Epics and Romances of the Middle Ages

by Wilhelm Wägner

III. WILLIAM OF ORANGE.

The Inheritance.

Count Henry of Narbonne, who was both a good man and a hero, lived at the time when Kaiser Karl ruled over the Franks. He was held in much esteem by the emperor, because of his valorous deeds, and had received many fiefs in addition to his paternal estates. After a time he withdrew to his own castle, and, together with his wife, occupied himself with the education of his seven sons, and several daughters. Years passed on, and the sons all grew up to man’s estate. One day their father called them to him, and said that he had a story to tell them, to which they must listen attentively.

“You must know,” he said, “that once, long ago, I sank exhausted on the field of battle, worn with fighting, and covered with wounds. The enemy rushed up to slay me, but a faithful squire defended me at the risk of his own life. Just as further help arrived, he sank severely wounded on the blooming heather beside me. We were removed from the field, and every care and attention was lavished on us. I got better, but he grew weaker every day. He was not afraid to die, but he was troubled about the fate of his little son, whom he would leave an orphan, for his wife had died some time before. I comforted the man who had given his life for me, by telling him that I would be a father to the boy, and that if he grew up fit for the trust, he should be my heir, whether I had children of my own or not. He is now a gallant knight and brave warrior, and I am proud to call him my pupil. Now, my sons, tell me, do you wish me to keep my word to my dying preserver, or do you desire to share my estate amongst you?”

Then one of the sons, named William, answered for the rest, and said that they would all rather be beggars than that their father should break his word to his faithful squire.

“Not beggars,” cried the Countess Irmschart. “All that I brought my husband belongs to you, and your father has already endowed you with a priceless inheritance; namely, his piety, his good faith both to God and man, his courage, and all the lessons in knightliness he has given you. This is an inheritance that cannot be taken from you.”

“Well, my sons,” continued the count, “you may go to the emperor’s court in the full certainty that you will get on there, if you are true to the lessons you have learnt in your youth.”

The young warriors followed their father’s advice. They were well received by the emperor, at first for Count Henry’s sake, and then for their own. They fought against the Moors when Eigoland invaded Gascony, and helped to avenge the death of the heroes at Ronceval. After their return from Spain, the emperor knighted the brothers, and gave them considerable fiefs. William, who enjoyed the special favour of his liege lord, was made governor of the whole southern coast of France. He showed himself a vigilant warden of the coast. Wherever any Saracens ventured to land, there he was with his troopers to beat them back, and sometimes even seized their ships.

After the death of Kaiser Karl, surnamed the Great, his son Ludwig succeeded him on the throne. The first action of the new ruler was to go about the country, and see in what condition it was. Amongst other places, he visited the castle where Count William lived with his youngest sister. Ludwig was so taken with the maiden’s beauty and sweetness, that he fell in love with her, and soon afterwards married her. This circumstance increased Count William’s influence at court, and enabled him to keep up a larger army, and do what he otherwise considered necessary for the proper defence of the coast.

Captivity and Deliverance.

Peace lasted for a long time under the wise rule of Count William, but, suddenly and unexpectedly, the Moors invaded the land, under the lead of the powerful Emirs Terreman and Balikan. King Ludwig and Count William attacked the children of the desert, and strove to chase them from the country. After performing many feats of valour, William was at last surrounded by the Moors, and carried off a prisoner to Valencia by the Emir Tibalt, whose captive he was by the fortune of war.

Arrived at Valencia, the count was chained up in a dark and dismal dungeon, and placed under the charge of the emir’s wife, Arabella, during her husband’s absence on a plundering expedition. Before going away, Tibalt told his wife to feed the prisoner on bread and water, and forbade her on any account to take off his chains. He added that he hoped on his return to find him willing to embrace the Mahommedan religion.

For some time Arabella did as her husband had desired with the strictest punctuality, but after a time she became curious to see what the Frankish prisoner was like. So she made her servants accompany her with torches to the cell. She saw that William was a goodly man, and felt sorry for him. As for him, he never could have imagined that an infidel could look so gentle and like an angel.

The weeks passed quickly. Arabella tried to teach the count her religion, by repeating passages of the Koran, and by entreating him to remember that he had only to become a Mahommedan, and he would at once be free. And he, on his side, told her about God and Christ, and explained to her the religion of mercy and love. What he said came home to her heart. She visited him again and again, thought over his teachings when she sat quietly in her own room, and at last confessed that she wished to become a Christian. She and William had by this time learnt to love each other, so they determined to fly to King Ludwig.

By the help of an old and faithful servant, Arabella hired a vessel, set the count free, and went on board with him. The captain, on learning that he was to steer for the coast of France, refused point-blank to do so; and William, without an instant’s hesitation, flung him overboard. He then threatened to slay the mate if he did not obey him in all things, and he looked so terrible with his drawn sword and stern face, that the crew durst not disobey him.

Meanwhile Tibalt returned from his raid, and learnt all that had occurred from the captain, who had swum ashore. He embarked without loss of time, and set sail in pursuit of the runaways, but only came within bow-shot just as William and Arabella landed and took refuge in the citadel.

Tibalt vainly tried to take the place by storm, and had at last to return to Valencia without accomplishing the object of his voyage.

Ludwig invited Count William and Arabella to his court, where they were received with the utmost kindness by both him and his queen. Every one admired the Moorish lady’s beauty, and thought her lovelier than any one about the court, even than the queen herself. This roused the queen’s jealousy, and she began to treat both her brother and Arabella with marked coldness.

Count William and his bride went on to Avignon, where they were married by Pope Leo, after Arabella had been received into the Christian Church. She was given the name of Gyburg at her baptism, as that was an old family name in the house of Narbonne. Ludwig was present at the marriage, but the queen said she was too busy to go.

A few days after this, William sent his wife home to Orange, while he accompanied King Ludwig to Italy, with the object of recovering Rome and the States of the Church for the banished Pope. This they succeeded in doing after much fighting; and when Leo was once more master of the imperial city, he showed his gratitude to the Frankish king by crowning him emperor in the room of his great father.

When the coronation feast was over, the warriors all returned home, and William with the rest. He and his wife lived happily at Orange, and, as they had no children, William adopted the son of one of his sisters who had died early, and brought him up as his heir. The boy Vivian (or Vivianz) grew up to be a bold youth, and showed promise of future excellence.

More Fighting.

As it happened, Vivian was to have a chance of winning glory at an early age. The Moors invaded France in hordes. They swept over Aquitaine in no time, and seemed as though they would soon have the rule in France. Count William took leave of his wife, and, accompanied by young Vivian and his men-at-arms, set out to meet, and, if it might be, drive back the bold invaders.

The armies met on the plain of Alischanz (Alicon). “Machmet! Machmet!” was the cry on one side, and “Monjoie, St. Denys!” on the other.

The battle began, and raged for hours; young Vivian fought like a hero, and then fell, mortally wounded. His men avenged his fall. He was insensible for some time, and when he came to himself again, he found that he was lying on the battle-field surrounded by the bodies of the slain. He was very thirsty, and prayed for a drink of water. His prayer was heard. A shining angel came down from heaven, and supported his tottering steps to the side of a little rushing brook, where he quenched his raging thirst. Before finally disappearing from sight, the angel said,—

“The good town of Orange and kind Gyburg are in danger.”

The young man fainted again when he heard these words. On recovering his senses, he saw his uncle bending over him, and had just strength enough to repeat the warning given him by the angel, before he fell back dead.

WILLIAM OF ORANGE AND HIS DYING NEPHEW.

The count considered what was to be done. He had lost sight of his men in the wild hand-to-hand conflict in which he had cut his way through the enemy’s ranks; and then, coming upon his nephew’s broken shield, he had followed his bloody track until he found him. The battle was now at an end; but without men how could he save Gyburg and Orange? His horse was so severely wounded that he had to lead it by the rein. Without further loss of time, he set out on his long and toilsome walk. At daybreak he met a Moorish commander with several followers. He was at once attacked by them, but with the first blow he clove the emir to the saddle, and put his men to flight. Finding himself alone and unobserved, he slipped the emir’s dress over his armour, and, mounting the emir’s horse, pursued his journey to Orange. He made his way in safety to the castle gate, which opened in time to receive him just as the enemy had recognised the Frankish accoutrements of his wounded war-horse, for the faithful beast had followed him all the way.

The besiegers tried again and again to storm the castle, but in vain. At last they determined to starve the garrison out. After a time, the inmates of the castle suffered so much from want of food that the count made up his mind to slip through the Moorish hosts to bring back reinforcements and provisions. He made his wife and captains swear to hold the fortress at all hazards, and then, donning the garments he had taken from the emir, set out on his perilous undertaking.

