The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Faery Queen and Her Knights, by Alfred John Church

THE FAERY QUEEN
AND HER KNIGHTS

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO
ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited
LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd.
TORONTO

The Slaying of the Dragon.

THE FAERY QUEEN
AND HER KNIGHTS

STORIES
RETOLD FROM
EDMUND SPENSER

BY THE
Rev. ALFRED J. CHURCH, M.A.
Author of “Stories from Homer”

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR

NEW YORK
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1909
All rights reserved

Copyright, 1909,
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1909.

Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing Co.—Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.

CONTENTS

CHAP. PAGE I. [The Red-Cross Knight] 1 II. [Archimage and Duessa] 7 III. [The Fortunes of Una] 16 IV. [Of what befell at the House of Pride] 24 V. [How the Red-Cross Knight leaves the Castle of Pride] 29 VI. [The Lady Una and the Satyrs] 35 VII. [Of the Giant Orgoglio] 42 VIII. [Of the Deeds of Prince Arthur] 49 IX. [Of the House of Holiness] 55 X. [Of the Slaying of the Dragon] 64 XI. [Of Sir Guyon and the Lady Medina] 71 XII. [How Sir Guyon came into Great Peril] 77 XIII. [Of Two Pagan Knights] 89 XIV. [Of Queen Acrasia] 96 XV. [Britomart] 102 XVI. [Of Merlin’s Magic Mirror] 109 XVII. [How Britomart took to Arms] 117 XVIII. [Sir Scudamore and Amoret] 127 XIX. [Of Sir Paridell and Others] 135 XX. [The Story of Canacé and the Three Brothers] 142 XXI. [The Story of Florimell] 153 XXII. [Of the False Florimell] 160 XXIII. [Sir Satyrane’s Tournament] 168 XXIV. [Of Florimell’s Girdle] 176 XXV. [Of Britomart and Artegall] 180 XXVI. [Of the Fortunes of Amoret] 190 XXVII. [Of Sir Artegall and the Knight Sanglier] 197 XXVIII. [Of Other Adventures of Sir Artegall] 202 XXIX. [Sir Artegall does Justice] 214 XXX. [Radigund] 221 XXXI. [How Sir Artegall was Delivered] 233 XXXII. [Of the Knave Malengin] 247 XXXIII. [Of the Lady Belgé] 252 XXXIV. [Of Sir Artegall and Grantorto] 263 XXXV. [Of Sir Calidore and the Lady Briana] 270 XXXVI. [Of the Valour of Tristram] 278 XXXVII. [Sir Calepine and the Lady Serena] 286 XXXVIII. [Of Sir Calidore and Pastorella] 294 XXXIX. [The End of Sir Calidore’s Quest] 301

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

[The Slaying of the Dragon] Frontispiece FACING PAGE [The Red-Cross Knight and Sansfoy] 10 [The Lady Una and the Lion] 20 [Sir Guyon and the Men in Bestial Shapes] 100 [Agapé approaching the Dwelling of the Fates] 142 [Sir Scudamore overthrown by Britomart] 184 [Sir Artegall and the Saracen] 204 [Prince Arthur slaying the Seneschal] 256

THE FAERY QUEEN
AND HER KNIGHTS

CHAPTER I
THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT

Once upon a time there might have been seen a gentle Knight, riding across the plain. He was clad in armour of proof, and on his arm he carried a silver shield. A shield it was that brave men had carried before him, for there were great dints upon it, which were as a witness of great fights that had been fought. Now the Knight himself had never yet been in battle; but he seemed as one who could bear himself bravely, so well did he sit upon his horse, and so stout of limb he was. On his breast he wore a cross, red as blood, in token that he was vowed to serve the Lord Christ, who had died for him; and on his shield was yet another cross, to be as it were a sign that this service should be a defence to him in all dangers. Somewhat sad of look he was, not as though he had fear in his heart, but rather as one upon whom had been laid the burden of a great task. And such, in truth, there was, for Queen Gloriana had sent him upon a great enterprise, and all his heart was full of the thought of how he should best accomplish it. And the task was this—to slay the Great Dragon.

Beside the Knight a lady was riding on an ass as white as snow. Very fair she was; but she hid her fairness under a veil, which was brought low over her face. She was clad also in a garment of black; and she, too, was somewhat sad of look, nor, indeed, without cause. She came of a royal stock, being descended from ancient kings and queens, who had held wide sway in their land until this same Dragon had driven out their ancient house and had cruelly wasted all their realm. The third of this company was a Dwarf, who lagged behind, wearied, it may be, with the weight of the bag in which he bore this fair lady’s gear.

While the three, to wit the Knight, and the Lady, and the Dwarf, passed on, the sky was suddenly covered with clouds, and there began to fall a great storm of rain, so that they were fain to seek some shelter. Gladly, then, did they espy a wood hard by that promised, so thickly grown it was, a shelter from the rain. Tall were the trees and spreading wide with shady branches, so that neither sun by day nor star by night could pierce through. And all about were paths and ways, worn as by the treading of many feet, which seemed to lead to the abodes of men—a fairer place of shelter, as it seemed, there scarce could be. So they passed along, the birds singing sweetly the while; overhead were trees of many kinds, trees of the forest and of the orchard, the cedar and the oak, and the elm with the vine clinging to its stem, the yew for bows, and the birch for arrows, and the fruitful olive. So fair was the place, and so full of delights, that the travellers took no heed of the way by which they went. So it came to pass that they strayed from the path by which they first entered the wood, nor could they win to it again when once they had left it, so many were the ways and so like the one to the other. After a time, when they had taken counsel together, it seemed best to choose the way which seemed most trodden by the feet of travellers, as being the likeliest to lead to a certain end. When they had followed this awhile, they came to a great cave, deep in the very thicket of the wood. Here the Knight sprang from his horse, and gave to the Dwarf his spear, thinking that he should not need it. But his sword he kept.

Then said the Lady Una, for that was her name: “Be not overbold, Sir Knight; there may be mischief here of which you know nothing, peril which gives no sign of itself, even as a fire which burns without smoke; hold back, I pray you, till you have made some trial of the place.”

The Knight made reply: “Fair lady, it were a shame to fall back for fear of a shadow. The cave, doubtless, is dark, but where there is courage there is not wanting a light for the feet.”

Then said the Lady again: “Nay, nay, Sir Knight; I know this place by repute, though I thought not of it before. This wood in which we are lost is the Wood of Wandering; this cave which you see before you is the Den of Error, a monster, hateful both to God and man. Beware, therefore, beware!” And the Dwarf cried out aloud in his fear: “Fly, Sir Knight, fly, this is no place for mortal man.”

But the Knight would not be persuaded. He stepped into the cave, and the light of day, shining from without on his armour, showed him dimly the monster that was within. Hideous it was to behold, half a serpent and half a woman, and all as foul as ever creature was, upon the earth or under it. All the length of the cave she lay, her tail wound in many coils; and in every coil there was a deadly sting. And all round her was a brood of young ones. Many different shapes they had, but hideous all. And as soon as the light from the Knight’s armour glimmered through the darkness, they fled for shelter to the mouth of their dam.

The monster, wakened from her sleep, curled her tail about her head, and rushed to the cavern’s mouth, but, seeing one armed from top to toe in shining mail, would have turned again. But the Knight leaped at her, fierce as a lion leaps upon his prey, and barred her backward way with his sword. First she darted at him her great tail, and threatened him with the deadly sting that lay in it; but he, not one whit dismayed, aimed at her head a mighty blow. Her head it wounded not, but glanced on to the neck with force so great that for a while the great beast was stunned. Then, coming to herself, she raised her body high from the ground, and leaped upon the Knight’s shield, and wrapped his body round with huge folds.

Then Una, seeing in how sore plight he was, cried out: “Now show, Sir Knight, what you are. Put out all your force, and, above all things, back your force with faith, and be not faint. Strangle this monster, or surely she will strangle you!”

Greatly was his heart stirred within him with grief and anger, and, knitting all his strength together, he gripped the creature by the throat so mightily that she was constrained to loosen the bonds which she had cast about him. And yet, it had well-nigh cost him dear to come so close to the monster, so foul she was. And of this foulness the worst was this, that she caused to come forth out of her mouth, as in a flood, the brood which had taken shelter therein at the first. Serpents they were, like to their dam, small indeed, but full of venom, and they swarmed over him, twining themselves about his arms and legs, so that he could not strike a blow nor even move. So, in some still eventide, a shepherd, sitting to watch his flock, is suddenly assailed by a cloud of gnats; feeble creatures they are, and slight their sting, but they suffer him not to rest. The Red-Cross Knight was in a strait more dire, for these evil creatures had power to do him a more grievous harm. But he thought to himself, “Shall I be vanquished in this fashion?” He was somewhat moved by the danger wherein he stood, but more ashamed that he should be overcome in so foul a fashion. So, resolved in his heart that he would put all his strength into a stroke, either to win or to lose, he gathered himself together, and struck the monster with a blow so fierce that he shore the head from the body, and she fell dead upon the ground.

Then said the Lady Una: “Well, indeed, have you carried yourself, Sir Knight. Surely you were born under a lucky star, seeing that you have overcome so terrible a foe. You are worthy of these arms wherewith you are clad. So is your first adventure brought to a good result. God grant that you have many such in the time to come, and that they may be brought to as happy an ending.”

Then the Knight sprang upon his horse, and the Lady Una mounted again her ass, and the Dwarf followed as before. And now they kept with steadfast purpose to the one way which they saw to be most trodden, turning neither to the right nor to the left, how fair soever the path might seem. So at last they came to the outskirts of the Wandering Wood, and journeyed once more across the plain.

CHAPTER II
ARCHIMAGE AND DUESSA

So the two, the Knight and the Lady, rode on, the Dwarf following as before. After a while they chanced to meet an old man by the road. He was clothed in black and barefooted, and he had a long white beard, and a book was hanging from his belt. A very wise old man he seemed, sober and even somewhat sad, and as he went along he seemed to be praying; and now and again he would beat upon his breast, saying, “God be merciful to me a sinner!” He made a humble reverence to the Knight, and the Knight in his courtesy made his salute, and said: “Sir, do you know of any adventure that a Christian man may undertake?”

“My son,” said the old man, “how should one who lives in his cell and tells his beads and does penance for his sins know aught of wars and enterprises by which glory may be won? Nevertheless, I can tell of a very evil man who dwells in these forests and wastes all the country-side.”

“Ah!” cried the Knight, “it is for such an adventure, the setting right of wrong, that I seek. Bring me to this villain’s dwelling and I will reward you well.”

“Willingly,” said the old man, “will I guide you thither, but the way is long and painful.”

“And surely,” said the Lady Una, “you are wearied with your late encounter. I take it that he who lacks rest lacks strength, however stout of limb he be. Take your rest then with the sun, and begin your new work with the new day.”

“This is wise counsel, Sir Knight,” said the old man, “and wise counsel ever wins the day. The day is far spent; come, then, and take such poor entertainment as my home can give.”

With this the Knight was well content. So they followed the old man to his dwelling. It was a lowly hermitage, in a valley, close to the forest, with a chapel hard by, and by this chapel a brook crystal clear. Humble was their fare, but the rest after the day’s toil made it sweet enough, as also did the old man’s talk, for he discoursed of many things and many men, saints and popes, and the great deeds which they had done. Then, as the night drew on and sleep began to fall upon their eyes, he showed them the places where they should lodge for the night.

