They had not journeyed far when they were aware of a knight, in complete armour, riding towards them as fast as his horse could gallop. He seemed to be flying from an enemy or from some dreadful thing, for, ever and anon, he cast a look behind him as though an enemy were close at his heels. When he came near they saw that his head was uncovered, and that his hair bristled with fear, while his face was as pale as death, and that round his neck was a rope of hemp, which, indeed, ill agreed with his shining armour. But he made no account, so overcome with fear was he, either of rope or of arms. The Red-Cross Knight rode as fast as he could so as to meet him as he fled, and said to him: “Tell me, Sir Knight, what has befallen you? From whom do you flee? Never have I seen knight in such evil plight.”
Not a word did the stranger speak, but stood staring widely out of stony eyes. But after a while he gathered strength to speak, but full low, and with faltering words: “For the love of God,” he said, “gentle Knight, hinder me not: he comes; see! he comes after me, as fast as he can ride.” But the Red-Cross Knight held him fast, and using now comfort and now reproach, at last put some little heart into him, so that he could tell his tale, and the tale was this—
“I chanced of late to be in company with a gentle knight, Sir Terwin by name. He was a man of good repute for courage and skill in arms, but he fared ill in one matter, in that he loved a fair lady who had but little love for him, but rather took pleasure in seeing him languish and lament. On a certain day as we were coming away from the lady’s dwelling—for he had been paying her court, and had been most disdainfully treated—we met a stranger who greeted us courteously, and, as we fared on together, told us many wonderful tales of great adventures. When he had in this way won our regard, he inquired with a show of friendship of our condition, and when he had heard the same, and knew that we suffered not a little distress in this matter of love, for I, too, was not less troubled in this respect than was my friend, he began to talk to us in the most gloomy fashion, taking from us all hope of relief, and in the end counselling us to end our troubles with death. And that we might do this the more easily, he gave to me this rope and to Sir Terwin a rusty knife. With this said knife Sir Terwin, unhappy man that he was, forthwith slew himself; but I, whether I was more faint of heart or more fortunate I know not, fled away with all speed.”
“I would see this fellow,” said the Red-Cross Knight, “and deal with him according to his deserts.”
“Nay,” said the other, whose name was Trevisan, “I counsel you not to go within hearing of his speech, so powerful is he to persuade.” And when the Red-Cross Knight was urgent to go, Sir Trevisan answered: “To do your pleasure, friend, I will show the place, but I myself would sooner die than enter.”
So they two rode together, and the Lady Una with them, till they came to the place. It was a gloomy cave in the side of a rock, on the top of which there sat an owl making a doleful screech. By the side of the cave were stocks of trees without leaf or fruit, but with the carcases of men hanging upon them, and on the ground beneath were other bodies, which had fallen down by lapse of years. Sir Trevisan would have fled when he saw the place, but the other would not suffer it. They entered the cave and saw the man sitting on the ground within. His grisly hair fell in long locks about his neck, and his eyes were deadly dull and his cheeks sunken, as if it were with hunger and grief. His garments were dirty and patched, being fastened together with thorns. And on the ground beside him there lay the corpse of a man, newly slain, whose blood had not yet ceased to flow from the wound. Then said the Red-Cross Knight, “What say you, wicked man, why you should not be straightway judged for the evil deed which you have done?” “What words are these, stranger?” said the man, “and what judgment is this? Why should he live who desires to die? Is it against justice that a man should have his due? Or, again, to speak of charity rather than justice, is it not well to help him over that comes to a great flood, or to free the feet that stick fast in the mire? He that lies there enjoys the rest which you desire and cannot have. Somewhat painful the passage, it cannot be denied, yet how great and how sweet the rest! Is it not well to endure short pain for so long a happiness? Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas, ease after war, death after life, what better can you ask?”
“Nay,” answered the Knight, “the time of a man’s life is ordered. No one may shorten it at his will; no, nor any soldier quit the post at which he has been set.”