He made his way through the enemy’s lines, and reached Orleans in safety. There he was taken prisoner by the captain of the guard, and ordered to instant death as a Moorish infidel. In vain he assured the man that he was a Christian and a Frank; in vain he told him his name and rank; neither the captain nor any one else would believe him, and he was in great danger of being torn in pieces by the excited populace. Fortunately, at that moment the governor of the town appeared at the head of an armed force, and, on seeing William, at once recognised him as his brother, and took him away to his house. The count would have nothing to eat but bread and water; he could not feast while his wife and his men were fasting. Having rested for an hour or two, he set out again on his way to court.

Ludwig received him coldly, and his sister was still more unkind. Indeed, the empress went so far as to say, that for aught any one knew, the Moorish woman might have sent for those Saracens; she might be tired of France and Christianity, and want to return to her own people. Ludwig showed himself unwilling to call out his troops, saying that William was strong enough to help himself.

Day after day passed, and nothing was done. Meanwhile the rumour spread that the count of Orange had come to court to ask for help against the Moors; and the aged count of Narbonne, his six sons, and many noble knights came to offer their help in the good work. When they heard how ill William had fared at court, the lord of Narbonne went to the emperor, and warned him that if he did not support his vassals in their need, he must not be surprised if they threw off his suzerainty. Then, turning to his daughter, he told her plainly what he thought of her conduct, and threatened her with his curse if she did not forget her foolish rancour and do her duty. This bold speaking had such good effect, that orders were at once given to call out a great army, which assembled in an incredibly short time.

On hearing of the approach of a Frankish host, the Moors hastened to their ships, leaving their tents and provisions behind. These William gladly seized for the use of the imperial troops. Life and bustle now reigned in the castle from garret to cellar, and the cooks had hard work to provide food for so many men. Among the scullions was a tall strong young fellow, a Moor by birth, who had been stolen from his home, and presented by his captors to Kaiser Ludwig. William thought from his appearance that he must be of noble birth, but every one else regarded him as half-witted, and called him nothing but Jack Dunderhead. While he was at the palace, he had once had the good fortune to save the Princess Alice from a wolf. The only reward he asked of her was that she would keep the adventure a secret. This she did. But when he was going to the wars with the other officers of the royal kitchen, she sought him out and gave him a ring as a farewell gift. After his arrival at Orange, William’s attention was drawn to him; and seeing the heroic qualities of the youth, and the masterly fashion in which he handled his quarter-staff, the only weapon he possessed, he redeemed him from servitude, took him to the Lady Gyburg, and desired her to provide him with coat of mail and all the requisites of a warrior. Rennewart, for that was his real name, was so grateful for this kindness that he swore to be faithful to William to the death. And, as he turned to leave the room, the countess heard him say, in a low voice:

“Now, at length, I can show that I am of royal lineage, and may strive to win my pearl. Ah, father Terramer, while you have forgotten your long-lost son, he has become a Frank, and is both able and willing to fight for his new and better country.”

These words revealed to Gyburg that Rennewart was her own brother, so she called him back hastily and told him all. After this joyful recognition, he went out in full armour, but still bearing the long staff he had always carried for his defence. He joined the rest of the forces and marched with them to fight the Moors, who were awaiting them on the shore.

The battle began, and Rennewart showed himself so good a warrior as to justify Count William’s trust to the full. He even attacked and boarded some of the Moorish ships, freed the Christian slaves who were attached to the oars, and, getting them to join him, drove the Moors overboard, and, taking several of high degree prisoners, returned to the castle.

Among the prisoners taken was the Moorish commander Terramer. Badly wounded, and broken-hearted at his utter defeat, he was astonished at the kindness with which he was tended by William and Gyburg, to whom he had tried to do so much harm. But he soon made friends with them, and was then rejoiced to see the son he had long mourned as dead.

A few days later William and Gyburg went with the victorious army to where Ludwig was staying with the court. They met with a hearty reception, and the count of Orange was created duke of Aquitaine, while Rennewart was given the town and district of Nismes. The emperor then rewarded all the other leaders for their services, and gave a great feast to the men-at-arms, and a banquet to the nobles.

While the heroes were enjoying the good things provided for their entertainment, the empress noticed that the young hero Rennewart sat silent and absorbed, till her daughter Alise approached to fill his glass; then his eyes rested joyfully on her countenance, the royal maiden blushed, and her hand trembled so, that the wine ran over. She wondered where they could have met before, and took the first opportunity of questioning her sister-in-law. The Countess Gyburg told her brother’s story, and informed the empress that Rennewart and Alise had loved each other ever since the day when the prince, in the guise of a scullion, saved the princess’s life. A few days afterwards the young people were betrothed, and on the very day of their betrothal messengers arrived bringing rich presents from the Emir Terramer to his son.

William, who was now duke of Aquitaine and count of Orange, governed his people wisely and justly. He preserved them from dangers without and within, and listened to all petitioners of whatever rank with equal kindness. The Lady Gyburg helped him in all ways that a woman might. Together they founded churches and alms-houses, and the blessing of God was with them. When they were both stricken in years, an angel one night appeared to the count in a dream, and, showing him a desert place high up in the mountains, desired him to build there a religious house, where pious monks might live, and give shelter to any travellers who had lost their way, and might even seek out belated wanderers lost in the snow, and save them from a dreadful death. Next day the pious hero set out in search of the place the angel had pointed out, and, having found it, built the monastery. He and his wife lived on together for several years after this, doing good to all; then they withdrew into solitary cells to prepare for eternity. After their death so many signs and wonders were wrought at their graves, that the people believed they must have died saints.

TITUREL SEES THE HOLY GRAIL.

LEGENDS OF KING ARTHUR AND THE HOLY GRAIL.

I.
TITUREL.

His Call to the Grail.

At the time when the bold hero Vespasian was called away from the siege of Jerusalem, to be made emperor of Rome, a rich man of Cappadocia, named Parille, or as the Romans called him, Berillus, followed in his train. He was brave in war, and wise of counsel in times of peace, so the emperor gave him large estates in Gaul. His virtues were inherited by his sons, grandsons, and later descendants. One of these, Titurisone, married a noble maiden, named Elizabel, but they had no children. The knight was much distressed at the thought that a noble and chivalrous race should end in him. Once, when he was quite elderly, a soothsayer came to the castle, and asked for a night’s lodging, which was as usual granted. That evening, when he was sitting alone with his guest, the knight began to discourse of the sorrow of his life, and the stranger told him that he ought to make a pilgrimage to the church of the Holy Sepulchre, and lay a crucifix of pure gold on the altar. Titurisone followed the wise man’s advice, and he and his wife had the pleasure of having a son born to them. As the boy grew up, he showed rare gifts of mind, great piety, and unusual strength. He had received the name of Titurel at his baptism, a name that soon became known throughout the length and breadth of the land.

When the boy grew to man’s estate, he went with his father to fight against the heathen. He showed such marvellous prowess, that his father began to praise him, and prophesy great things for his future; but the lad modestly said that he had only done his duty like others.

When the victorious army returned home, Titurel was not to be tempted to remain at court, but hastened away to his native place. Arrived there, he did not go first in search of his mother, but made his way to the chapel, dressed in the robes of a penitent. He approached the altar bare-foot, and presented the booty he had brought from the war. Having prayed for God’s blessing on all his undertakings, he rose from his knees, and, going into the castle, hastened to embrace his mother.

Titurel sometimes took part in the crusade against the Saracens. His gallant deeds were so numerous that they became noised abroad, and his name was held in honour by Christians and infidels alike.

Many years passed on. Titurisone and his wife both died, leaving a large inheritance to their only son. The change in his outward fortunes made no difference in Titurel—he remained as humble in the sight of God and man as before; he had more to give away to the poor and needy, that was the only use of wealth in his eyes.

One beautiful spring morning he went out to walk in the wood. Coming to a soft mossy bank, he seated himself, and looked about him. Flowers filled the air with their perfume, birds were singing in the trees, and a gentle breeze whispered among the fresh green leaves. He felt full of peace and joy; it almost seemed to him as though God were speaking to him in the songs of the birds, the rustle of the foliage, and the murmur of the brook. The sky was blue, one soft fleecy cloud alone was visible. He was surprised to see it coming as if towards him with extraordinary speed, and yet it was not driven by the wind. At last it sank to the earth before him, and out of it came an angel, who spoke to the hero in a deep melodious voice like the sound of the organ in church.

“Hail, chosen hero of the Most High! The Lord hath called thee to guard the holy Grail on His mountain, Montsalvatch. Set thy house in order, and obey the voice of God.”