Now this old man, who seemed so pious and good, with his long white beard, and his prayers, and his beating of his breast, was really a wicked magician. So soon as he had taken his guests to their lodgings, he went to his study, where he kept his books of charms with other contrivances of his art, and taking one of these books from the shelf on which it stood, opened it, and began to mutter some dreadful words which it were a great sin for anyone to write or read. With these he brought up from their dwelling-place in the lower parts of the earth a very legion of evil spirits. To these he gave a part of his evil work to do, and some of this work he kept to himself; and the work was this: To cheat the hearts of those whom he wished to deceive with false dreams and visions. What these were, it is best not to tell: let it be enough to say that they wrought such doubts concerning the Lady Una in the heart of the Red-Cross Knight that, as soon as the morning dawned, he rose from his bed, and clothed himself with all haste, and crying for the Dwarf that he should bring him his horse, rode away as fast as the beast could carry him.

He had not ridden many miles before there met him a paynim knight. A tall warrior and a strong he was, armed from top to toe, and carrying a great shield on which were written in scarlet letters the words “Sans Foy,” which, being interpreted, mean “Without Faith.” With him there rode a fair lady, clad also in scarlet, with ornaments of gold and necklaces of coral, and on her head a Persian cap set round with crowns of gold. Her horse also had gay trappings, and her bridle was set with bells of gold, which tinkled bravely as she rode. So soon as she saw the Red-Cross Knight she said to her companion, “See now, here comes your enemy; make ready.”

No sooner had she spoken, but he stuck spurs in his horse, and rode at the Red-Cross Knight. Nor did the knight hold back from the fray, for he also put his spear in rest and charged. So the two met fully and fairly, with so fierce a shock that the two horses stood, as it were, struck to stone, and the riders were borne backwards in their saddles, holding each of them in his hand his broken spear. Then the Saracen drew his sword from the scabbard, and addressed himself again to the fray. So did the Christian also; blow for blow did they deal one to the other, till the sparks flew from their shields, and when they chanced to strike home, the blood flowed forth and dyed the earth under their feet. After a while cried the Saracen: “Now curse upon that Cross which keeps your body from harm! You had been dead long since but for that magic power. For all that, I bid you now beware, and keep safe your head if it may be.”

So saying, he dealt a blow so fierce that it shore away half the Christian’s crest, yet glancing down upon the shield harmed him no more. Yet was it not struck in vain, for it roused him of the Red Cross to such rage that he made a more than like reply. Full on the Saracen’s helmet he dealt his stroke. Right through the steel it passed, and cleft the head, so that the Saracen fell a dead man from his horse.

When the lady saw her champion fall, not a moment did she stay to see how it had fared with him, either to tend his wounds, or to weep for his death, but fled away as fast as her horse could carry her. Then the Red-Cross Knight, crying to the Dwarf that he should pick up the dead man’s shield to be a memorial of the fight, rode after her, and overtaking her, bade her halt: “You have no cause to fear, fair lady,” he said.

The Red Cross Knight and Sansfoy.

Then she, turning back, cried aloud: “Fair Sir, have mercy on an unhappy woman!”

Much was he moved to see her humbleness, for she was beautiful to look on, and richly clad, as one of noble birth might be. “Lady,” said he, “be of good heart. It pitieth me to see you in such distress; tell me now who you are, and whence you come, and who was this your champion?”

“Sir,” she answered, weeping the while, “I have suffered much from evil fortune. I was the only daughter of an emperor, who had wide dominion over the land of the West, setting his throne where flows the famous stream of Tiber. Being such, I was betrothed in my early youth to the only son and heir of a most wise and mighty king. Never surely was prince so fair and faithful as he, never one so gentle and debonair. But alas! ere the day appointed for our marriage came, my lord fell into the hands of cruel enemies, and was most foully slain. When this ill news came to me, I said to myself: ‘Now will I at least do due honour to the dear body of him whom I loved.’ So I set forth from my father’s house upon this quest. Long did I wander over the world, a virgin widow, nor did I find that for which I sought. At last I chanced to meet this Saracen, who now lies dead upon the plain. He constrained me to go with him, and would fain have won me for his wife, but I ever said him nay. And now he lies dead. An evil man he was, one of an evil brotherhood of three—Sansloy, the eldest; Sansjoy, the youngest; and this Sansfoy, of middle age between the two.”

“Be contented, fair lady,” answered the Knight; “you have done well. You have found a new friend and lost an old foe. Friend, be he ever so new, is better, I trow, than foe, new or old.”

So the two rode on, he making merry with gay talk, as became a courteous knight, and she, with much modest show of bashfulness. After a while they came in their journey to two fair trees, which spread their branches across the road. Lovely trees they seemed, and fair was the shade which they cast. Yet was the place held in ill-repute of all the country-side; never did shepherd sit beneath them to rest or play upon his oaten pipe, for all men held it to be unlucky ground. But of this the good Knight knew nothing, so, the sun being now high in heaven, and of so fierce a heat that a man might scarcely abide it, he dismounted and bade the lady do likewise, so that they might rest awhile, and anon, in the cool of the evening, might pursue their journey. So the two sat them down and talked.

Now the Knight, being in a merry mood, said to himself: “Surely, this is the fairest of women; it is meet that she should be crowned.” So saying, he plucked a branch which he would have shaped into a garland for the lady’s head. Then, lo! from the place where the branch had been plucked came trickling drops of blood, and there issued forth a lamentable voice which said: “Stranger! Tear not in this cruel fashion the tender human limbs which are covered by the bark of this tree. Fly also from the place, fly, lest haply the same fate should come upon you as came upon me in this place, both on me and on the dear lady also who was my love.”

Much was the Knight astonished to hear such words, and for a while he stood speechless. Then he said: “What ghost is this from the world below, what wandering spirit that talks in this strange fashion?”

Then there came this answer: “No ghost am I from the nether world, nor wandering spirit of the air. I was a man, Fradubio by name, as now I am a tree, being charmed by the arts of a wicked witch. But I am yet a man, for I feel the winter cold and the summer heat in these branches, even as a man might feel.”

Then said the Knight: “Tell me now, Fradubio, be you tree or man, how you came to suffer in this fashion. It is good for a man to tell his trouble; he who hides it in his heart makes his griefs to be twice as great.”

Then did Fradubio tell his tale, “Know, stranger, that I suffer this trouble through the arts of a false sorceress, Duessa by name; nor I only, for she has brought many knights into a like evil case. In my youth, which indeed is not long passed, I loved a fair lady, whom you may see, not indeed in the fashion of a lady, but as yonder tree which joins its branches with these. Once upon a time, when I was riding abroad with her, I chanced to meet a knight, who also had a fair lady for a companion. A fair lady I called her, and so she seemed, but she was in truth this same false witch Duessa. Said the strange Knight: ‘I do declare that this lady is the fairest dame in all the world, and this I will make good with my sword and spear against all the world.’ For the witch had cast her spells over him and deceived him. And when I put forth the same challenge for my own lady, we fell to fighting, and he fared so ill, that he fell by my hand.

“So now there were two fair ladies, for so it seemed, Fraelissa, who was fair in truth, and Duessa, who by her wicked arts had made herself so to seem. And I knew not to which I should give the prize of beauty, for it seemed the due of each. But while I doubted, this wicked witch raised by evil arts such a mist as made Fraelissa’s face to lose all its fairness. Which when she had accomplished, she cried: ‘See now how this false dame has lost her beauty, for indeed it was but borrowed. Many has she deceived in time past, even as now she has deceived you.’ When I heard this, I would fain have killed the fair lady that had been my true love. But this the false Duessa, feigning compassion, would not suffer. Only with her magic arts she changed her into that tree which you see yonder.

“Now you must know that for every witch, be she as crafty as she may, there is one day in every year when she is constrained to take her true shape. And on this day I chanced to see Duessa as she was in truth, old and foul of hue, fouler than one had thought woman could be. Nor did she fail to perceive that I had discovered the truth, though indeed I sought to bear myself as before, having it in my mind secretly to escape, and fly from her company. So she practised upon me the same wicked arts that she had used with my Fraelissa, changing me into the semblance of a tree. And here we stand, banished from the company of men, and wasting weary days and nights.”

“But,” said the Knight, “how long shall this endure? What is the appointed end of your sufferings?”

“We must here abide till we shall be bathed in a living well,” Fradubio made answer.

“Can I find this same well?” asked the Knight.

“That shall be as the Fates may decree,” said Fradubio.

All this Duessa—who called herself Fidessa—heard, and knew it for truth. She well-nigh fainted for fear; but the time for the discovering of her falseness was not yet.

CHAPTER III
THE FORTUNES OF UNA

While the Red-Cross Knight was thus faring, the Lady Una was not a little troubled that she should have been so left by her champion. Never did she cease to search for him, wandering the while over plain, and forest, and mountain, and not one whit afraid, however desolate they were.

On a certain day she lighted off the ass, on which she was wont to ride, and laid herself down to rest in a solitary place, under the shadow of a tree; she took the covering from her head, and laid aside her black cloak; her faithful beast grazed hard by, for there was much grass in the place. As she lay, there rushed out of the wood with which the meadow was circled about a furious lion. Wild he was with hunger, and was hunting for prey. And when he saw the royal maid, he ran greedily at her with open mouth, as if he would have devoured her; but when he came near, and saw what manner of maid she was, all his rage departed from him. He kissed her weary feet, and licked with his tongue her lily hands, crouching down before her as if to show himself her servant. At the first sight of the beast the Lady Una was not a little afraid, but when she saw how gently he bore himself, she sighed and said: “See now, how this lion, who is the king of the forest, forgets his hunger and his rage in pity of my sad state, while he who was my champion leaves me to wander alone.” So she spake till she could speak no more for very tears, and the lion meanwhile stood looking upon her. Then—for the lady was of a brave spirit—she shut up her sorrows in her heart, and mounted on her steed again, and set out once more upon her quest. It was a long and weary way which she went, through divers places, where there were no inhabitants, and still the lion went with her, ready to guard her against all dangers. While she slept, he watched over her, and when she awaked he awaited her command, watching her eyes so that he might discern her pleasure.

After long journeying, in which they saw no sign of the presence of man, they came to a place which, from the wearing of the grass, seemed to be trodden by human feet. And in no long time the lady espied a woman, who was following the path with slow steps, and carrying on her head a pitcher of water. The lady cried to her, “Tell me now, my friend, whether there may be any dwelling near to hand, where I may rest awhile?” But the woman answered her never a word, seeming as if she could neither understand nor speak. But when, turning her eyes, she saw the lion by the lady’s side, she threw down her pitcher, and fled as fast as her feet could carry her. Not once did she look behind her, but fled as if for her life till she came to the house where she dwelt with her mother, a blind woman. Not a word did she say, but her fear was plain to see, and the old woman perceived that there was some great danger at hand, so when they two had shut the door they hid themselves in the darkest corner of the cottage.

In a short space of time came Una and her lion to the door. Thereat the lady knocked, but when no one answered, and the time was passing, the lion in his impatience rent the wicket-gate with his claws and let her in. No further hurt did he, and when Una had with much gentle speech allayed the women’s fear, they laid themselves down to sleep.

