he was ten years old.

His days had not been spent in idleness, for he had been well trained with many noble companions in gentle manners and other fitting ways. His chief delight was in following the chase, and nothing that ranged in the green forest was unknown to him. But now that he was growing older he felt it was time to employ his strength in a nobler fashion, and he besought Sir Calidore to make him a Squire, so that henceforth he might bear arms, and learn to use them aright.

So Sir Calidore caused him to kneel, and made him swear faith to his Knight, and truth to all ladies, and never to be recreant for fear of peril, nor for anything that might befall. So he dubbed him, and called him his Squire.

Then young Tristram grew full glad and joyous, and when the time came for Sir Calidore to depart, he prayed that he might go with him on his adventure, vowing always to serve him faithfully. Sir Calidore rejoiced at his noble heart, and hoped he would surely prove a doughty Knight, yet for the time he was obliged to make this answer to him:—

“Glad would I surely be, my courteous Squire, to have you with me in my present quest, but I am bound by a vow which I swore to my Sovereign, that in fulfilling her behest I would allow no creature to aid me. For that reason I may not grant what you so earnestly beg. But since this lady is now quite desolate, and needs a safeguard on her way, you would do well to succour her from fear of danger.”

Tristram gladly accepted this new service, so, taking a courteous leave, the two parted.

Not long after this, Sir Calidore came upon a Knight and a lady sitting in the shade of some trees. Sir Calidore greeted them courteously, and the Knight invited him to sit down beside them, so that they might talk over all their adventures. While they were chatting together, the Lady Serena wandered away into the fields to pluck some flowers. Then suddenly, from the forest near, the Blatant Beast rushed forth, and catching up the lady, bore her away in his great mouth. Starting up, both Knights at once gave chase, and Calidore, who was swiftest of foot, overtook the monster in the midst of his race, and fiercely charging him, made him leave his prey and take to flight.

Knowing that the Knight was close at hand, Sir Calidore did not pause to succour the lady, but quickly followed the brute in his flight. Full many paths and perils he passed; over hill and dale, through forest and plain; so sharply did he pursue the monster that he never suffered him to rest, day or night. From the court he chased him to the city, from the city to the village, from the village into the country, and from the country back to remote farms. Thence the Blatant Beast fled into the open fields, where the herds were keeping the cattle, and the shepherds were singing to their flocks.

Coridon and Pastorella

As Sir Calidore followed the chase of the Blatant Beast he came upon a group of shepherds piping to their flocks. In reply to his questions they answered they had never seen the creature, and if there were any such they prayed heaven to keep him far from them. Then one of them, seeing that Calidore was travel-worn and weary, offered him such simple food and drink as they had with them, and the Knight, who was courteous to all men alike, both the lowly and the high-born, accepted their gentle offer.

“=Upon a little hillocke she was placed
Higher than all the rest, and round about
Environ’d with a girland, goodly graced
Of lovely lasses.=”
]

As he sat amongst these rustics he saw seated on a little hillock, higher than all the rest, a beautiful maiden, wearing a crown of flowers tied with silken ribbons. She was surrounded by the other shepherdesses, as with a lovely garland, but her beauty far excelled theirs, and all united in singing the praises and carolling the name of the “fairest Pastorella.” Not one of all the shepherds but honoured her, and many also loved her, but most of all the shepherd Coridon. Yet neither for him nor for any one else did she care a whit; her lot was humble, but her mind was high above it.

As Sir Calidore gazed at her and marked her rare demeanour, which seemed to him far to excel the rank of a shepherd, and to be worthy of a Prince’s paragon, all unawares he was caught in the toils of love, from which no skill of his own could deliver him. So there he sat still, with no desire to move, although his quest had gone far before him. He stayed until the flying day was far spent, and the dews of night warned the shepherds to hasten home with their flocks.

Then came to them an aged sire, with silver beard and locks, and carrying a shepherd’s crook. He was always supposed to be the father of Pastorella, and she indeed thought it herself. But he was not so, having found her by chance in the open field as an infant. He took her home, and cherished her as his own child, for he had none other, and in course of time she came to be accounted so.

Melibee, for so the good old man was called, seeing Calidore left all alone and night at hand, invited him to his simple home, which, although only a mud cottage, with everything very humble, was yet better to lodge in than the open fields. The Knight full gladly agreed, this being his heart’s own wish, and went home with Melibee. There he was made heartily welcome by the honest shepherd and his aged wife, and after the frugal supper, which they ate with much contentment, Sir Calidore listened half-entranced while Melibee discoursed on all the joys of a pastoral life. So tempting was the picture he painted that Calidore resolved to lay aside for awhile his toilsome quest and the pursuit of glory, and take a little rest in this peaceful spot. If he were allowed to share the cabin and the scanty fare he promised to reward Melibee well, but the good old man refused the offered gift of gold.

“If you really wish to try this simple sort of life that shepherds lead,” he said, “make it your own, and learn our rustic ways for yourself.”

So Sir Calidore dwelt there that night, and many days after, as long as it pleased him, daily beholding the fair Pastorella, and all the while growing more deeply in love with her. He tried to please her by all the kindly courtesies he could invent, but she, who had never been accustomed to such strange fashions, fit for kings and queens, nor had ever seen such knightly service, paid small heed to them, and cared more for the shepherds’ rustic civility than for anything he did.

Sir Calidore, seeing this, thought it best to change the manner of his appearance. Doffing his bright armour, he dressed himself in shepherd’s attire, taking in his hand a crook instead of a steel-headed spear. Clad thus, he went every day to the fields with Pastorella, and kept her flocks diligently, watching to drive away the ravenous wolf, so that she could sport and play as it pleased her.

Coridon, who for a long time had loved her, and hoped to gain her love, was greatly troubled, and very jealous of this stranger. He often complained scowlingly of Pastorella to all the other shepherds, and whenever he came near Calidore, would frown and bite his lips, and was ready to devour his own heart with jealousy. The Knight, on the other hand, was utterly free from malice or grudging, never showing any sign of rancour, and often taking an opportunity to praise Coridon to Pastorella. But the maiden, if ever she had cared for her uncouth admirer, certainly did so no longer now that she had seen Calidore.

Once when Calidore was asked to lead the dance with Pastorella, in his courtesy he took Coridon, and set him in his place; and when Pastorella gave him her own flowery garland, he soon took it off and put it on the head of Coridon.