The angel stepped back, the cloud closed round him like a silver veil, and he floated away to heaven.

Titurel went home in a state of ecstasy. He divided his wealth among his servants and those who had most need of it, after which he returned fully armed to the place where the angel had appeared to him. Once more he saw the cloud in the sky, and this time it was fringed with the gold of sunshine. It went before him, showing him the way to the goal of his pilgrimage. He went on and on through vast solitudes. At length he came to a deep dark wood, and after that to a mountain, the sides of which seemed too steep to climb. But the cloud preceded him, and he followed, dragging himself up precipitous rocks, past great abysses that made him dizzy to look into, and through thickets of thorn. Often he felt so weary he could hardly drag one foot after the other, and was tempted to despair of ever reaching the top. But a voice seemed to speak to him encouragingly at such moments of weakness, and he found strength to struggle on. At length he reached the top of the mountain. He saw a bright light before him, it was the Sangreal borne in the air by invisible hands. Beneath it knelt a number of knights in shining armour. Seeing him, they rose to their feet, and cried,—

“Hail to thee, chosen hero, called to be guardian of the holy Grail!”

He did not answer, his eyes were fixed on the sacred vessel, which was like a cup of emerald-coloured jasper, encircled by a stand of chased gold. Lost in the wondrous sight, he prayed for strength to guard what was put under his charge.

And in good truth Titurel was worthy of his high calling. He, with the help of the other knights under his command, prevented any infidels from approaching the holy mountain. Many years passed away, and the vessel never came down to earth. So Titurel determined to build a castle and temple on the mountain-top worthy to hold and protect the Sangreal.

Building of the Temple.

When the grass, ferns, and stones were cleared away, it was discovered that the rock, or core of the mountain, was one entire onyx of enormous size. This was flattened into a flooring, and polished with great care; and upon it the castle was built. Now came the more important task of rearing the temple, but they were in doubt as to the plan and shape that would be most fitting.

One morning when Titurel awoke, he prayed that he might be enlightened to know how to build the church, and when he went out he saw the entire ground-plan clearly marked out on the rock-foundation, and all the miraculous materials that were wanted, ready piled up in huge stacks. So the knights worked hard all day long, and the invisible powers worked all night. It was wonderful how quickly the walls rose, and the church was finished. It was circular in form, and had seventy-two octagon choirs, every two of which supported a belfry. In the midst rose a tower with many windows, and openings with pointed arches. The topmost point of the tower was a ruby, out of which rose a cross of clear crystal surmounted by a golden eagle with outstretched wings. Within the building, sculptured vines, roses, and lilies twined about the pillars, forming bowers, on whose branches birds seemed to flutter as if alive. At every intersection of the arches was a glowing carbuncle that turned night into day; and the vaulted roof was of blue sapphire, in which a miracle of art was to be seen. The sun, moon, and stars placed there by the builders, moved in the same order as the real luminaries in the heavens.

In the wide inner space of the great temple a second and smaller sanctuary was built, resembling the first, but far more beautiful. This was the place intended for the Sangreal, should it come down to earth.

And now the work was finished. The hour of consecration had come. The bells rang. The priests began to chant the hymn, and a chorus of angels joined in: “Glory to God on high, peace on earth, good will to men.” At the same moment a sweet perfume filled the air, the sacred vessel descended and floated over the altar in the inner sanctuary. A deep and solemn silence reigned in the mighty building. Then the invisible choir began to sing: “The glory of the Lord has arisen in Zion! Praise Him, ye faithful, and make known His holy name.” The priest spoke the blessing, and the consecration was complete. Titurel did not move for some time after the others had withdrawn. He was lost in wonder and joy. He did not touch the vessel, for he had not been told to do so.

The building had taken thirty years to complete. After the consecration, a dove appeared every Good Friday carrying a wafer from the holy sacrament in its bill. It dropped the wafer into the sacred vessel, thereby keeping up the miraculous powers of the Grail, which provided food for the knights who guarded it, and healed any wounds they might sustain at the hands of the unbelievers who sometimes attacked them.

His Marriage and Descendants.

Time passed on, and Titurel was four hundred years old, but no one looking at him would have thought him more than forty. One evening when he entered the sanctuary and turned his eyes upon the Grail, he saw that it had a message for him. Drawing near, that he might read the letters of fire in which all such commands were issued, he read that he was to take a wife, so that the chosen race might not die out of the land. He called the knights of the Temple. They saw what was written, and said that he must obey. With one accord, all fixed upon the Lady Richoude, daughter of a Spanish chief, as the most worthy maiden to be his wife. The wooing was done by solemn embassage, and neither father nor daughter was deaf to the call. The marriage took place, and on the same day Titurel received the honour of knighthood, which he had always refused before out of humility. Two children were born to Sir Titurel and his wife; a son named Frimutel, and a daughter called Richoude after her mother. Twenty years later Titurel lost his wife, and was once more alone in the world, except for his children, to whom he was devoted.

Richoude, who was very lovely, married a king whose realm lay far away from her old home; and Frimutel married Clarissa, daughter of the king of Granada; by her he had five children. Two of them were sons, Amfortas and Trevrezent by name, and three daughters, Herzeleide, Joisiane, and Repanse.

Titurel was no longer able to bear the weight of his armour: he passed his time either in church or with his grandchildren. One day when he went, as he often did, to gaze at the holy Grail, he saw written in letters of fire on the rim of the vessel, “Frimutel shall be king.” The old man’s heart was full of joy. He called his son, his grandchildren, and all the young heroes who served the Sangreal, around him, and told them what had been ordained. He then desired his granddaughter Joisiane to place the floating Grail upon the altar; for she, as a pure virgin, could touch it. She obeyed, and then the old man put the crown on his son’s head, and blessed him and the assembled brotherhood.

Titurel lived on, and saw many joyful and many sorrowful things happen. Joisiane married King Kiot of Catalonia, and died at the birth of her babe Sigune,

Who fairer was than flowers in lusty May,

That ope their dewy cups to dawning day.

Her sister Herzeleide took the child, and brought it up with Tchionatulander, the orphan son of a friend; but after a time she lost her husband, and had to fly with her son Percival, leaving Sigune and Tchionatulander under the care of friends. But worse things than this were yet to happen. Frimutel thought his life at Montsalvatch confined and dull, he wearied of it, and went out to seek excitement in the world. He died of a lance-wound far away in the land of the unbelievers. His son Amfortas was crowned his successor, in obedience to the fiery letters that appeared on the holy vessel; but he had inherited the wild blood and roving spirit of his father; and instead of fulfilling the office to which he was appointed, he went out into the world in search of love and fame. At length he was brought back to his grandfather, sick unto death of a wound caused by a poisoned spear.

One day, while Sir Titurel knelt in the sanctuary praying for his grandson, whose life of pain was prolonged by the holy Grail appearing to him once in every seven days, he suddenly saw these words in letters of fire:—

“Murmur not, good old man; endure the load of others’ sins. A chosen hero shall one day climb the holy mount. If he ask, before nightfall, of the beginning and end of this tale of woe, then shall the spell be broken, and Amfortas cured, but the new-comer shall be king in his stead.”

Again and again Titurel read the mysterious words, and asked when the hero would come. He received no answer; but the words, “murmur not; endure,” shone brighter than before, and he bowed his head, leaving the future confidently to God.

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KING ARTHUR AND HIS ROUND TABLE.

II.
PERCIVAL.

Journey to Arthur’s Court.

When Queen Herzeleide had to fly from home with her little son on the death of her husband, she retired to a small house she possessed in an out-of-the-way district, and devoted herself to the education of her boy. She never spoke to him of knightly deeds, for she feared lest, when he was grown up, he should leave her to seek adventures, and should die in some tournament or feud. Notwithstanding this, young Percival grew up a bold, strong youth, fearless of all danger.

One day, as he was coming home from hunting, he met some knights riding through the wood arrayed in full armour. One of them asked him a question, which Percival answered at random. Then, going up to the knight, he asked what strange garments those were that he and his companions wore, and why they had golden spurs. The knight was amused, and answered the lad’s questions very kindly, adding, “If you want to know more of knights and knighthood, you must go to King Arthur’s court, and there, if you are worthy, you may perchance be made a knight yourself.”

Percival could not forget what he had heard and seen. He cared no more for hunting, and spent his days and nights in dreaming of swords, knighthood, and battle. Herzeleide asked her son what ailed him, and when she learnt the cause of his sorrow, her heart was filled with terror lest, inheriting his father’s heroic spirit, Percival might meet with his father’s fate. At length she gave way to the lad’s entreaties, and let him go, but with a breaking heart.