But when the night was far spent, there came one to the door demanding entrance, and when this was not speedily given him, using many oaths and curses. He was a sturdy thief, by name Kirkrapine, that is to say, Robber of Churches, and this indeed was his trade. He was wont to steal away the ornaments of churches, and to strip off from the images of the saints the vestments with which they were clad, and to purloin the robes of the priests, and to break open the boxes in which were put the alms for the poor. No small share of the plunder did he bring to the house where Una lay that night, for he was the lover of the old woman’s daughter, and he could never give her enough of gold and jewels and precious things. But whether the old woman knew of the matter none can tell, though it might have seemed that such doings were not to her mind, seeing that she told her beads and prayed both by day and by night; nine hundred Paternosters would she say daily, and of Ave Marias twice as many. Thrice in the week, also, did she sit in ashes; thrice three times she fasted from all food and drink, and she wore sackcloth nearest to her skin.

Now when this same Kirkrapine found that, for all his cursing, he could not win an entrance, for, indeed, though the women heard him, they were hindered from rising by fear of the lion, he let fly furiously at the door and brake it down, and would have entered. But as he was about to cross the threshold, the beast, thinking that his lady was in danger, sprang at him, and brought him to the ground, and so tore him that he died, which, having done, the lion came back to his place by the lady’s side, and watched her as before.

When the day broke, the Lady Una rose from her place, and went forth from the cottage, and journeyed onwards still seeking the Knight, and the lion went with her. The old woman also and her daughter, so soon as the house was clear of its guests, rose up. But when they found Kirkrapine lying dead before the door, great was their grief and greater still their anger.

“This,” they cried, “the savage beast has done,” and they followed with all the speed they might use, and so overtook her. Harm her they might not, for they feared the lion, and when they had cursed her loud and long they turned back to go to their own house.

As they went they met a knight, fully clad in armour. But yet he was no knight but only the wizard Archimage, who had taken upon himself, by help of his wicked arts, the semblance of the Red-Cross Knight. The false knight asked them whether they had seen a lady journeying alone.

“Yea,” the old woman answered, “such I have seen; an evil woman she is, and much harm hath she wrought.” And she told a piteous tale of the things which she had suffered. This done, she showed him the way by which he must go, if he would overtake the lady, and he, having thanked her with due courtesy, rode on. Nor was it long before he overtook the Lady Una, for she, having but an ass for her steed, travelled slowly. When she saw him, and noted the Red Cross on his shield and the like emblem on his breast, she said to herself: “Now God be thanked, I see my true champion again,” and she rode to meet him, and greeted him with friendly words, saying: “Where have you been these weary days, my lord? I have fared ill without your company,” and she told him of all the troubles and dangers through which she had passed.

On the other hand, the false knight spoke her fair: “For this cause I left you, dearest lady, that I might seek an adventure of which Archimage told me, and how I might deal with a felon who had done great harm to many gallant knights. And, indeed, I did deal with him, so that he shall hurt such knights no more. I pray you, fair lady, to pardon me that I left you awhile, even for such cause, and to take me once more as your faithful servant and champion.”

The Lady Una and the Lion.

So the two rode on together. They had not travelled many miles when they saw coming to them, riding at the full speed of his horse a knight fully armed. When he came near they saw that he was a man of very fierce aspect, and that he carried on his shield the name Sansloy. Fierce as he was of look, he grew fiercer yet when he perceived the false knight’s shield, how it had the badge of the Red Cross. Not a word did he speak, but he laid his spear in rest and rode fiercely forward.

Sorely dismayed was Archimage, and loath to meet the stranger in battle, for, indeed, he was not used to bearing arms. Yet could he not hold back for very shame. The Lady Una also looked at him that he should bear himself bravely. But it fared ill with him, and, indeed, it would have fared worse but that his steed, being no less timorous than himself, held back in the onset, so that the shock of their meeting was the less fierce. Nevertheless, he was thrown to the ground, where he lay helpless and without defence.

The strange knight leapt lightly from his horse, and made as though he would have slain his adversary. “Ha!” he cried, “so he that slew the brave knight Sansfoy, my brother, has come by his deserts. Sansfoy he slew, and by Sansloy he shall be slain!”

Then he began to unlace the man’s helmet as he lay upon the ground, but the Lady Una cried, “Oh, Sir Knight, hold your hand; is it not enough that you have vanquished him? He lies there at your mercy. Therefore have mercy upon him. Verily there is not in the whole world a truer knight than he.” But the stranger had no mind to hold his hand, for, indeed, he had no compassion within his heart. But when he had ended the unlacing of the helmet, and was now ready to strike, he saw the hoary head and wrinkled face of Archimage, and cried: “What is this that I see, Archimage, luckless sire? By what ill-fortune have you come across me in this fashion? Is the fault with me or with you, that I should have dealt with a friend as though he were an enemy?”

So he spake, but not a word did the wizard answer. He lay in a swoon, and the shadow of death was on his face. And now the Lady Una had come and was looking into the old man’s face. Sore dismayed she was and sore vexed; for he whom she had taken for her champion was a deceiver; nor could she divine how she might escape from the hand of this paynim knight. And now she had to bear yet another grief. For when Sansloy laid a rude hand upon her and bade her descend from her steed, and caught away her veil that he might look upon her face, the lion, not enduring to see his mistress so handled and treated, sprang at the knight, but alas! what was he to withstand a knight clad in armour of proof, with spear and sword? Soon did Sansloy thrust him through with the iron point, so that the faithful beast fell dead upon the ground, and the lady was left helpless and without defence.

CHAPTER IV
OF WHAT BEFELL AT THE HOUSE OF PRIDE

The Red-Cross Knight rode on with the false Fidessa, not knowing that she was indeed the witch Duessa, who had changed the unhappy Fradubio into a tree. After a while they came to a road which was manifestly much frequented of men, and following this beheld before them a very stately palace. “Come,” said Duessa, “let us seek shelter here, for I am weary with my journeying and the day is far spent.”

It was, indeed, a very noble house, cunningly built of bricks laid artfully together without mortar. It had very lofty walls, but they were as slight as they were high, overlaid with shining gold, with many towers rising from them, and goodly galleries disposed among them, and spacious windows. No one could blame the skill of the architect that had planned it, or of the builders that had raised it up, so fair it was to look upon; yet it was passing strange that it had been built in a place so ill chosen, to wit, upon a sandy hill, so that the foundations were ever slipping away from it; and when the winds blew upon it it was shaken most perilously, and the lower parts, for all that they were painted so as to make a very brave show, were ruinous and old.

They passed by the porter, whose name was Malvenu, which being interpreted is “Ill come,” without challenge, and so came into the hall. This was right richly arrayed with arras and cloth-of-gold, and was filled from end to end with a great crowd of people of all sorts and degrees, waiting, all of them, for a sight of the lady of the house. These also they passed, as being guests to whom special honour was due, and so were brought into the presence of the lady, where she sat with as fair and richly-clad a company of knights and dames about her as ever was seen upon the earth. High on a throne, splendid in royal robes and ornaments of gold and jewels costly beyond all count, sat the lady. Fair she was, so fair that throne and robes and gold and gems were as nothing in comparison with her beauty. Under her feet was a great dragon, and in her hand she held a shining mirror of brass, and her name was Lucifera. She was, indeed, the Queen of Pride, and all her brave show was a false seeming, and her kingdom a kingdom of unrighteousness.

The Knight, not knowing what the lady truly was, and false Duessa, to whom all these things were well pleasing, being introduced by a certain usher of the court, Vanity by name, bowed themselves low before the throne. And the Knight said, “Lady, we are come to see your royal state, and to prove the report of your great majesty which has gone through all the world.” “I thank you,” said the lady, but in a disdainful way, for she did not so much as cast her eyes upon them, nor did she bid them rise. On the other hand, the knights and ladies set themselves with much heartiness to entertain the new-comers. The knights were right glad to welcome among them a companion so fair and so stalwart, and to the dames the false Duessa was well known. Nevertheless the Knight was but ill pleased that the Lady Lucifera should show such scant courtesy to a stranger. “She is overproud,” he thought to himself, “and there is too much of vain show in these her surroundings.”

While he was thus thinking, the lady rose suddenly from her place, and said that she would ride abroad, and bade call for her coach. A stately coach it was, like to that which, as it was said of old, Queen Juno rode with six peacocks, spreading out great starry tails, for horses. Six steeds had this Queen also, but they were but ill matched, and on each of them did ride one of the six counsellors who advised her in affairs of state, and the six were Idleness, and Gluttony, and Lust, and Avarice, and Envy, and Anger. The false Duessa followed close after the Lady Lucifera, for she was of a kindred spirit, but the Knight, though he knew not all the truth, yet held aloof from the rout, not liking their company. When they had tarried awhile in the fields, breathing the fresh air of the country-side, they turned back to the palace. There they found a Saracen knight newly come, who carried on his shield the name Sansjoy. He was ill-favoured and ill-conditioned, as one who bore a grudge against his fellows. But when he saw how the page of the Red-Cross Knight carried a shield on which was written the name of Sansfoy, then was he filled with fury, and sprang upon the lad and wrenched it from him, which the Red-Cross Knight perceiving, being ill content so to lose the trophy which he had won in fair fight, ran at the Saracen, and recovered that which was his own. Already had they drawn their swords to fight out their quarrel hand to hand, when the Queen Lucifera interposed her high command: “Sirs,” she said, “I command you on pain of my high displeasure to forbear. To-morrow, if you will, you shall prove in fair fight to whom this shield, for which I perceive you contend, in right belongs. Meanwhile I bid you be at peace.”

“I beg your pardon, noble Queen,” said the Saracen, “for that I have thus broken the peace of your court; in truth I could not refrain myself when I saw this false knight possessing the shield of the brave Sansfoy, whom he slew not in fair fight, but by magic arts, ay, and not possessing it only, but that he might do it dishonour, commanding that it should be publicly borne.” So spake Sansjoy, but the Red-Cross Knight said nothing; he was a man of deeds, not of words. Only he threw his gauntlet on the ground, to be a pledge that he would meet his adversary in the field.

Then, for evening was now come, all sat down to the banquet. Right royally did they feast, for Gluttony was steward that night, and ordered their meat and drink; and when they had feasted to the full, they betook themselves to their beds, and Sloth was their chamberlain. But before she slept Duessa made Sansjoy aware that she was no friend to the Red-Cross Knight.

CHAPTER V
HOW THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT LEAVES THE CASTLE OF PRIDE

It is ever the way with noble hearts, that they cannot rest till they have fully accomplished that which they purpose to do. So all night long the Red-Cross Knight considered with himself how he should most wisely bear himself in the morrow’s fight, and so considering he waited till the morning light should shine upon the earth. So soon therefore as the sun appeared in the sky he rose from his bed, and arrayed himself in his armour, making ready for his combat with the Saracen. This done, he descended into the castle hall, where there was already gathered a great crowd of men, who had come to see what the issue of the day should be. There were musicians making melody on harps and viols, and bards who were ready to celebrate in song the strength and valour of him who should win the victory. After him by no great space of time came the Saracen, clad in chain armour. Fierce was his look, as though he would strike fear into his adversary, but the Knight was of a temper which no looks could dismay. Then the pages brought in two cups of wine from Greece, and mingled therein spices from farthest India, for such was the custom of the place. It was to kindle the champions’ courage forsooth, but neither Christian nor Saracen, I take it, had need of such encouragement. And as they drank they sware a solemn oath that they would duly observe the laws of honourable war.

This done, the Queen Lucifera came with a great train of knights and ladies, and took her seat upon the throne which had been set for her with a great canopy over it. Before her was an open space, railed in on every side, that none should be near either to help or to hinder the champions. Over against the Queen was set another throne, of less account and dignity. On this was set false Duessa. And on a tree hard by was hung the shield of Sansfoy, and a laurel crown which should be the conqueror’s meed.