“Say you so?” replied the other. “If all things have their appointed end, who shall deny that the end which you shall yourself set is of the things appointed by Fate? Remember also this: the longer the life the more the sin, and the more the sin the greater the punishment. Once you have missed the right way—and who has not missed it?—the further you stray. And have you not strayed, Sir Knight? Bethink you what you have endured, and what you have done amiss. What of the lady whom you swore to champion and so shamefully deserted? What of the false Duessa to whom you so basely pledged yourself? Does not the law say, ‘He that sins shall die’? Die, therefore, as becomes a brave man, without delay, and of your own accord.”
The Knight was greatly troubled by these words, for indeed there were many things of which his conscience accused him, so that he trembled and grew faint, which, when the Fiend perceived, he showed him a picture in which was set forth the sufferings of lost souls; and, after this, perceiving him to be yet more confounded, he brought to him a sword, and poison, and a rope, bidding him choose the death by which he would rather die. And when the Knight took none of these, he put into his hand a sharp knife. Once and again did the Knight lift it up as if to strike; but when the Lady Una saw it, she snatched the knife out of his hand, crying, “Fie, fie on thee, faint hearted! Is this the battle which you promised to fight against the dragon of the fiery mouth? Come away; let not these idle words dismay your heart. You are chosen to a great work; why should you despair? Surely Mercy rejoices against Judgment, and the greater the need, the greater the grace. Come, let us leave this accursed place.” Then the Knight rose up and departed. And when the Fiend saw him depart, he took a halter and put it round his neck, and was fain to hang himself. But this he could not do; many times had he essayed the same, but had ever failed.
As they journeyed on the Lady Una perceived that her Knight, for all that he was healed of his sickness, was feeble and faint, and unfit for combat, if such should come in his way. Now she knew of an ancient house of rest which was in those parts where he might have refreshment and recover his strength. The hostess’ name was Cælia, which, being interpreted, is Heavenly, and she had three daughters—Fidelia and Speranza and Charissa, the last a matron with fair children, the others maidens promised in marriage. There the Knight tarried many days. Much discipline did he endure for the removing of his faults and weaknesses, and much comfort also was ministered to him, and many things was he taught. And when his heart had been thus strengthened and purified, then did the Lady Cælia commend him to the care of a most venerable sire who was chief among her ministers. The same showed him many fair and noble sights, and last of all, on a mountain side, a way that was both steep and long, and at the end of the way a fair city, whose walls were builded high of pearls and all manner of precious stones. And as the Knight gazed thereat, he saw angels ascending thereto and descending therefrom. Then said he to his guide: “Tell me, sir, what city do I see yonder?” “That,” answered he, “is the New Jerusalem which God has built as a dwelling-place for his children.” “Verily,” said the Knight, “I thought that Cleopolis, the abode of the great Gloriana, was the fairest of all cities. But this does far excel it.” “Yea,” answered the holy man, “that is true beyond all doubt; and yet this same Cleopolis is worthy to be the abode of all true knights, and the service of Queen Gloriana a most honourable thing. And you, fair sir, have chosen a good part, rendering thus obedience to her command, and succouring on her behalf this distressed lady. And I give you this counsel: When you have won your great victory, and have hung your shield high among the shields of the most famous knights of the world, then turn your thoughts to better things; wash your hands clean from the stain of blood, for blood, though it be shed in a righteous cause, must make a stain. So shall you tread the steep and narrow path which leads to this fair city, the New Jerusalem. There is a mansion prepared for you. Thus you shall be numbered among the saints, and shall be the friend and patron of the land which gave you birth, having for your style and title Saint George of England.” Then said the Knight, “Dare I hope, being such as I am, to attain to such a grace?” “Yea,” said the Sage, “others of the like degree have so attained.” “But must I leave behind all the delights of war and love?” “Be content,” answered the Sage; “in that joy are all joys fulfilled.” “But,” said the Knight, “if this world is so vain a thing, why should I turn to it again? May I not abide here in peace till I can set forth on that last voyage?” “Nay,” said the Sage, “that may not be. Thou must maintain this lady’s cause, and do the work that has been committed to you. But now learn the secret of your birth. You are of the ancient race of British kings; but a fairy stole you from your cradle, and laid you in a furrow. There a certain ploughman found you, and, designing to bring you up to his own craft, called you George, which is by interpretation, ‘worker of the earth.’”