Percival felt the parting with his mother very much; but youth and hope were strong in his heart, and thoughts of the joy of meeting again soon thrust the sorrow of parting into the background.

Lost in such reflections, he came to a meadow in which some tents were pitched. In one of these he saw a couch on which a beautiful woman lay asleep. She was richly dressed; her girdle blazed with precious stones, as did also the ornaments on her arms, neck, and fingers. He thought, as he plucked a flower, so he might also steal a kiss from the rosy lips of the sleeping beauty; but, as he did so, she awoke, and was very angry.

“Don’t be angry,” he said, throwing himself at her feet. “I have often kissed my mother when I have caught her asleep, and you are more beautiful than my mother.”

The lady gazed at him in astonishment, and listened to his boyish confidences about going to Arthur’s court, being made a knight, and doing great deeds thereafter. Suddenly a horn sounded at no great distance.

“That is my husband,” cried the lady; “quick, boy, get away as fast as you can, or we are both undone.”

“Oh, I am not afraid,” he said. “Look at my quiver; it is quite full; I could defend you as well as myself. Let me have one of your bracelets as a sign that you are not angry with me.”

As he spoke, he slipped the bracelet off her arm, left the tent, mounted his horse, and rode away.

Shortly after this Lord Orilus, the lady’s husband, appeared, and with him many knights. When he heard from her what had happened, he fell into a passion, and swore that he would hang the “impudent varlet” if he could catch him. But though he set out at once in pursuit, he could see nothing of the youth.

Meanwhile Percival continued his journey. That night he slept in the forest, and went on his way next morning at an easy pace. As he was passing under a rock, he saw a maiden sitting by a spring that gushed out of it. She wept bitterly as she bent over a dead man, whose head lay in her lap. Percival spoke to her, and tried to comfort her by saying that he would avenge the death of the murdered man, for murdered he was sure he was. He then told her his name, and she said that she was his cousin Sigune, and that the dead man was her old playfellow Tchionatulander, who had met his end in trying to gratify a silly wish of hers—a wish she had no sooner given utterance to than she repented. She had lost a dog, and had wanted to have it again. That was the cause of all her sorrow.

“He was a real hero,” she continued, “and one of the knights of King Arthur’s Round Table. Your mother made him governor of her wasted lands. He conquered the robber hosts, slew their leader, wild Lahelin, and flung his ally, Orilus, Lord of Cumberland, from his horse, so that he only escaped by the help of his troopers who bore him off the field. When he promised to get me back the dog, he challenged Orilus to single combat before King Arthur and his knights, the prize of victory to be the setter that Lord Orilus had caught, and kept, when it ran away from me. The challenge was accepted, but the time of meeting was put off for a while, because Orilus was suffering from an unhealed wound. Meanwhile the Lady Jeschute, fearing for the life of her husband, sent me back the dog. Tchionatulander and I regarded the matter as settled, so we set out together to go to the sanctuary of the Holy Grail, where we were to be married. As ill luck would have it, we met Orilus and his wife, and in spite of all the entreaties of Jeschute and myself, the two knights quarrelled and fought. Orilus recovered from the stunning fall; but my dear love—oh that I had died instead! It was my fault, all my fault.”

“Be comforted, cousin,” said Percival, “I will go to King Arthur, I will tell him your story, and ask him to make me a knight, and to take care of you. Then I will go and seek out Orilus, and avenge your wrongs.”

He then took leave of Sigune, and went on his way. Coming to a broad river he questioned the ferryman as to where he should find King Arthur’s court. The man answered that he must go to Nantes, a good bit on the other side of the river; so Percival gave him the gold bracelet he had taken from the lady’s arm, and asked him to set him across. This the man did, and afterwards put him in the right road.

Arrived at Nantes, the first person he met was a red-haired knight clad in red armour, and riding a sorrel steed. Percival spoke to him courteously, and asked for the loan of his horse and armour, that he might go in seemly fashion to the king and ask for knighthood at his hands. But the stranger laughed, and said, “A rustic youth in a fool’s cap were the very thing to carry my message of defiance.”

“Here,” he continued, “take this cup to the king as a token, tell him that I challenge him and all his Round Table to deadly combat. You see that I cannot lend you my horse and armour, as I need them myself, but after the battle you will be able to pick and choose amongst the armour and horses of the slain.”

Indignant at the knight’s refusal, Percival rode on in silence. As he went down the principal street of the royal borough, the people all laughed at his appearance, the very boys pointed and hooted at him, and in good truth he looked ridiculous enough. The ribbons of his striped cap fluttered in the breeze, his many-coloured jacket and leather hose were very shabby, and his sorry nag limped with fatigue. At length a squire named Iwanet took his part, chased away the boys, and chid them for their discourtesy to a stranger. The young hero thanked the man, and begged him to take him to King Arthur to whom he was the bearer of a message. Iwanet at once complied with Percival’s request, and took him to the palace. On entering the open hall where the king was seated with his knights at the celebrated Round Table, the young man turned to his companion in amazement, saying:

“Are there so many Arthurs? My mother only told me of one.”

The squire smiled as he replied that there was indeed only one Arthur, and that he was the knight whose beard was beginning to turn grey, and who wore the crown on his head.

Percival now walked up the hall, and bowing to the king repeated the message of the red knight, adding that he wished the king would use his power and give him the red knight’s horse and armour, for he liked them well.

“The boy would have the bear-skin before the hunter has slain the bear,” said Arthur laughing; “but,” he added, “I will give you the things you ask for, if you can get possession of them.”

“Thank you, sire,” answered Percival, “I shall need your gift if I am to become a knight;” so saying, he bowed, and took his leave.

When he returned to the red knight, he told him all that had occurred, and asked him for the horse and armour the king had given him. The knight upon this rapped him so shrewdly on the head with the butt end of his lance, that he fell from his nag. He soon recovered, however, and attacked the knight so suddenly with his spear that he killed him on the spot. He then tried to take off his armour, but in vain. Fortunately Iwanet happened to pass that way, and seeing the lad’s difficulty offered to help him. Percival was soon arrayed in the full suit of armour, which he insisted on wearing above his other clothes as they had been made by his mother. This done, he thanked the squire for his timely assistance, mounted the red knight’s charger, and rode away, he knew not whither.

After he had ridden a long way he came to the castle of Gurnemann, an elderly man and a brave warrior. The old chief asked the youth to come in and spend the night under his roof, and Percival accepted the invitation with pleasure. He was so taken with his host’s kindly manner, that before the evening was over he felt drawn to tell him of his mother and all his adventures since he had left her. Gurnemann persuaded the lad to remain with him for some time, and began to teach him how to become a true knight and hero.

“Do not always have your mother’s name upon your lips,” he would say, “for it sounds childish. Preserve her teaching faithfully in your heart, and you will please her more than by talking of her continually. A knight should be modest, love one maiden only, not play at love with many women. He should help the oppressed, and show kindness to all. When he has conquered an enemy he should show mercy; and when he is conquered he should not beg for life. To face death boldly is a hero’s glory, and such death is better than a dishonoured life.”

With these and other words of wisdom the old man strove to fit the youth for knighthood. At the same time he gave him fitting clothes, telling him it was no disrespect to his mother to cease to wear the curious garments with which she had provided him. Time passed on, and Percival proved such an apt pupil that Gurnemann grew as proud of him as if he had been his own son.

At last he told the youth that the time had come for him to go out into the world and draw his sword in defence of innocence and right, for Queen Konduiramur was hard pressed in her capital, Belripar, by the wild chief Klamide and his seneschal Kingram. Percival was nothing loth, and at once prepared to go and help the queen.

Arrived at Belripar, which stood on the sea at the mouth of a great river, he rowed himself across the stream, his good horse swimming at his side. Though artillery frowned from the castle walls, he gained admittance on pronouncing the password given him by Gurnemann, and was conducted into the queen’s presence. She received him kindly, and he at once offered her his services. She entreated him to have nothing to do with so unlucky a cause as hers; but he was not to be persuaded to abandon her. It almost seemed as though he had brought good fortune in his train, for a few days later some ships laden with provisions managed to run the blockade, and when Percival made a sally on the enemy soon after, he unhorsed and took prisoner the seneschal Kingram, whom he set free on condition that he at once set out to tell King Arthur of his defeat at the hands of the red knight. The same fate befel Klamide himself not long afterwards.

Peace was now restored. The people were all devoted to the young hero who had freed them from Klamide, and were rejoiced to hear that he was about to marry the queen.

The wedding took place with great pomp and ceremony. In the midst of all his happiness Percival had only one sorrow, and that was that his mother was not there to share his joy. He told Konduiramur what he felt, and she agreed with him that he ought to go and fetch his mother to Belripar. So Percival mounted his good horse and rode away.