And now was heard the shrill note of a trumpet, and the two champions addressed themselves to the battle. Each man carried his shield on his left arm, and took his sword in his right hand, for such was the order of the fight, that for a speedier issue they should lay aside their spears and take at once their swords. Both knights were sturdy and brave, and long they fought without advantage gained. Stroke was answered with stroke, while the sparks flew from either shield, and each helmet showed the dints where the steel had been well-nigh broken through. Neither did this champion or that escape without harm, for the blood was seen to flow out and dye their coats of mail, but neither suffered such a wound as to hinder him from the fight, nor did the crowd that watched them know which would prevail. And now it chanced that the Saracen, as he shifted his place, caught the sight of his brother’s shield, where it hung upon the tree, to be the conqueror’s prize. The sight stirred him to a double rage: “Ah! brother,” he cried, “dost thou sit so long by that dark lake of death the while thy shield hangs here to be the prize of victory? Go, caitiff,” so he cried, as he turned him to the Red-Cross Knight, “go and tell him that I have redeemed his shield from shame.” And as he spoke, he smote upon the crest of the Knight a mightier stroke by far than he had ever dealt. Twice did the Knight reel as he stood; twice was he ready to fall; while all that watched were assured that the battle was indeed won and lost, and the false Duessa cried aloud: “Well done, Sansjoy; the shield is yours, and I and all.” But when the Knight heard the voice of the lady—for he knew not yet her true quality—he raised himself from his swoon, and his faith that had waxed weak grew strong again, and the chill departed from his limbs. Wrath and shame and love wrought such new strength within him, that he struck his foe with a stroke so mighty that it brought him to his knee. “Ah! thou miscreant,” he cried, “go now and take yourself your message to this dear brother, and tell him that the conqueror has his shield.” But when he would have dealt yet another blow, and so ended the fight beyond all doubt, lo! there was a dark cloud over all the place, and the Saracen was nowhere to be seen. He called him aloud, but there came no answer. The darkness had swallowed him up. Then the false Duessa came down from her seat and entreated him with many words: “O most valiant Knight that ever lady chose for her champion, abate now your rage; your adversary lies low; be content with your victory.” But not one whit was his wrath diminished; willingly would he have driven his sword-hilt deep into the body of his enemy, so finishing his work. But nowhere could he espy him. While he stood wondering, the trumpets sounded again, now with a note of victory, and heralds came and paid him homage, making low obeisance to him, and giving into his hands the shield. After this they took him to the Queen, where she sat upon her throne; and he, bending his knee before her, made proffer of his service, which she accepted with much courtesy of thanks. This done, she returned to the palace, having the Knight by her side, the people following with loud shouts and much rejoicing.

And now, because his wounds were many—for not without much cost of pain had he won this victory—they laid him in a bed and bound up his hurts, pouring in oil and wine, the while the musicians made sweet music to comfort him in his sickness. While he thus lay, Duessa resorted to a certain witch of whom she had knowledge, and told her of how the Christian Knight had slain Sansfoy, and now had stricken Sansjoy well-nigh to death, and prayed her help. So the two returned together to where the Saracen lay, still covered with the magic cloud. They bound up his wounds, and laid him in the witch’s car, and carried him to hell to the dwelling of Æsculapius. Now this Æsculapius was a great physician in the days of old, and because he had brought to life again a certain man who had been unjustly slain he had suffered grievous punishment. He could not die, for he was of immortal race, but he had been struck down to hell with a thunderbolt. There he had lain, age after age, striving, if it might be, to heal his own hurts. To him, therefore, the witch and Duessa brought Sansjoy, and prayed him that he would recover him of his deadly hurt. “Nay, nay,” said he, “you ask what may not be. You tempt me to do again the very thing for which I suffer all this pain. Shall I again, with a like deed, renew the wrath of him that so dealt with me?”

The witch made answer: “What more can you suffer than you have suffered already? You hope for nothing; what then should you fear? You are in this lowest deep; is there a lower to which you can fall? Deny not my prayer; rather show the power which has given you your great renown in heaven and on earth and in hell itself.”

“Be it so,” he said. So they brought the knight, and the great physician used all his arts, applying to the man’s wound all the healing powers that he knew. Then Duessa, having accomplished her purpose, so far as it might be done, journeyed back to the Palace of Pride, but when she came thither she found that the Red-Cross Knight had departed.

Now the cause of his going was this. He was not, indeed, fit for travel, nor had his wounds been duly healed, but he might not stay, having heard what his faithful Dwarf had told him; and the thing was this, that there were dungeons beneath this fair castle, with all its splendid furnishing, in which lay a crowd of prisoners in most miserable plight, men of the old times and of the new, such as were Nimrod the great hunter, and the lords of Babylon and Nineveh, and great chiefs of Rome, all who by wicked pride had sinned against God and man. This had the watchful Dwarf espied. And when the Knight heard the tale he would tarry no longer, but that very hour, while it was yet dark, for it would have gone ill with him had he been espied, he fled from the castle. By a bye-way he fled, and lo! it was so full of the corpses of men that he and the Dwarf could scarce make their way, for though the castle was fair in all its public parts, those that were secret were foul beyond all thinking.

CHAPTER VI
THE LADY UNA AND THE SATYRS

Though the wizard Archimage was an ill companion for the Lady Una, yet was Sansloy, by whom he was overthrown, a worse. They had not travelled together far when he said, “Lady, deign, I pray you, to show me that fair face of yours. I would fain know for whom I have done battle. Yours, I ween, is such beauty as the old villain whom I overthrew was not worthy to take in charge.” And when she answered him not a word, he stretched forth a lawless hand, and would have torn the veil from her face. Then she cried aloud. “Ay,” said he, “cry if you will; there is none to help you here.” But even while he spoke there came running out of the wood, which was hard by, a great multitude of strange creatures, fauns and satyrs, half man and half beast. They were dancing and making merry in the forest, which is their natural dwelling-place, and when they heard the cry, one said to another: “This is the cry of some mortal in distress, and it has the note of a woman’s voice; let us see what is the cause.” So they made all haste to the place from which the cry came. And when the Saracen beheld them he was sore afraid. Such creatures he had never seen in all his life; so he sprang upon his horse, and fled as fast as he could. Nor, indeed, was the Lady Una wholly quit of her fears. So it may chance that when a wolf carries off a lamb, and drops it for fear of a lion, the lamb may be in no better case. But when the strange creatures saw by the lady’s face that she was sore afraid, they tried to show their goodwill towards her; they threw themselves upon the ground and kissed her feet, and sought to show her that they were her dutiful servants. So, gathering courage, she raised herself from the earth on which she had thrown herself in fear and distress, and made signs that she would go with them. So they led her through the wood, dancing and shouting and singing; and some strewed branches of trees on the ground before her, and one, who was a chief among them, put a crown of olive leaves about her head. So they led her to their chief Sylvanus, and he, waked from his sleep by their shouting, came forth to meet them, leaning on a staff of cypress wood, and having a rope of ivy knitted about his middle. When he saw her, much did he marvel who she could be. “This is not Venus,” he said to himself, “for Venus never was in so sober a mood; no, nor Diana, for I see not her bow and arrows and the buskins up to her knee.” And while he stood and wondered, the nymphs flocked in to see, nymphs of the fountains and the woods, and they whose lives are bound to a single tree, living while it lives and dying when it dies. Nor were they less astonished, but they were ill pleased that one so fair should come among them: “Who of the wood folk,” they said to themselves, “will think of us when this mortal maid is near?”

Many days Lady Una tarried with this strange folk, and not unwillingly, for it was as it were a breathing time, giving her rest from the long toil of her journey. And while she tarried she strove to the utmost to teach them something of the Christian faith: but ever she had much ado to keep them from the worshipping of herself. And when she had scarcely kept them from this, they turned to worship her ass.

After a while there came into these parts a certain knight, Satyrane by name, so called because he was the son of a prince among the satyrs, but his mother was of the race of men. He was brought up in the woods, far from all human company; nor did he learn letters or any craft whatsoever, but only to be ever of a good courage and to banish fear. So he would lay his hand on lions and bears, and tame the wild bulls of the forest, riding on them as one might ride upon a horse. And he grew to be so swift of foot that he would overtake the roebuck in his flight. ’Tis said that once when his mother came to see him, for she had gone back to dwell with her own kind, she saw him carrying in his arms the cubs of a lioness which he had carried away from their dam, while the creature, in its rage, followed him, roaring aloud, yet dared not spring, so well did all the beasts of the forest know and fear him. When he grew to years of manhood he was not content with the conquest over wild beasts, or with life in the wood far from man. He went therefore into distant lands seeking adventures, in which he acquitted him so well that no man could boast of having overthrown him. Yet it was his custom from time to time to return to his old dwelling-place to see his old father and to rest awhile from his labours. And so coming now, he chanced to find the Lady Una sitting with a company of the forest folk around her, teaching them holy things. Much he marvelled to see how fair she was, and more did he marvel at the wise and gracious words that came from her lips; for, indeed, by this time, being by nature of a lively wit, he had himself learnt many things. So he gladly sought her company, and would fain be her disciple and learn the ways of righteousness and peace from her lips.

After certain days the Lady Una, seeing that this Satyrane was an honourable knight and worthy of trust, said to him, “I would fain go on with journeyings, if haply I may find my champion.” “Lady,” he made answer, “I am bound to do your pleasure; it shall be as you say.” So having watched for a time when the forest folk were away, he took her through the forest till they came to the plain beyond. When the day was now far spent they spied a traveller on the road, and judging from his look and garb that he had come from far, hastened towards him, hoping that they might by chance hear something that would help them in their quest. He was an old man of low estate, as it seemed, his garments worn and soiled with much dust from the road, his sandals torn with much travelling, and his face bronzed by the sun, as if he had travelled long in Arabian or Indian land. A staff he carried in his hand, and on his shoulders hung a wallet in which he carried such things as were needed for his journey.

Satyrane said to him: “Friend, have you aught to tell me of wars and adventures in these or in foreign parts, for indeed you seem to have come a long way?” “Nay,” answered the stranger, “I am a simple man, and know nothing of such matters.” Then said the Lady Una: “Tell me now whether you have seen or heard aught of the champion whom I am seeking? He bears a red cross on his armour.” The old man answered: “Fair lady, truly I have seen such an one with these eyes, and a sorry sight it was, for he lay dead upon the ground.” When the Lady Una heard these words she fell to the earth in a swoon. When Satyrane with much care had brought her back to life, she said: “Friend, tell me all that you know; one who has borne the greater pain may well endure the less.”

The old traveller answered: “On a certain day—an evil day it was, and I am grieved that I ever lived to see it—as I chanced to be passing on my way, I saw two knights contending fiercely together; one was a Saracen, and the other bore a red cross on his shield, and he that carried this device was slain.” “Oh to think,” cried the Lady Una, “that he should be thus overcome, he that was so stout and brave. How could such an evil chance befall?” “That I know not, fair lady,” said the old man; “I can but relate the thing which I saw with mine eyes.” Then said Satyrane: “Tell me now, old man, where is the Saracen knight that did this deed? Is he far from hence or near at hand?” The old man made answer: “You may find him not far from here. I left him but a short time ago sitting by a fountain where he washed his wounds.”

