One beautiful June day, Sir Launfal was in the happy mood which often comes to people after the passing of a cold, bleak winter; a day when it seems easy for the grass to be green, the sky to be blue, and the heart to be brave.
On this lovely day Sir Launfal remembered his vow and called his squire, and said, “Bring me my best armor and my golden spurs and get my horse ready, for to-morrow I shall set out over land and sea in quest of the Holy Grail.”
When the squire brought his shining armor, the knight put it on, and said to himself, “I will never sleep in a bed nor lay my head on a soft pillow till I have performed my vow.”
With that he lay down in the tall grasses by the brook, his golden spurs by his side, to think and plan what he would do. Slowly his eyelids closed; slowly sleep came upon him and he dreamed, and this was his dream.
It is summer. The crows flap their wings and fly by twos and threes overhead in the deep blue sky. The cattle stand in the shallow brook, and the water runs along with a sweet gurgling music. The little birds sing in the branches of the trees as if trying to burst their throats telling of the joy of living. Even the leaves seem to sing on the trees, the earth is so beautiful and gay. But the castle stands encircled by its high walls and deep ditch full of water, proud, haughty and forbidding, untouched by the loveliness round about it.
The drawbridge drops over the water with a surly clang, and through the dark arch across the bridge springs a charger, bearing Sir Launfal, dressed in his gilded armor which gleams brightly in the sun. He is setting forth wherever adventure may lead him in quest of the Holy Grail.
Just as he passes out, he is aware of a beggar who sits crouching by the dark gate. The beggar is a leper; he holds out his hands and begs an alms. The sight of so much misery fills the young knight with loathing, but he scornfully tosses him a piece of gold and rides on.
Strange to say, the beggar leaves the gold on the ground and says, “Better turn away empty from the rich man’s door, and take the poor man’s crust and his blessing, than such a worthless gift as that.”
Now the scene changes; it is winter. There are no leaves on the bushes and trees. The bare boughs rattle shudderingly as the winds sweep through them. The brook is frozen over and the cattle are huddled in their stalls. A single crow sits high up in a tree-top in the wintry sunlight, and the cold snow covers the ground.
At the castle gate stands a bent old man, worn out and frail. The wind rustles through his wiry gray hair, and blows through his ragged clothing. He peers eagerly through the window slits at the joyous scene within, for it is Christmas time, and then turns away.