Quest of the Grail.

He knew in which direction to go to his mother, but not the roads that led to her house; so it was not surprising that he lost his way several times. One day he came to a great lake which he had never seen before. He saw a man seated in a boat, fishing. The man was richly dressed, but pale and sad. Percival asked if he could get food and shelter anywhere about for himself and his tired horse, and was told that if he went straight on, and did not lose his way, he would come to a castle, where he would be kindly received. He started in the direction indicated by the fisherman, and reached the castle at nightfall, after a long and toilsome search. There he met with so much kindness and consideration, garments even being provided for him “by Queen Repanse’s orders,” that he was filled with amazement. When freshly attired he was taken into the hall, which was brilliantly lighted. Four hundred knights were seated on softly-cushioned seats at small tables, each of which was laid for four. They all sat grave and silent, as though in expectation. When Percival entered, they rose and bowed, and a ray of joy passed over each woeful countenance.

The master of the house, who much resembled the fisherman Percival had seen on the lake, sat in an arm-chair near the fire, wrapped in sables, and was apparently suffering from some wasting disease.

The deep silence that reigned in the hall was at length broken by the host, who invited Percival, in a low, weak voice, to sit down beside him, telling him that he had been long expected, and, at the same time, giving him a sword of exquisite workmanship. The young knight was filled with astonishment. A servant now entered carrying the head of a lance stained with blood, with which he walked round the room in silence. Percival would much have liked to ask the meaning of this strange ceremony, and also how his arrival had come to be expected, but he feared lest he should be deemed unwarrantably curious. While thus thinking, the door opened again, and a number of beautiful blue-eyed maidens came in, two and two, with a velvet cushion embroidered with pearls, an ebony stand, and various other articles. Last of all came Queen Repanse bearing a costly vessel, whose radiance was more than the human eye could steadfastly gaze upon.

“The holy Grail,” Percival heard whispered by one voice after another. He longed to question some one; but felt too much awed by the strangeness and solemnity of all he saw.

The maidens withdrew, and the squires and pages of the knights came forward. Then from the shining vessel streamed an endless supply of the costliest dishes and wines, which they set before their masters. The lord of the castle, however, only ate of one dish, and but a small quantity of that. Percival glanced round the great hall. What could this strange stillness and sadness mean?

When the meal was at an end, the lord of the castle dragged himself to his feet, leaning on two servants. He looked eagerly at his guest, and then retired with a deep sigh. Servants now came to conduct Percival to his sleeping apartment. Before leaving the hall they opened the door of a room in which a venerable old man slept on a low couch. His still handsome face was framed in a coronal of white curls. His sleep was uneasy, and his lips quivered as though he were trying to speak. The servants closed the door again, and led Percival to his chamber.

When he entered the room he looked about him, and at once became aware of a picture embroidered on the silken tapestry, that arrested his attention. It was the picture of a battle, in which the most prominent figure, a knight strangely like the lord of the castle in appearance, was sinking to the ground, wounded by a spear of the same kind as the broken weapon that had been carried round the hall. Much as he desired to know the meaning of this, he determined to ask no questions till the following morning, though the servants told him that his coming had been long expected, and deliverance was looked for at his hands; and they went away, sighing deeply.

His sleep was disturbed by bad dreams, and he awoke next morning unrefreshed. He found his own clothes and armour beside his bed; but no one came to help him. He got up and dressed. All the doors in the castle were locked except those that led out to the ramparts, where his horse stood saddled and bridled at the drawbridge. No sooner had he crossed the bridge than it was drawn up behind him, and a voice called out from the battlements:

“Accursed of God, thou that wast chosen to do a great work, and hast not done it. Go, and return no more. Walk thy evil way till it leads thee down to hell.”

The hero turned, and looked back at the castle: a face with a fiendish grin glared at him for a moment over the battlements, and then disappeared. Percival put spurs to his horse, and rode away. He journeyed all day long through bleak, inhospitable country, and at nightfall reached a solitary cell. He dismounted, hobbled his horse, and entered the quiet room. A woman crouched on the floor praying. She wore a penitent’s grey robe, and her long hair lay neglected about her face and neck. Startled by his entrance, she rose slowly to her feet and looked at him.

“What, you?” she said, “Herzeleide’s wretched son! What do you want of me? Tchionatulander’s body is embalmed, and I have laid it in this chest. Here I must kneel and pray, and do penance till the All-Merciful sets me free.”

“Good heavens!” said the hero to himself, “it is Sigune; but how changed!”

The unhappy woman stared at him for some time in silence, then she went on, “Wretched man, do you not know that you are lost for ever. You were permitted to look upon the holy Grail, yet, of your own will you put aside the opportunity of freeing the poor sufferer from his pain. Do not longer pollute this cell with your unhallowed presence. Go, flee, till the curse overtake you.”

She stood before him like an angry prophetess. A feeling of dread, such as he had never known before, took possession of him, and he staggered out of her presence and into the night. He walked on and on, leading his horse, till at length he sank on the ground, and found relief from his troubles in a sound and refreshing sleep.

The sun was high in the heavens when he awoke. His faithful horse was grazing near him, so he mounted and rode on without knowing or caring where he went. As evening came on, a farmer met him, and offered him a night’s lodging, which he thankfully accepted. Next day, when he resumed his journey, he was able to think more calmly of all that had occurred; and came to the conclusion that he ought to return to the castle, and try to expiate the sin he had committed unconsciously. But he could not find the way to it. He asked every one he met to show him the way to the castle where the holy Grail was to be seen: but every one took him for a fool or a madman. As he rode on sadly, he met a knight leading a woman in chains. He at once recognised the beautiful lady from whom he had stolen the kiss when she was asleep. She looked at him in silent entreaty, so he felt himself bound to help her. He desired the knight to let the poor woman go, but was answered with a scornful laugh. Upon this the fight began, and raged hotly for some time. At last Percival was victorious. As he was about to slay his fallen and unconscious foe, he remembered Sir Gurnemann’s teaching, and refrained. Leaving the man lying on the ground, he turned to the lady, and freed her from her chains. By this time the fallen knight had regained his senses, and Percival let him go after making him swear to treat the lady for the future with all courtesy, and to go to King Arthur’s court and say that he had been defeated by the red knight. Before they parted, Percival learned that his opponent was Sir Orilus, and that the lady was his wife, whom, ever since that scene in the tent, he had persecuted out of groundless jealousy. Percival solemnly swore that the meeting had been innocent and accidental, and thus he brought about a sincere reconciliation.

The hero continued his search for the holy Grail, but all in vain. He followed out the quest in summer’s heat and winter’s storm, yet never seemed to get nearer the goal. One day he met Sir Gawain, King Arthur’s nephew, who asked him to come back to court with him, and see the king, and be made a knight of the Round Table. Percival at once consented, hoping, as he did so, to learn something from Arthur about the holy Grail.

Sir Gawain sent a squire on to announce the red knight’s arrival to his uncle, so the king came out to meet them, accompanied by his heroes and many of the townsfolks, for all were anxious to see the warrior of whose powers so much had been heard and of whom so little was known. On the following day, in the open field, Percival received from Arthur’s hand the sign of knighthood, and was enrolled a member of the Round Table.

Whilst the heralds were yet proclaiming the new knight’s name and deeds, a woman rode into the royal presence on a miserable nag. She threw back her veil on approaching the king, and displayed a hideous countenance, brown, yellow, and grey, like a withered leaf, and her eyes glowed like burning coals out of their deep sockets.

“It is the witch Kundrie, the messenger of the Sangreal,” cried many voices.

“It is even she,” said the woman, “and she comes to cry woe upon King Arthur and his Round Table if they suffer the man I shall name to remain in their midst. Percival is unworthy of the honour you have shown him. He was chosen to the highest dignity, and has wickedly neglected to end the pains of the greatest sufferer upon earth. Woe unto him! Woe unto Arthur and his heroes, if the unhallowed presence of the dishonoured knight be not at once removed.”

Every eye was fixed now on the prophetess, and now upon Sir Percival, who, horror-stricken at what had occurred, slipped quietly out of the assemblage, and, mounting his horse, rode away. Amongst all the heroes of the Round Table there was only one who took his part, and that was Gawain. He said it was a shame to let the flower of chivalry thus depart on the word of a hawk-nosed witch. Upon this Kundrie got into a great rage, and said:

“Thou wretch, the curse hath fallen upon thee too. Go, if thou dare, and find Klinschor’s magic castle, where thy grandmother, thy mother, and sister, and other noble ladies lie under the spell of enchantment; free them if thou canst!”