The knight Satyrane, having further inquired by what way he should go, made all haste to find the Saracen, fearing lest haply he should have departed. And, indeed, he found him, sitting by the fountain side under the shade of a tree, for it was Sansloy, the same that had overthrown Archimage. And Satyrane cried aloud: “Rise from your place, accursed miscreant, you that by some unknightly craft and treachery have slain the Red-Cross Knight, for I know well that you could not have overcome him in fair fight. Rise up, and either maintain your cause in arms, or confess your guilt.” The Saracen, when he heard these words, rose quickly from his place and put his helmet on his head, and took his shield upon his arm, and drew near to his adversary. But first he said: “Truly you have been sent hither in an evil hour to fight a quarrel that is not yours. And, indeed, you blame me for a deed which I have not done. The Red-Cross Knight I slew not, nor indeed did I engage in fight with him. Someone who falsely bore his arms I overthrew. But come now, if you may not fight in his quarrel, fight in your own.”

Then the two men came together in fierce encounter. When they were at the hottest of the fray, the Lady Una came to the place, for Satyrane had left her behind in his haste. And when she saw the Saracen she said to herself: “Now what shall I do if this false villain should get the upper hand of Satyrane?” And the thought struck such terror into her heart that she straightway turned and fled from the place. And the old traveller, who had told the false tale of the slaying of the Red-Cross Knight, followed her, for, indeed, he was none other than Archimage.

CHAPTER VII
OF THE GIANT ORGOGLIO

When the false Duessa came back to the Palace of Pride from the journey which she had made in the matter of Sansjoy, she found that the Red-Cross Knight had departed. Thereupon she set out without delay, being altogether unwilling that he should escape out of reach of her nets. Nor, indeed, was it long before she found him, sitting by the side of a spring in the shade of a tree. He had put off his armour by reason of his weariness and of the heat of the day. “You did ill to leave me in that ill place Sir Knight,” she said, “for ill I found it to be, even as you did yourself.” Then he excused himself with courteous words, and so peace was made again between the two.

Now the spring by which the Knight was taking his rest was not as other springs, but there lay a curse upon it, because the nymph which dwelt therein had fallen out of favour with her mistress, Diana. And the cause of her so falling was this. On a certain day, as Diana and her train were following the chase, the nymph of this spring, being wearied with the heat and toil of the day, sat herself down to rest. With this her mistress, being very keen in her hunting, was ill pleased: “Maid,” she cried, “you are dull and slow; such, then, shall these waters be for ever, ay, and whosoever shall drink of them.” Of this the Knight knew nothing, but because the waters were crystal clear and cold, and his thirst was great, he drank a great draught. And as he drank, the powers of body and soul grew faint and feeble, but by slow degrees and unperceived. Ere long there came to his ears a loud bellowing sound which made the trees to tremble and the very earth to shake. The Knight leapt from the ground, and would have armed himself, but yet, such was the working of that magic spring, was strangely slow. Certain it is that ere he could don his armour or thrust his arm into the fitting of his shield, there came stalking along with mighty stride the most fearsome giant that ever was seen on the face of the earth. His stature was thrice that of man, and in his right hand he carried an oak tree which he had torn from the earth by its roots. It served him for a staff whereon to stay his steps, and for a mace with which to slay his foes. So soon as he spied the Knight he came against him with the oak tree lifted in his hand. On the other hand, the Knight made a vain show of battle, but the strength had departed from his arm, and the heart in him failed for fear. He lifted his sword, indeed, but he had no power to strike. Then the giant aimed at him a mighty blow, such as would have levelled to the ground a tower of stone. Verily, but for the grace and help of God, it had ground him to powder, but he leapt from under it, yet its very wind laid him prostrate on the ground. When the giant saw him lie helpless in this fashion, he lifted his hand again as if to slay him, but the false Duessa, who, for her own ends, would not have the Knight perish in this fashion, cried aloud: “O Orgoglio, greatest of all creatures under the sun, slay him not, but make him your thrall and slave.” The giant listened to this prayer. He took the Knight in his arms and carried him to his castle, and there threw him into a dungeon that had been dug deep into the earth. There he lay for a while, with such scant provision of meat and drink as sufficed to keep the life in him.

The faithful Dwarf had seen his master fall, for he had the Knight’s war-horse in charge, while the beast was grazing in the meadow hard by. And now, the giant having departed with his prisoner, he gathered together the arms and the armour, for these Orgoglio had left lying on the ground as taking no account of such things. There was the helmet and the cuirass, and the greaves and the shield with the cross upon it, and the spear—things sad to behold, now that there was none to wear or wield them. He laid them on the back of the war-horse, and so departed. He had not gone far before he met the Lady Una herself. When she saw him and the war-horse and the burden which it bore, there was no spirit left in her, so that she fell without sense to the ground. Willingly would the faithful Dwarf have died, knowing what ill tidings he bore, and seeing how ill they were taken. Nevertheless he did not lose heart, but with much pain and care sought to recover the lady from her swoon. Thrice did he bring her back to life, and thrice she fell as one dead to the ground. At last, when the spirit within her had somewhat recovered itself, she said with faltering tongue: “Tell me now, faithful friend, the whole story from the beginning, how it is that I see these relics of the bravest knight that ever was. Verily Fortune has spent all her spite upon him and me. Worse than that which I feel in my heart I cannot hear. Begin your tale and carry it to the very end. If haply it shall be in aught less dreadful than what I fear, so much I shall have gained.”

Then the Dwarf rehearsed from the beginning all that had befallen the Red-Cross Knight from the time of their parting, the deceits of Archimage and the wiles of the false Duessa, and the fate of the two lovers who had been changed to trees, and the Palace of Pride, and the combat with Sansjoy, and how the Knight had been taken unprepared by the giant Orgoglio.

To these things the lady listened with attentive ear, and when the Dwarf had ended his tale she said: “Verily I will seek him as long as I live. Lead on, and show me the way that I must go.” So they travelled both together.

They had not journeyed far before they met a knight riding on the way with his squire behind him. Never was there more gallant warrior or more gallantly arrayed. His armour shone like the sun, and across his breast he wore a baldrick richly adorned with precious stones. Costly were they all, but one among them shone most excellently, a great diamond like to the head of a fair lady, brighter than all the rest, even as the star of evening is brighter than all the hosts of heaven. His sword hung from his side in a sheath cunningly made of ivory; its hilt was of burnished gold, and its buckle also of gold. The crest of his helmet was a great dragon, with wings spread out on either side, and above the crest a horse-hair plume, which waved to and fro as an almond tree waves its blossoms in the breath of spring. But the great marvel of his equipment was his shield. It was not made of iron or of brass, as are the shields of common men, but of one great diamond. Only it was covered up from sight. When he would dismay some huge monster, or strike with fear some great array of the enemy, then he would show its brightness. No power of man, no enchantments, strong and subtle as they might be, could prevail against it, or diminish aught of its power, for indeed it was made by the greatest magician that ever lived upon the earth, even Merlin.

The gallant knight spake full courteously to the Lady Una, asking if he could help her or serve her in aught. “Oh, Sir,” she answered, “my sorrow is so great that it is past all remedy. What would it profit to tell the tale? ’Tis best to hide it in my heart nor stir the hidden grief.”

“Nay, lady,” answered the knight, “I doubt not that your grief is great, but I would counsel you to tell the tale for all it is so sad. Pain is ever lessened, be it ever so great, by wise counsel, and he who will not reveal his trouble may never find help.”

So they spake together, he persuading her to reveal her sorrow and she unwilling to bring it to the light, till at last, yielding to his words of wisdom, she told her tale.

“I am the daughter,” she said, “the only child of a king and queen whose kingdom lies far by the river Euphrates. Long did they reign in great prosperity, till a great dragon, bred in the lakes of Tartary, wasted their land till there was nothing left of all that belonged to them, save the one castle in which they dwelt, and to this the dragon has laid siege now for the space of four years. Many knights have taken in hand this enterprise, to subdue the dragon and to deliver those whom he oppresses. From every country under heaven have they come, brave men and famous for great deeds, but they have failed, one and all. For want of faith or for the hidden weakness of some secret sin they have fallen before him. At last there came to our land a report of certain famous knights that had been bred in this realm of Fairy Land. Thereupon I betook myself thither, even to the Court of Queen Gloriana, who dwells in the City of Renown, hoping that I might there find some faithful knight who should deliver my father and mother from the power of the tyrant. Nor did I go in vain. It was my good fortune to find a gallant knight who was fit and willing to undertake this task. Unproved indeed he was, but he was of a fair body and a noble soul. It was he who set forth upon this enterprise. Of his prowess I saw full many a proof. Yea, the sword and the spear which you see on the back of yonder steed might tell, if they could speak, of the great deeds which he has wrought. But by ill chance he encountered a most false magician, by whose arts he was betrayed. First this vile creature made division between my knight and me, so that he misdoubted of my faith. Next he delivered him to the wiles of a certain false woman, Duessa by name. And she has betrayed him into the hands of a great and terrible giant, Orgoglio by name. And in this giant’s dungeon he now lies pining to death. This is my grief, Sir Knight, and greater, surely, never woman bore.”

“Your grief is indeed great,” answered the stranger knight; “but be of good cheer. I will never leave you till I have set your champion free. Come now, let us bring this matter to an end.”

So they rode on together with the Dwarf for their guide. The name of the gallant knight who bore the shield of diamond was Arthur.

CHAPTER VIII
OF THE DEEDS OF PRINCE ARTHUR

When they had travelled a score of miles or so, they came to a castle which was built very high and strong. Thereupon the Dwarf cried out, “This is the place in which my good lord lies a prisoner, the thrall of the giant Orgoglio.” Thereupon the Prince Arthur alighted from his steed, and said to the Lady Una, “Stay here, madam, and await the issue of this day’s combat.” Then, at his bidding, the squire came near to the wall of the castle. He found the gates fast shut, with no warder to guard them, nor was there any to answer when he called. Then the squire took in his hand a bugle that he bore, that hung by his side with a chain of gold decked with gay tassels. It was a bugle of wondrous power; for three miles it could be heard, and there came out of space three answers to its blast, nor could anyone in whose heart there was aught of falsehood endure to hear it without dismay, nor could any bolt or bar, however stout they might be, withstand its summons. This bugle, then, Prince Arthur’s squire sounded before the giant’s castle. And it was shaken straightway from the foundation to the topmost towers, and the doors flew open of their own accord. The giant himself was much troubled at the sound, and came with staggering steps, as one smitten with a sudden fear, to see what it might mean. And after came the false Duessa, riding on a many-headed beast, with fiery tongues, for such a monster the giant had given her for her own.

Prince Arthur without delay addressed himself to the fight. Nor did the giant draw back, being persuaded that no mortal man could stand up against him and prevail. He thought, indeed, to slay him with a single blow, and lifted up his mighty club. But the Prince was wise and wary, and, lightly leaping aside, he escaped the stroke unhurt, for he thought it no shame to use his craft against brute strength. As for the club, so missing its aim, it sank deep into the earth, making a furrow a yard deep and more. The giant pulled at it amain, seeking to lift it for another stroke, but could not prevail, so fast was it buried. The knight, therefore, had him at a disadvantage, and smote him with his sword so deadly a stroke that it shore off his arm. Loud did he bellow with fear and pain, and Duessa, seeing her champion in sore distress, made the great beast on which she sat advance against the Knight. But now Prince Arthur’s squire, a gallant warrior, worthy of such a lord, stood forth and, with his single sword, barred the way. In high disdain to be hindered by so weak a foe Duessa yet again urged on the beast, but still the squire stood firm; he would not give place a single step lest the enemy should so gain an advantage against his lord. Then Duessa had recourse to her magic arts, for she took of the magic juices which she ever carried with her, and sprinkled them upon the youth, and quenched his courage and robbed him of his strength, so that he could neither see nor stand. So he fell all his length upon the earth, and the beast laid his deadly claws upon his neck, and would have crushed the life out of him. But the Knight, perceiving his evil plight, turned quickly from his own adversary, and addressed himself to the beast, for, indeed, it grieved him much that his faithful squire should have come into such peril of his life. So, lifting high the sword with which he had smitten the giant, he smote the beast upon one of its heads, making the blood pour out amain. But when the beast, writhing to and fro in its pain, would have shaken Duessa from her seat upon its back, and she cried out in her fear, the giant came to her help. He was, indeed, of no common nature, nor was he disabled by the wound which would have bereft all other creatures of strength. In the one hand which was left to him there dwelt the strength of the two, and now being free to use again his club of oak, he lifted it up high and dealt such a blow at Prince Arthur’s shield that it brought him to the ground. But now by this very stroke the Knight’s deliverance was wrought, for the covering was torn from the shield by its violence, and all its brightness was revealed. With so great a splendour did it blaze into the giant’s eyes that he dropped his arm and let fall the club with which he was ready to slay his adversary. The beast also was blinded by that brightness, and fell reft of its senses on the ground. Nor when Duessa cried aloud to the giant in her fear could he render effectual help. With stroke after stroke the Prince lopped from him limb after limb, till he lay dead upon the ground. And then this marvel came to pass. This creature which had seemed so vast seemed to vanish away. As for Duessa, she sprang from off the beast, and would have fled away upon her feet. But this the squire would not suffer, for, pursuing her with speedy feet, he laid hold of her and brought her back to the Prince to await his judgment.

And now the Lady Una, who in fear and trembling had watched the combat from a distance, came near and thanked both Knight and squire for the good service which they had rendered. “I cannot repay you,” she said; “may Heaven give you your reward and with usury. Suffer me to say one thing. Let not this false woman depart, for, indeed, she is the cause of all the mischief that has been wrought.” Then Prince Arthur said to his squire: “Take this woman in charge; I will go seek the Red-Cross Knight.” So he departed on this errand, and, entering the castle, sought someone of whom he might inquire. No one did he find, and though he called aloud, there was none to answer. At last there came forth an old man leaning on a staff with which he guided his steps, for the sight of his eyes had failed him long since, and carrying a great bunch of keys, but all of them overgrown with rust. His name was Ignaro. A reverend sire he seemed, and the Knight asked him with all courtesy: “Who are they that dwell in this place, and where may they be found?” “I cannot tell,” he said. Then the Prince asked again: “Where, then, is the Knight whom the giant Orgoglio holds in thrall?” “I cannot tell,” said he again, nor did he say any other words. The Prince’s anger rose at this foolishness, but he checked it as should a courteous knight, and, taking the keys from the old man’s hand, essayed to open the doors, nor did they delay to yield. Great riches he found within—store of gold, and tapestry finely wrought, and much splendid furnishing; but the floor was foul with blood. Vainly did he search through all the chambers; the prisoner he could not find. At last he came to an iron door. It was fast locked, nor was there a key upon the bunch that would open it. But in the door there was a grating of iron bars. Through this he called aloud: “Dwells there anyone in this place, for I will set him free?” To this there came a low voice making this reply: “Who is that who comes? Three months have I lain in this foul dungeon, and if you bring me death itself I would choose it rather than to stay in this place.” When the Prince heard these words he was overcome with horror and pity; not the less, gathering up all his strength, he smote the door, and brake it from its hinges. But when the opening was made, lo! on the other side was no floor but only a deep pit, dark as night, from which there came up a loathsome smell. But neither the pit nor the darkness nor the vile stench abated the Prince’s courage. With much pains and toil he drew up the prisoner from the pit. Sadly wasted was he. He could not stand upon his feet, and his eyes, deep sunk in the sockets, could not bear to look upon the light, and his arms that had been so staunch and strong in the old time were wasted to the bone. So the Prince carried him to the castle door. And when the Lady Una saw him, she was filled with pity and ruth and would have comforted him: “Welcome, my lord,” she cried, “whom I have so long desired to see. Soon shall you have a recompense for all that you have suffered.” “Dear lady,” he made answer, “we will not speak of the evil that is past; only let us beware that we fall not into it again. For, indeed, there is engraven in my heart, as with a pen of iron, this true saying: ‘Happiness may not abide in the heart of mortal man.’”

As for the false Duessa, they were content to strip her of her robes and ornaments. And fouler creature to behold there never was. Then the knights and the squire and the Lady Una tarried awhile in the castle, where they found all things that they needed. So they took for sundry days a rest from their toil.

CHAPTER IX
OF THE HOUSE OF HOLINESS

The time was now come when, having rested sufficiently, the Red-Cross Knight must set forth again, and Prince Arthur, being bound for another land, must bid his companions farewell. Then said the Lady Una: “Tell us now your name and nation, for it would be a great loss not to know to whom we owe so great a debt.” “Fair lady,” said he, “you ask me that which it passeth my wit to answer. This only do I know, that so soon as I was born I was taken by a knight of Fairyland to Timon, now the wisest, as he was once the most expert, in arms among living men, by him to be brought up in all virtuous lore and noble accomplishment. To his house the great Merlin would often come, for he had the chief charge of my upbringing, and he, when I asked him of my family, answered: ‘Be content; you are the son and heir of a king, as shall be made manifest in due time.’” “And how,” said the Lady Una, “came you here seeking adventure?” “You bid me renew an unspeakable grief,” he answered. “There was a time when I laughed at the name of Love, and thought scorn of all that suffered from its power. But there came a time when I myself confessed it. On a certain day, being wearied out with sport, I laid me down to sleep. And in my sleep I dreamt a dream. The Queen of Fairyland stood by my side and told me that she loved me and would show her love when the time should come. Such was my dream; whether it was false or true I know not—only that never in this world did man see so fair a sight or hear words so sweet. And when I woke I vowed in my heart that I would seek her, and never rest till I had found her. Nine months have I sought her, but in vain.” The Lady Una said: “Happy Queen of Fairies that has found so gallant a champion!” and the Red-Cross Knight said: “O sir, to whom I owe my life, if ever man was worthy of such love, you are surely he!”

And now the time was come when they must part. Prince Arthur gave to the Knight a box of diamonds set in gold, wherein were drops of a wondrous liquid of a virtue so excellent that it could heal the most grievous wounds. And the Knight gave to the Prince a book in which the Gospels were written in golden letters.

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.’”

So the Knight went back to Cælia’s abode not a little comforted and encouraged.

CHAPTER X
OF THE SLAYING OF THE DRAGON

The time was now come when the Red-Cross Knight must perform the task which he had taken in hand. He departed therefore from the House of Rest; nor had he journeyed far when the Lady Una said to him: “See now the brazen tower in which my father and mother are imprisoned for fear of the dragon, and lo! there is the watchman on the wall waiting for good tidings.” Scarcely had she spoken when they heard a dreadful sound of roaring, and, looking, they saw the dragon lying on the sunny side of a hill, and he was like a hill himself, so great he was. Nor did he fail to note the glitter of arms, for he was a watchful beast, and made all haste to meet his enemy.

Then said the Knight to Una: “The hour is come; stand aside on yonder hill where you may watch the battle and be safe yourself.”

Meanwhile the dragon came on, half flying and half on foot, such haste did he make. Never was seen upon the earth so terrible a beast. He looked like to a mountain as he came, so much of the earth did he cover, so high did he rear himself in air, so broad a shadow did he cast. He was covered all over with scales as of brass or iron, fitting so close together that neither edge of sword nor point of spear could pierce them. On either side he spread out two great wings like to the sails of some tall ship. Behind was a great tail, wound in a hundred folds and covering full three furlongs. Huge knots it had, each like to a shield, and at the end were two great stings, armed each with deadliest poison. But more cruel even than the stings were his claws, so mighty were they and so sharp to rend asunder all that they should touch; and yet more cruel than his claws was his monstrous head, with rows of teeth, strong as iron, set in either jaw, while out of his throat came forth a smoking breath with sulphurous stench. Deep set in his head were his two great eyes, large as shields and burning with wrath as with fire, like to two broad beacons set upon a hill to give warning of the foe’s approach to all the shires around.

Such was the dragon to behold, and as he came on he might be seen to rear his neck as in pride, while his scales bristled with anger—a dreadful sight, which made even the Knight’s bold heart grow cold for a space with fear. But not the less boldly did he address himself to the fight. Laying his spear in rest he charged with all his might. Full on the monster’s carcase struck the spear, but could not pierce those scales, so stout and closely set they were. Only so shrewd was the blow that the dragon felt the shock within: never had such been dealt to him before, though he had met many a gallant knight in combat. So he spread wide his wings, and, lifting himself in air, circled round till, swooping down, he seized Knight and steed with his claws and lifted them from the earth. For a whole bow-shot’s length he carried them, but then was constrained to loose them, so fierce the struggle which they made. So you may see a hawk, when he has pounced upon some bird that is too heavy for his flight, carry his prey awhile, but is then constrained to drop him from his claws. Again did the Knight, so restored to the earth, charge his foe. Again did the spear glance aside, though there was the force as of three men in the blow. Yet was not the thrust all in vain. So fierce was the shock that the dragon was constrained to raise his wing, and there, where the flesh was bare of shelter, the spear point made a grisly wound. The beast caught the spear shaft with his claws and brake it short, but the head stuck fast, while the blood poured out amain. Then, in his rage, he vomited forth great flames of fire, and, bending round his tail, caught the Knight’s horse by the legs, and he, fiercely struggling to free himself, threw his rider to the ground. Ill content with this fall, for it seemed as a dishonour to him, he snatched his sword—of his spear he had been bereft—and smote the dragon on his crest. The crest did not yield to the blow, so stoutly was it cased about, but the creature felt the shock through all his mighty frame. Yet again the Knight smote him, and once more the sword glanced aside as if from a rock of adamant, yet was not the labour spent in vain, for now the beast, seeking to avoid his enemy, would have raised himself in air, but that the wounded wing could not perform its office. Then, in his fury, he brayed aloud, and vomited forth from his throat so fierce a flame that it scorched the face of the Knight, and set his beard on fire, and seared his flesh through his armour. Grievous was the pain, and scarcely to be borne, not less than that which Hercules of old endured when the fiery robe steeped in the Centaur’s blood wrapped him round.[1] He stood astonished and helpless. And when the dragon saw how he fared he dealt him a great blow with his tail, and so brought him headlong to the ground. Then, indeed, it had gone ill with him, but for the happy chance that behind him there was a spring which sent forth a stream of water, silvery bright and of great virtue for the healing of all wounds and sicknesses. Men in the old time, before the dragon had wasted the land, called it the Well of Life, and though it was now for the most part forgotten, yet had it not lost its healing powers. It could restore him that was wasted with sickness, ay, and raise the dead. There was no spring on earth that could be matched with it. But of this the dragon was unaware—how should he know of such things?—only when he saw his adversary fall headlong into the water he clapped his wings for joy. This the Lady Una saw from the hill whereon she sat watching the fight. Sorely did it dismay her. Nevertheless she did not wholly lose her hope, but prayed all night to God that it might yet be well with the Knight.