Gawain turned, and went away without a word. He mounted his horse, and set out in pursuit of Percival.

Klinschor’s Enchanted Castle.

Wherever the hero went, he found people who told him they had met the red knight, and again he came up with armed men who had fought with him and whom he had conquered. So the days and weeks passed on, and he still continued to follow Percival until he lost all trace of him in the far East. At last he heard of him again, and seeking him, heard more of his great deeds, but himself he could not find.

Sir Gawain thought the matter over carefully, and made up his mind that the best way to find Percival, would be to seek out the holy Grail, for which he also sought.

As he rode along, he met a knight whom Percival had wounded. Gawain offered him help; but Kingrimursel, as the man was called, felt too sore about his defeat to be able to accept any kindness, and at once challenged Gawain to fight him when his wounds were healed. Before the hero had gone much farther he met a woman whose beauty made him forget both the challenge and the holy Grail, and even the red knight. And indeed she was a lady of most marvellous beauty; her dark hair fell down her neck in curls, and her eyes gleamed like stars. Gawain approached her, and entered into conversation with her. Finding her as wise and witty as she was fair, he told her that he loved her; but she only laughed at him. He persisted, so she said that if he would find favour in her sight, he must go into the garden hard by, and fetch out her white palfrey.

He went to the garden gate, and seeing an elderly man standing within, he asked him where he should find the lady’s palfrey. The man shook his head sadly as he answered:

“Ah my friend, take care. That lady is the Duchess Orgueilleuse, a witch who has caused the death of many a noble knight, and for whose sake the great King Amfortas faced the danger in which he was wounded by the poisoned spear. Throw off her bonds while yet you can. Look, there is your horse. Mount, and ride away.”

The warning was vain: a mere waste of words. It was as though the haughty duchess had cast a spell over Sir Gawain. He was powerless in her hands. He brought her the palfrey, and not noticing the supercilious way in which she refused all help from him in mounting, followed her with passive obedience through many lands. Many a battle had he to fight for her sweet sake, and every now and then, he could not help seeing that it was she who brought on the fight, when otherwise there would have been none. Yet he was always victorious, and never swerved from his fealty to the lady of his love, who was now pleased to allow him to ride beside her.

At length they reached a hill-top from which they had an extensive view over a wide valley. Opposite, there was a castle perched on the top of a high rock, and overshadowed by a gigantic pine-tree. Orgueilleuse pointed to it, and said that it belonged to Gramoflans, her mortal enemy, and the man who had slain her lover. “Now,” she continued, “if you will bring me a spray of the magic tree yonder, and conquer Gramoflans, who will at once challenge you to single-combat, I will—be your—your faithful wife.”

The knight would have fought the prince of darkness himself for such a prize, so he set spurs to his horse without a moment’s hesitation, and rode away in the direction of the castle. He crossed the valley, swam over a deep moat, and reached the tree. He pulled a small branch, and tried to weave it into a wreath, but as he did so, he heard a voice call in angry tones:

“What are you doing there, rash youth? How dare you touch my magic tree! I know you well, you are Sir Gawain, a knight of the Round Table. Your father slew my father long ago, and I intend to have vengeance. Meet me, therefore, in eight days time before Klinschor’s magic castle. There shall twelve hundred of my warriors see me avenge my father’s death. You may bring as many men, or more, if you like.” So saying, the speaker turned his back upon the hero and re-entered his castle.

Gawain brought the wreath to his lady, who received it calmly. She did not waste her words in thanks, but pursued her way in silence; he accompanying her wherever she chose to go. After a time, they came in sight of two strong castles, one of which, the duchess said, was Logreis, her father’s ancestral residence, and the other was Klinschor’s magic castle, in which the great magician, Klinschor, kept the noble dames and damsels he had stolen, in close confinement and laden with heavy chains. She herself, she added, had only bought her freedom by giving the monster all the gold she had inherited from her father. Scarcely had she uttered these words, when a grim warrior appeared, and called to Gawain to defend himself. Orgueilleuse withdrew, reminding Gawain of her promise. A few minutes later, having overthrown his adversary, the knight got into the ferry-boat, that had just returned from setting the duchess on the other side of the water, and went across. That night he lodged with the ferryman, who told him all the gossip of the place, and particularly of the great doings of a valiant knight clad in red armour.

GAWAIN BREAKS THE SPELL IN KLINSCHOR’S CASTLE.

As darkness came on, Gawain went to the window, and looked out. He saw the lighted windows of the magician’s castle, at each of which a sad female face appeared. The women were a curious medley. Their ages seemed to range from early childhood to grey old age. Sir Gawain turned wrathfully from the sight, saying that he would slay the caitiff knight, and set the wretched ladies free; but the ferryman bade him beware what he did, for Klinschor was not only very strong, but was learned in the black art. Sir Gawain, however, was not to be dissuaded from the emprise.

He mounted his horse early next morning, and set out for the magic castle, the towers of which rose dark and mysterious-looking before him. He was admitted into the court by a gigantic porter, who opened the door for him without making any difficulty. The building seemed totally deserted. Not a household utensil was to be seen anywhere, nor any woman. He wandered from room to room lost in astonishment. At last he came to a room in which a comfortable couch was spread, and as he felt tired, he thought he would lie down and rest for a little; but, to his intense surprise, the bed retreated as he advanced, and he could not get in. Rendered impatient by this he boldly leapt upon the bed, and next instant was assailed by a perfect storm of arrows, lances, javelins, and heavy stones. From these he guarded himself as well as he could. Had he not been dressed in full armour, he would speedily have been slain, and even as it was he received many a wound.

The terrible hail of weapons ceased as suddenly as it had begun. A stillness as of death set in. The silence was at length broken by the heavy tramp of a peasant, who entered the room bearing a great club in his hand, and followed by a lion. The man was of enormous size, and his voice was deep and gruff.

“Quiet, Leo,” he said, “I am going to break that fellow’s skull before I throw you his carcase. What!” he continued in amazement, “still alive, and in full armour! Nay then, go at him yourself, good Leo.” So saying, he hastened away as fast as his legs would carry him.

The lion sprang upon the hero, and tried to tear him with its claws; but almost instantly fell backwards with a howl of mingled rage and pain, for Gawain had cut off one of its fore-paws. The hero now jumped out of bed, and attacked the lion with such hearty good will that he finally killed it; but the exhaustion caused by the protracted struggle was so great that he sank fainting on its carcase.

When he came to himself again he found a number of women bending over him, and calling him their deliverer. Amongst them were his grandmother, his mother, and his sister Itonie. The spell was broken, and Klinschor had fled. As soon as Gawain had a little recovered from his fatigue, he sent messengers to tell Arthur what had happened, and to ask him to come and witness the combat that was to take place between him and Gramoflans.

Arthur came, and Sir Gawain felt that his cup of happiness was full when he presented the beautiful Lady Orgueilleuse to his uncle.

At length the wished-for day of combat dawned. A knight arrived dressed in black, and riding on a coal black steed. Gawain rode forward to meet him. Their swords flashed, and they fought as beseemed noble knights in such fair company. The king and the ladies drew nearer that they might the better watch the skill of the combatants. Gradually the black knight had the best of the fight. Gawain’s strength to parry the thrusts of his adversary grew less and less. Suddenly a maiden darted from amongst the spectators, and cried,—

“Noble knight, spare my brother Gawain, he is yet weak from the many wounds he received in the magic castle.”

“Gawain!” echoed the stranger, raising his visor, and displaying the well-known features of Sir Percival.

The meeting of the friends was right joyful, and while they talked, another knight came forward and asked for reconciliation and friendship with the other two. This was Gramoflans, who had long been secretly betrothed to the gentle Itonie. But Gawain knew too well what depended on their combat; he knew that the lady Orgueilleuse was only to be won by defeating this man, whom she hated. He laid his hand upon his sword and would have spoken, but the great king drew near and stopped him. He promised on his word of honour to soften the heart of the proud duchess, and bring her to his nephew. Then sending for the lady, he took her apart and talked with her, and his wisdom and nobleness so wrought upon her that her anger left her, and she forgave her foe.

A few days afterwards two marriages were solemnized at the castle, and Queen Guinevere did all that she could to ensure the general happiness. Sir Percival was at the same time openly received as Knight of the Round Table; but still he was not happy. He could not forget. He heard as distinctly as of yore the curse that the witch had pronounced against him; he always saw the face of the sufferer Amfortas, the Sangreal, and further in the background his lovely wife and weeping mother. He could not bear it, so he slipped quietly away without taking leave of the king or any one. The innocent joy of his friends but increased his grief.