When the next morning dawned in the sky she looked, and lo! her champion stood all refreshed and ready for the fray. Nor did the dragon draw back from the encounter. Straightway the Knight, lifting high his sword, dealt a great blow at the monster’s crest, and this time, whether the sacred spring had given a keener edge to the steel or had put new strength into the arm which wielded it, it did that which never steel had done before, for it made a great yawning wound. Then the dragon, wrought to fury by the pain, lifted his tail high over his head, and brought down upon his adversary the deadly double sting which lay in the end. Through the shield it made its way, and fixed itself in his shoulder. Grievous was the smart, but the Knight, thinking only of victory and honour, did not flinch beneath it, but, gathering all his strength, shore off the furthest joints of the tail, so that not the half of it was left. But not yet was the battle won. For now the dragon laid his two mighty claws upon the Knight, seizing his foot with one and his shield with the other. Sorely was he now beset, for though with a blow of his sword he rid himself of the one claw, the other held him fast. At the same time there burst forth from the monsters mouth such blasts of fire, such clouds of smoke, that he was constrained to retire a little backward, and so, retiring, he slipped in the mire and fell. Yet the matter turned to his good, for the same Spring of Life refreshed and healed him as before, nor did the dragon dare to come near, for he could not have aught to do with a thing so pure and holy. And so the second day came to its ending.

This night also did the Lady Una pray for her Knight throughout the hours of darkness, and the morning found her watching as before. But with the third day came a speedy end to that fierce encounter. The dragon, full of rage to be so baulked of his prey, ran at the Knight with mouth wide open as if to swallow him alive. And he was not slow to seize the occasion, for his foe had laid bare before him its most vital part. Right into the monster’s mouth he drove his sword with all the strength that was in him. Nor had he need to strike again, for the monster fell as falls some cliff which the waves of the sea for many years have worn away. High and strong it seems to stand, but it falls far and wide in sudden ruin.

There is no need to tell in many words how the king and queen of that land came forth from their prison with great gladness, and how the people of the land rejoiced to be rid of so foul a tyranny, and how the Lady Una seemed to be fairer than ever when she came forth in her robe of state, and how the Knight and she were duly betrothed. “Fain would I stay,” said the Knight, “but I am under promise to Queen Gloriana to serve her for six years against the infidel.” “So be it,” said the king of the land, “go, keep your promise as becomes a noble knight, and know that when you shall return you shall have my daughter to wife and my kingdom also, for this I have ever purposed in my heart, that he who should deliver it from the foul tyranny should have it for his own, for none could be more fit.”

CHAPTER XI
OF SIR GUYON AND THE LADY MEDINA

Archimage did not suffer long from his overthrow by Sansloy, for he had devices at his command by which he could recover himself from all sicknesses, howsoever sore they might be. And, being recovered, he set himself to do some hurt to the Red-Cross Knight, who, by this time, had bidden farewell to the Lady Una, and was journeying to render service to Queen Gloriana.

As he was travelling with this purpose in his heart, he came upon a very noble knight, clad in armour from top to toe, who was riding slowly along the road, reigning back his horse’s pace to suit the steps of a venerable pilgrim, who journeyed by his side. Archimage laid his hand upon the neck of the knight’s horse and said: “Sir Knight, I pray you to help one who is sadly in need of succour for himself and for another, of whom he is in charge.” And while he spoke he made great pretence of fear and trouble, trembling and weeping.

“Speak on,” answered Sir Guyon, for this was the knight’s name. “Speak on, and I will not fail to help you, and the other of whom you speak.”

“Oh, sir,” said Archimage, “I am a squire, and I have a lady in charge to deliver her to her parents, but there is a certain evil-minded Knight who hinders me. I know not what I shall do, and she goes in deadly fear that some great harm will happen to her.”

“And where is the lady?” asked Sir Guyon.

“Come, sir,” the false squire made answer, “and I will bring you to her.” So the two went together, and found a lady sitting under a tree, weeping sore, with her garments all dishevelled and torn.

“Fair lady,” said Sir Guyon, “it troubles me much to see you in this plight. But take heart; I will surely call him who has done you any wrong to strict account. But let me hear your complaint.”

So she told him her tale. And when she had ended he said: “But who is this man; by what name or by what signs shall I know him?”

“His name,” said she, “I know not; but this I know, that he rode upon a steed of dappled grey, and that he carried a shield of silver with a red cross upon it.”

“Now by my head,” cried Sir Guyon, “I know this same Knight, and I wonder such that he should have behaved so ill. He is a good Knight and a true, and, I hear, has won great renown in the cause of a fair lady. I was myself present in the Queen’s court when he took this task upon himself, which he has now performed with great honour. Nevertheless, I will try him in this matter, and he must needs either show that he is free from blame, or make due amends.”

Now she that made all this show of grief was the false Duessa, and Archimage had found her wandering in miserable plight after Prince Arthur had dealt with her as has been told above. And having found her, he decked her out with robes and ornaments, and made her to appear passing fair, such arts he had. This he did because she helped him much when he would tempt a knight into evil ways.

“And now, squire,” said Sir Guyon, “can you lead me to the place where the Knight of whom you make this complaint may be found?”

“That can I,” said Archimage; and he led him to a shady valley hard by, in the midst of which was a stream both clear and cold, and on the bank of the stream sat a knight with his helmet unlaced, who drank of the water as one who was resting after a long journey. “Sir,” said Archimage, “yonder is the evil Knight; he would fain hide himself from the punishment of his deeds.”

Then Sir Guyon addressed himself to the fight, and the Red-Cross Knight likewise. But ere they encountered each other they stayed their hands: “Pardon me, fair sir, that I had well-nigh set my spear against the sacred badge which you bear upon your shield.”

“And I, too,” answered the Red-Cross Knight, “would likewise crave pardon for like violence to that fair image of a maiden which is your device.”

Then they held converse together. Sir Guyon told his tale, but when he had ended it he looked, and lo! the false squire, the deceiver Archimage, had fled, knowing that his device had come to naught. And now the pilgrim that bore Sir Guyon company came up, and when he saw the Red-Cross Knight, he said: “Fair son, God give you praise and peace for ever. You indeed have won your place; but ours is yet to win.”

“His be the praise,” answered the Red-Cross Knight, “by whose grace I am what I am.” So they parted with much courtesy, going each his several way.

After a while they came to a fair castle by the sea where the Lady Medina had her dwelling, Sir Guyon toiling painfully on foot, because, when he was helping an unhappy traveller, a knave had stolen away his horse. This Lady Medina was one of three sisters, and of the three Elissa was the eldest and Perissa the youngest. These two were always at variance, not a little with Medina, but still more with each other, and she being always of an equal mind, and wise conduct, had the chief authority in the place, though, indeed, their father had left it to the three in equal shares. Elissa had for lover a certain Sir Hudibras, a famous knight, but in deeds scarce equal to his high repute. He had a most mighty body and sturdy limbs, but his wit was small. Perissa’s knight was Sansloy, of whom mention has already been made. Never was man more reckless, indeed, more careless of right and wrong. So soon as these two heard that a stranger knight was come to the castle, then they issued forth to fight with him, their ladies following; yet such was their folly that even on the way they fell out and joined in deadly fray, to the great disturbance of the house. Much did Sir Guyon marvel as, entering the hall, he saw the fray.

“This,” said he to himself, “must have an end,” and, carrying his shield on his left arm and with his right hand unsheathing his sword, he ran in between the two. They with one consent turned their arms against him, just as a bear and tiger in the desert plains of Africa, when some traveller comes in sight, leave their strife and fall upon him with one mind. It was a strange fight indeed, and Sir Guyon had fared ill, but for his surpassing strength and courage, and even these might have failed him in a conflict so unequal, but that the Lady Medina, hearing in her bower of what had befallen, ran forth, with bare bosom and dishevelled hair, and fell on her knees and besought them to abate their strife: “Now, my lords!” she cried, “by the mothers that bare you, and by the love that you have for your fair ladies, and by the knighthood to which you owe your homage, I beseech you to put away this fury and to be at peace among yourselves.” So she besought them, and though the two sisters stood by, not helping a whit, but rather stirring up each her champion to fiercer wrath, she prevailed. The knights let fall their swords, and bowed their heads before her, and vowed to do her bidding. Then she, fearing that their resolve might be unstable, bound them by a treaty, which they, on their part, swore, on their knightly honour, that they would keep for all time to come.

This done she bade them all, both knights and ladies, to a fair banquet. And when they had had enough of meat and drink, she said: “Tell us, Sir Knight, on what errand you are come and what end you seek.”

Then said Sir Guyon: “What you ask brings to my mind that great Queen, fairest and best of all that are in the wide world. She is wont to make a great feast on the first day of the New Year, to which come all knights that seek adventure and desire to gain honour for themselves. At this feast, at the beginning of the self-same year, I was present; and it came to pass that this pilgrim whom you have bidden with me to your feast, stood forth before the Queen, and made his complaint of a certain wicked fairy that wasted the land wherein he dwelt, and wrought great damage to its inhabitants. And when he had ended the Queen set this task to me, unworthy as I am. Nor did I refuse to take it in hand. Now the name of this wicked fairy is Acrasia. Three times has the moon waxed and waned since that day, and I have already seen full proofs of the mischief which she works. To subdue her, therefore, and to bring her captive into the presence of Queen Gloriana is the purpose which I set before myself.”

Then, the night being now far spent, all the guests betook themselves to sleep.

CHAPTER XII
HOW SIR GUYON CAME INTO GREAT PERIL

Many perils did Sir Guyon encounter, which it would take too long time to tell. Nor were there perils only of battle, such as befell in the meeting of pagan knights and the like. For such he was well prepared; never did sturdier champion lay spear in rest or wage war at close quarters with his sword. Force could not overcome him, but he could be led astray by fraud. So it was when, in his journeyings, he came to a broad water, which seemed to bar his way. While he stood at the water’s brink, wondering how he might win his way farther, suddenly there was seen hard by a little boat rowed by a fair damsel. When he had told his need she said: “Be content, fair sir; step you aboard and I will take you to the place which you desire.”

So Sir Guyon, nothing doubting, stepped into the boat. But when he would have taken his guide, the pilgrim, with him, he was denied. “Nay, nay,” said the damsel, “we have not space for the old man on this journey.” And even while she was speaking the boat was already far from the land, for indeed it was a magic craft; nor could he even say farewell.

The two had pleasant converse awhile, for the damsel was gay and debonair, and the knight courteous. Nevertheless, he somewhat misliked her manner, and when in a short space they came to the other side of the water, he perceived that he had been led astray, and was not a little displeased. “Lady,” said he, “you have done me a wrong. This is not the place which I sought; I did not think when I followed your bidding that you would so deceive me.”

“Sir Knight,” she answered, “he that will travel by water cannot always command his way; winds and waves will not answer to his call: the sea is wide, and ’tis easy to go astray thereon. Yet here, methinks, you may abide awhile in peace.”

So Sir Guyon stepped upon the shore, though he was but half-content to find himself in such a plight. Nevertheless, he could not but perceive that it was a right pleasant place to which he had come, for the ground was covered with flowers, and the trees were green with the fresh leaves of spring, and the sweet singing of birds was heard on every side. And fairer and more pleasant than all else was the damsel of the boat; nevertheless, Sir Guyon was ever on the watch, nor would he suffer himself to be beguiled. “Maybe,” he said to himself, “this fair dame designs to turn me from my quest. Why did she, as by design, part me from my guide? Why did she turn me aside from the way in which I desired to go? This was more, I doubt not, than an idle whim.” She, on the other hand, perceived that she had failed of her intent, and was, in truth, as willing that he should go as he was eager to depart. So after a while she said: “Fair knight, I perceive that it irks you to abide in this place. Suffer me, therefore, to carry you to the other shore.”