He rode away, a feeling of almost despair possessing him. Should he never find the holy Grail, should he never be able to right the wrong he had done so unconsciously?

Percival, Trevrezent, and the Grail.

Summer and autumn were gone, and the ground was covered with snow, when one evening Percival saw the dwelling of a recluse at a little distance. He was half frozen with cold, and so very weary, that when he dismounted he could only drag himself with difficulty to the door. A tall and stately, but somewhat haggard man answered his knock, and told him to come in, while he attended to his horse.

The hermit gave him food, and spread a bed of moss for him, and while resting there, Percival began to look about him. He saw a sword with a richly carved hilt, inlaid with gold, hanging on the wall, and asked to whom it had belonged. The hermit sighed as he answered that it had belonged to him at the time when he cared for nothing but glory and love, and forgot the holy Grail, the care of which had been committed to him.

“For, stranger,” he continued, “you must know that I am Trevrezent, brother of the unhappy King Amfortas, and that, like him, I devoted my life to the pursuit of fleeting pleasures. When the poisoned lance struck Amfortas, and caused him the unspeakable pain that he still endures, I laid aside my sword and armour and retired to this solitary place that I might do penance for my own sins, and perhaps even redeem my brother. Idle hope! the sufferer still endures his agony, and he that was chosen by God to save him neglected to do it, and has earned thereby the curse of perdition instead of the glorious place that was prepared for him.”

“I am he who sinned so deeply, yet unconsciously,” cried Percival, “but where is the justice or love of a Being that punishes the sin of ignorance with such a curse?”

“So you are Percival, the son of my sister Herzeleide,” said Trevrezent. “You found the way to the Grail, but not to redemption, for you did not know the All-merciful, who only speaks in those who have received Him into their hearts. Hearken to me, and I will unfold the wondrous goodness and love He has shown to the children of men, that you may learn to endure and to trust.”

Trevrezent then proceeded to tell his nephew of God’s dealings with man from the beginning of time until the coming and death of Christ, and to show him what lessons might be learnt therefrom. He afterwards told him that his mother had died of sorrow not long after his departure, and that in dying she had blessed him. He went on to say that Percival must now seek the Sangreal with a pure heart and humble mind, trusting in God, who knew that he had repented, and whose mercy was without end.

The hero remained for some days with his uncle, who strengthened and encouraged him to perform the task that lay before him.

At last, taking leave of Trevrezent, he departed and journeyed for a great distance without seeing any trace of the holy mountain. One day he met a knight who insisted on fighting with him. But suddenly in the middle of the fray Percival’s sword broke, and he exclaimed that if he had had his father Gamuret’s weapon it would not have played him such a sorry trick. The stranger then questioned him about Gamuret, and after he had heard what Percival had to say, he added:

“Then you and I are brothers, for when Gamuret was in the East, he married the Moorish queen; after her death he returned home and wedded your mother. I was brought up by my mother’s relations, and am now king of the Moors. My name is Feirefiss.”

So saying he opened his visor and showed Percival a dark, handsome face.

The brothers embraced with great affection, and Percival said:

“The sword that Amfortas the sufferer gave me would not drink a brother’s blood; this is the first sign that God has heard my prayers. And—but was I blind?—surely I know this place! There is the lake, the rocks are here—yes, there is the road to the holy mountain. Come, brother, follow me up the steep path to the heights above, where Divine mercy awaits us.”

Both heroes set out on their toilsome road with a stout heart and a willing mind; but the way was so full of difficulties that the sun was about to set before they reached the castle. On their arrival they were received like expected guests, and their horses—which they had been obliged to lead most of the way—were taken to the stable. Percival and Feirefiss were conducted straight to the hall, which was brilliantly lighted with wax candles. King Amfortas and his knights were in their usual places. The squire then came in with the bleeding lance, and was followed as before by the maidens bearing the cushion, stand, etc., and lastly, by the fair virgin, Queen Repanse carrying the holy Grail.

“Merciful Father, and our sweet Lord and Saviour,” whispered Sir Percival, “teach me what I must do to bring redemption.”

And it seemed to him that an angel spoke in his ear the one word, “Ask!” His understanding was now enlightened. He knew what to do. Going up to Amfortas he said:

“What ails you, great king? and why are the halls that contain the holy Grail filled with mourning and woe?”

The candles went out, but the Sangreal spread a brighter radiance than before throughout the room, and on the side of the sacred vessel appeared in letters of flame, “Amfortas is cured; Percival shall be king.” At the same moment soft and heavenly music filled the air, and invisible angels sang “Glory to God on high, and on earth peace, goodwill to men.”

The hero stood silent, his heart overflowing with joy and thankfulness. An old man now approached him with a firm step and dignified mien. He bore a crown in his hands, and this he set on the head of the chosen king, saying:

“Hail, Percival, all hail! Long have we waited for your coming. I am your great-grandfather Titurel, and have been called to make over to you the insignia of the highest honour. Now I may depart in peace. The days of my earthly pilgrimage will soon be over, and I shall rest in the Lord.”

Amfortas, who was now well, and free from pain, rose from his seat, and greeting Percival with solemn joy, placed the royal mantle on his shoulders, calling on him to uphold the right, and to punish all injustice and wrong.

The assembled knights joined in proclaiming the new king, and in swearing to be true to him.

And the angelic choir sang in jubilant tones:

“Hail to thee Percival, king of the Grail!

Seemingly lost for ever,

Now thou art blest for ever.

Hail to thee Percival, king of the Grail!”

While Percival stood there, touched and softened by all that had happened, the door opened, and a veiled lady came in, followed by her train. As he looked at her inquiringly, she threw back her veil, and showed the face of Konduiramur, the wife he loved so well, and from whom he had so long been absent.

It was strange that the light shed by the holy Grail left one man, and one alone, in darkness. This was Feirefiss, the Moorish king, who seemed to be overshadowed by a dark cloud. He asked, whence came the bright rays that lighted the hall, but did not fall upon him.

“The sacred vessel,” replied old Titurel, “that received the Saviour’s blood, only enlightens those who believe. You still live in the darkness of unbelief, in the bonds of the Evil One. Bow your head before Christ the crucified, the Prince of Light and Truth, and your heart also shall be enlightened.”

The old man’s words had a strong effect upon Feirefiss, who desired, and immediately received, baptism at the hands of Titurel; and no sooner was the rite concluded than he too could see the Sangreal, and was embraced in the radiance that emanated from it.

After that, Titurel knelt down before the sacred vessel and prayed. Having done this, he rose from his knees, and, taking solemn leave of all, told them that Sigune was now at rest. Having thus spoken, he passed out of the hall, and was no more seen of them, or of any mortal man.

Feirefiss remained for some time at the castle on the holy mount. While there, he received instruction in the Christian faith, and when he went away, he took as his wife the fair Queen Repanse, to rule with him over his own land. They had a son named John, who became a great warrior, and who formed a brotherhood, like that of the Templars, of the holy Grail; a brotherhood, strong, mighty, enduring, and of great renown.

ELSE’S DREAM.

III.
LOHENGRIN.
(LOHERANGRIN.)

The Silver Bell.

Under the lead of Gawain and others, and lastly of Arthur himself, the knights of the Round Table sought in vain for that which lay so near, yet seemed so far, because their dim vision could not pierce the earthly mists that cloud Heaven from our view. Some said that angels had conveyed the Holy Mountain farther East, where it was guarded by Prester John; and that only when wild Saracens threatened Christendom, did the Templars appear with the silver dove on shield and helmet, and help to win the victory; then they vanished, and none knew whence they came or whither they went.

Meanwhile Percival and Konduiramur lived happily together, serving in the Temple of the Sangreal, and educating their children with the greatest care. Kardeiss, the eldest son, on reaching man’s estate, was made ruler over his mother’s kingdom of Belripar, and over his patrimony of Waleis and Anjou. The younger son, Lohengrin, remained at home with his parents, while the daughter, Aribadale, took the place of Queen Repanse, and bore the holy Grail from the altar to the hall and back again. It was long since any of the knights of the temple had been called by the sound of the silver bell to go out and fight against the unbelievers, for the Saracens had been completely conquered by the Christians. But one evening, when the knights were all assembled round the king in the royal hall, the silver bell was heard apparently at a great distance, but coming ever nearer and nearer. It sounded like a cry for help. At the same moment the announcement appeared on the sacred vessel in letters of flame, that Lohengrin was the hero chosen by God to defend the rights of the innocent, and that he should be borne whither he should go, in a boat drawn by a white swan with a crown upon its neck.

“Hail Lohengrin, chosen of the Lord!” cried the knights of the temple.

Percival rejoiced greatly, and embraced, and blessed his son, while Konduiramur, her heart filled with joy at Lohengrin’s high calling, and also with anxiety about his safety, went to fetch the armour inlaid with gold that Amfortas had once worn, and the sword that had broken during Percival’s fight with his brother Feirefiss, but which had since been re-forged and tempered in the sanctuary of the Sangreal.

A squire now entered the hall, and announced that a boat lay in the lake below the mountain, which a swan with a golden crown was towing by a chain of gold. This was the sign that the hour of the young hero’s departure was come. The king and queen, and all the knights accompanied him to the shore, where the boat awaited him. As he was about to embark, Percival gave him a golden horn, and said:

“Blow three times on this horn as a sign that you have arrived amongst the worldly-minded children of men, and again three times to show that you are coming home; for, if you are ever asked from whence you came, and of what family you are sprung, you must at once be up and away on your return to the holy mountain. This is the indestructible law of the brotherhood of the Sangreal.”

Lohengrin sprang into the boat, and the swan swam away with it, bearing it towards the sea. The air was full of the softest strains of music; but whether it was the swan that sang, or a choir of angels, Lohengrin could not tell. The music ceased when the boat reached the sea. Its place was taken by the howling of the storm, and the sound of many waters. When night came on, the young hero stretched himself in the bottom of the boat, and fell asleep, undisturbed by wind or waves.

Fair-Else, the Duchess.

One day the youthful Duchess of Brabant had gone out to hunt. She was of such surpassing beauty that she was always called Fair-Else. On this occasion she had somehow got separated from her companions, and to tell the truth, she was not at all sorry, for she wanted to have a little quiet time for thought; so she threw herself on the grass under a great linden tree, and began to ponder over her troubles. She had many lovers, and would gladly have got rid of them all, especially of the Count of Telramund, a mighty warrior and her former guardian, who persisted in maintaining that her father had promised her to him on his death-bed. The young duchess both hated and feared the count. She had refused point-blank to marry him in spite of his threats, and he now declared that he would make war upon her, and would also bring a heavy charge against her before the newly-elected German King, Heinrich of Saxony. Else thought over all these things with a heavy heart, till she fell asleep, lulled by the humming of the bees and the soft murmur of the wind in the branches overhead. And in her sleep she dreamt. It was a strange dream. She thought that a youthful hero came to her out of the wood, and offering her a little silver bell, told her to ring it if ever she needed assistance, and he would come without delay. It seemed to her that she tried to take the bell but could not, and in the effort she awoke. While puzzling over the meaning of her dream, she became aware of a falcon hovering over her. It wheeled round her head several times, and finally perched on her shoulder. Tied round its neck was a silver bell exactly like the one she had seen in her dream. She gently detached the bell and the falcon flew away.

Soon after she returned home, a messenger arrived to summon her before King Heinrich’s judgment-seat at Cologne on the Rhine. She obeyed the summons with a heart at ease, for she felt herself in the keeping of a Higher Power, and trusted in the hope her dream held out to her.

King Heinrich was a man who both loved and exercised justice; but the empire sorely needed stout defenders,—hordes of wild Hungarians ravaged the south every year,—and Count Telramund was a mighty warrior whose assistance was of great value to him, so he hoped that his claims would be successfully proved.

LOHENGRIN’S ARRIVAL.

The trial began. Three witnesses were brought to prove that the duchess loved one of her vassals, and for a lady in her position to marry a vassal was strictly forbidden by the laws of the realm. Two of the witnesses, however, were declared false and perjured; and the evidence of one witness was not enough. Then the count stood up, and offered to show the truth of his allegation against the duchess by challenging to single combat any knight that the Lady Else might choose to defend her cause, and might God show the right.

The challenge could not be refused, but three days’ time were allowed her to find a champion. Else looked round the hall to see if any noble warrior would defend her, but all feared the terrible strength and skill of Count Telramund. No one moved; a silence as of death reigned in the court. Then the maiden remembered the silver bell. She drew it from her bosom and rang it, and the clear sound that it gave forth pealed through the silent hall, and passed on in louder and louder echoes till it was lost in the distant mountains. After that she turned to the king and said that her champion should appear at the appointed time.

The three days were over. The king was seated on his chair of state overlooking the lists, and thoughtfully gazed over the rushing waters of the Rhine that flowed close to where the combat was to take place. His princes and knights surrounded him, and before him stood Count Telramund in battle array, and the fair duchess, who looked lovelier than ever.

Three times the count called upon the champion who was to defend the Lady Else to appear. He received no answer. All eyes were fixed upon the king, anxious to hear whether he would now pronounce judgment on the accused. While he yet hesitated, distant music was heard coming over the Rhine. The sounds were passing sweet, such as none had ever heard before. A few moments later a boat was seen approaching the shore, drawn by a white swan with a golden crown upon its neck, and in the boat a knight clad in rich armour was lying asleep. As the prow touched the land, he awoke, and sounded a golden horn three times. The notes echoed across the river, and were lost in the distance. This was the sign that he accepted the position of champion of innocence. He understood what was required of him, and disembarking, entered the lists where his adversary was awaiting him.

Before the fight began, the herald came forward, and demanded the stranger’s name and condition.

“My name is Lohengrin,” answered the knight, “and I am of royal birth; more than that you need not know.”

“It is sufficient,” replied the king; “your patent of nobility is written on your forehead.”

The trumpets sounded to battle, and the combat began. Telramund’s blows fell thick and fast, and the stranger knight at first contented himself with standing on the defensive; but suddenly changing his tactics, he attacked in his turn, and with one blow he cleft the count’s helmet and head.

“God has decided,” said the king, “and His judgments are just. As for you, noble knight, will you accompany us on our expedition against the wild invaders, and command the contingent that the fair duchess will send us from Brabant?”

Lohengrin joyfully accepted the proposal, and at the same moment the Lady Else came up and thanked him for the great service he had done her. She had recognised him from the first moment of his appearance as the hero of her dream, and her heart was full of wonder and gratitude.

On the journey to Brabant, Lohengrin and Else saw a great deal of each other, and the more they saw, the more they liked. In the castle at Antwerp they were publicly betrothed, and a few weeks later, married.

When the bridal pair left the cathedral after the wedding, Lohengrin told his wife that she must never question him as to the place from whence he came, or as to his parentage, for if she did, he must leave her that very hour, and leave her for ever.

They were startled out of their honeymoon by the king’s call to arms. Numerous robber hordes from Hungary had invaded the land, so King Heinrich had determined to collect his armies at Cologne, and march against the foe. The duchess, like most of the other ladies, went with her husband to the royal city. There were many great warriors amongst the princes of the empire, and the ladies used to talk of their glorious deeds and those of their ancestors; but when Else’s husband was mentioned, a strange silence would fall upon the company, for rumours ran that Lohengrin was the son of a heathen magician, and that he had gained the victory over Count Telramund by his knowledge of the black art.

Parting.

When Else heard the scandalous tale, she was deeply hurt, for she knew her husband’s noble nature. She longed for the power of justifying him, and of making the scandal-mongers eat their words, and reverence her hero. So full did she become of these thoughts that she forgot her husband’s warning, and, going to him one day, told him of her trouble, and asked him whose son he was, and whence he came.

“Dear wife,” he said, in quiet sorrow, “I will now tell you, and the king and all the princes, what was hidden and ought to have remained hidden for ever; but remember, the hour of our parting approaches.”

The hero led his trembling wife before the king and his nobles, who were assembled on the banks of the Rhine. He told them of his great father, Percival, and of his own coming to Cologne in obedience to the Divine order conveyed to him by the holy Grail.

“I would fain have fought the barbarians with you, noble king,” he continued, “but destiny calls me hence. Be of good cheer—you will conquer the robbers, rule over the heathen, and win imperishable glory.”

The hero spoke with the enthusiasm of an inspired seer, as he added a prophecy of the wonders time should unfold regarding the future of the empire. When he ceased, all present heard the same strange wild melody that had attended his coming, but this time sad and slow as a dirge. It came nigher, and then they spied also the crowned swan and the boat.

“Farewell, beloved,” said Lohengrin, clasping his weeping wife in his arms. “I had grown to love you, and life in this world of yours, passing well; but now a higher will than mine tells me to go.”

He tore himself away with tears in his eyes, and entering the boat, which the swan had brought close to the bank, was borne away from their sight.

She did not long survive the parting from her husband, and when she died, she died in the firm conviction that she was about to join her husband and see the holy Grail.

Whether she was right or wrong, none of those about her could ever agree.

TRISTRAM TEACHES ISOLDE TO PLAY THE GUITAR.