Well content, he stepped into the boat, and was ferried across in the shortest space of time. So he passed through this peril, it seemed, without hurt, save indeed that he had lost his guide, for the damsel in her craft took him to a place far from where the guide had been left; and this losing of the guide was, as will be seen, a very sore hurt indeed.

After a while he came to a gloomy valley covered in on all sides from the light of heaven with the thick branches of trees. And here, in the deepest and darkest shade, he saw sitting a man of a most uncouth and savage aspect, having his face all dark with smoke, and his eyes bleared, and the hair of his head and his beard covered with soot. His hands were black as the hands of one who works in a forge, and his nails were like to claws. He had an iron coat, all rusty above, but underneath of gold, and finely wrought with curious devices, though, indeed, it was covered with dust and grime. In his lap he had a mass of golden coin, which he counted, turning over each piece as if he would feed his eyes with the delight of seeing them. Round about him were great heaps of gold, some of them of rude ore, not yet smelted in the furnace, and some smelted newly, in great squares and ingots, and others in round plates without device; but for the most part they bore the devices of ancient kings and Cæsars. When the man beheld Sir Guyon he rose as in great fear, as if he would hide this precious store from a stranger’s eyes, and began to pour it into a great hole that was thereby. But Sir Guyon, leaping forward, caught him by the hand, and, though he was not a little dismayed by the things which he saw, restrained him.

“Man,” he said, “if, indeed, man you are, why sit you here apart, hiding these piles of wealth, and keeping them from being rightly used by men?”

“Truly,” answered the man, “you are bold and careless of yourself thus to trouble me. Know that I am the god of this world, the greatest god under heaven, Mammon by name. From me come riches and renown, powers and honours, and all things which men covet upon earth. Know, then, that if you will serve me, all these mountains of riches shall be yours; and if these do not content you, I will give you tenfold more.”

“Mammon,” answered the knight, “in vain do you boast your godhead; in vain do you offer me your gifts. Keep them for such as covet such idle things, and look for a more fitting servant. I am of those who regard honour and strive for kingdoms; fair shields and steeds gaily bedight and shining arms are pleasant to my eyes.”

“Do you not perceive,” answered Mammon, “O foolish knight, that money can furnish all these things in which you delight? Shields, and steeds, and arms it can provide in the twinkling of an eye; ay, and crowns and kingdoms also. I can throw down into the dust him that sits upon the throne, and I can lift up to the throne him that lies in the dust.”

“But I,” said Sir Guyon, “have other thoughts of riches; that infinite mischiefs spring from them—strife and debate and bloodshed. No crowns nor kingdoms are yours, but you turn loyal truth to treason; you break the sacred diadem in pieces, and rend the purple robe of kingship. It is of you that castles are surprised, great cities sacked and burned, and kingdoms overthrown!”

Then Mammon waxed wroth and cried: “Why, then, are men so eager to obtain a thing so evil? Why do they so complain when they have it not, and when they lose it, so upbraid?”

And when the knight answered these questions by telling of how in the old time man was content without riches, and how he had been corrupted by the lust of gold and silver, Mammon replied: “Nay, my son, let be these stories of ancient days. You who live in these latter times must be content to take your wage for the work you do. Come now, you shall have what you will of these riches; and if you like them not, then you are free to refuse. Only, if you refuse, blame me not afterwards.”

Then said the knight, for, being but mortal man, he was touched by the sight of great riches: “I would not take aught that is offered me unless I know that it has been rightly got. How can I be assured that you have not taken these things unlawfully from the rightful owner?”

“Nay,” cried Mammon, “that is but idle talk. Never did eye behold these things, never did hand handle them. I have kept them secret both from heaven and from earth.”

“But,” said the knight, “what place is large enough to hold such store, or safe enough to keep it from robbery?”

“Come and see,” answered Mammon. And the knight followed him, but he had done more wisely to stay behind.

Mammon led him through the depths of the wood, till they came to a secret way which was hollowed out in the earth. This they entered and followed awhile, till they came to where it opened out into a wide plain. Across the plain there was a broad highway which led to the dwelling of Pluto. On either side of this road were dreadful shapes—Pain holding an iron whip, and Strife with a bloody knife in his hand, and Revenge, and Treason, and Jealousy. Fear, also, was there, ever trembling, and seeking in vain where he might hide himself, and Sorrow, crouching in darkness, and Shame, hiding her face from every eye. So they came at last to a narrow door, which stood fast shut, with one which was yawning wide open hard by. The narrow door was the door of riches, and the wide the door of hell. This opened to Mammon of its own accord; and Sir Guyon followed him, fearing nothing. But behind the knight there followed close a monstrous fiend, watching him, that he might do him to death if he should lay a covetous hand or cast a longing eye on anything he might see; for such was the law of the place. The walls and the floor and the roof were all gold, but covered with dust and decay; and piled up on every side were huge chests of iron, bound all of them with double bands, and on the floor were the bones of dead men, who, in time past, had sought to win some spoil for themselves, and so had come by their death. But not a word did Sir Guyon speak. So they came to a great door of iron; this, too, opened to them as of its own accord, and showed such a store of wealth as could not be seen in all the world beside. Then Mammon turned to the knight and said: “See now the happiness of the world; here is that for which men strive and struggle. Lo! I lay before you all that you can desire.”

The knight answered: “I do refuse your proffered grace. I seek not to be made happy in such fashion. I set before mine eyes another happiness. I seek another end; I would spend my life in brave deeds. I desire rather to be lord of them who have riches than to have them for myself.”

Mammon gnashed his teeth to hear such an answer, for he had thought that the sight would overcome the soul of any mortal man, and that being so overcome the knight would be his prey. But not yet did he give up all hope. He led him into yet another chamber, in which were a hundred furnaces all ablaze, and at every furnace strange creatures busy at work. Some worked the bellows which raised the fire to white heat; and some scummed off the dross from the molten gold, and some stirred it with great ladles. But when they saw the shape of mortal man, they all ceased from their work, and looked at him with wondering eyes. And he was not a little dismayed to see them, so foul and hideous were they to behold.

Then Mammon spoke again: “See now what mortal eye has never seen before. You would know whence come the riches which men so fervently desire. Look, here you see their source and origin. Here is the fountain of the world’s whole wealth. Think, and change your mood, lest haply hereafter you may wish and not be able to obtain.”

Said the knight, “Mammon, once more I refuse the thing which you offer. I have all that I need; why should I ask for more? Suffer me to follow my own way.”

Great was Mammon’s wrath to hear his offers so refused, but he would try yet another temptation. He took the Knight into a very lofty, spacious chamber in which was assembled a great company of people from every nation under heaven. All of them were pressing forward with great uproar to the chamber’s upper end, where, upon a dais, was set a lofty throne. On the throne there sat a woman gorgeously attired, clad in such royal robes as never were worn by earthly prince. Right fair of face was she to behold, of such a beauty that she seemed, as it were, to make a brightness in the chamber. But the beauty was not indeed her own. It was but a pretence, cunningly devised to delude the hearts of men. In her hand she held a great chain, of which the upper end was fastened to the sky, and the lower went down into hell. All the crowd that thronged about her sought to lay hold of this same chain, hoping thereby to climb to some high estate. Some were fain to rise by the help of riches, and some by flattery, and some by help of friendship, but all thought only of themselves. And they that were high kept others down, and they that were low would not suffer others to rise; every man was against his fellow.

Then said Sir Guyon: “What means this that I see? What is this throng that crowds about the lady’s throne? And the lady, who is she?”

Mammon answered: “That fair lady about whom these people crowd is my own dear daughter. Her name is Philotime (which, being interpreted, is Love of Honour). She is the fairest woman on the earth, could you but see her in the upper air, for the darkness of the place hides her beauty. Her, if you will, you shall have to wife, that she may advance you to high dignity.”

“I thank you, sir,” said the knight, “for the honour which you design for me. But I am only mortal man, and not fit match for an immortal mate. And were it otherwise, my troth is given to another, and it would ill become a loyal knight to break his faith.”

Again was Mammon greatly moved to wrath, but he hid it in his heart, and led the knight into a garden full of herbs and trees, not such as earth puts forth, in the upper air, to delight the souls of men: but such as have about them the atmosphere of death. The cypress was there, and the black ebony, and hemlock, which unjust Athens gave in old times to Socrates, wisest of mortal men. These were gloomy to behold. But in the midst was a tree, splendid with apples of gold. Hercules planted it with the apples which he won from the garden of the daughters of Atlas, and it bore fruits which were the occasions of strife, such as that which Discord threw among the guests at the marriage-feast of Peleus and Thetis. “For the Fairest!” was written on it. Hence came the strife of the goddesses, and the Judgment of Paris, and the stealing of Helen, and the bringing to the ground of the towers of Troy.

Much did the knight marvel to see the tree, for it spread its branches far and wide across the garden, and even beyond the garden’s bounds; for it was compassed about with a great mound. And the knight, desiring to see all that could be seen of so strange a place, climbed upon the bank and looked. And lo! there flowed below it a dark and dismal stream, which men call the River of Wailing. In this he saw many miserable creatures; and one he noted especially, who was always clutching at the fruit which hung from the tree, and making as though he would drink from the stream; and still the fruit seemed to draw back from his hand and the water from his mouth. The knight, seeing him so tormented, asked him who he was and how he came to be in such a plight.

“I am Tantalus,” answered the wretch, “the most miserable of all men; in old time I feasted with the gods, and now I die of hunger and thirst.”

Looking a little further he saw one who sought to wash in the stream hands covered with filth; but for all that he washed they were not one whit the cleaner. And when the knight inquired of him who he might be, he answered: “I am Pontius Pilate, most unjust of judges. I condemned most unrighteously the Lord of Life to die, and washed my hands to show that I was innocent of his blood, but in truth I was most guilty.”

Then Mammon, coming to him again, said: “Will you not even now take of the good things which I offer you, for yet there is time?”

But Sir Guyon was aware of his guile, and would not. “Take me back,” he said, “to the place from which I came,” and Mammon was constrained to obey, for it was not permitted to him to keep the knight or any man against his will. He led him back, therefore, to the upper air; but as soon as Sir Guyon felt the wind blow upon his face, for want of food and sleep he fell into a swoon, and lay without sense upon the ground.

CHAPTER XIII
OF TWO PAGAN KNIGHTS

While Sir Guyon was beholding the wonders of the house of Mammon, his faithful guide, the pilgrim, was seeking him, and came by happy chance, or leading of the powers above, to the place where he lay. Sore troubled he was to see him in so sore a plight, for indeed he lay as one that was dead. Nevertheless, feeling his pulse with trembling hand, the pilgrim found that it still did beat. Thereat greatly rejoicing he tended him with all care and kindness.

While he was busy with this tending, he lifted his eyes and saw two knights riding towards him clad in bright armour and an old man pacing by their side. The two were brothers, Pyrochles and Cymochles by name, and the old man was Archimage. Well he knew who they were, for Sir Guyon had done battle with the two in the time past, and had vanquished them, nor did he doubt that the old man, for all his reverend looks, was a wicked sorcerer. And they, too, knew who he was, and that the knight who lay upon the ground was their whilom adversary, Sir Guyon. And first Sir Pyrochles cried aloud: “Old man, leave that dead man to us. A traitor and a coward he was, while he was yet alive; and now he lies dishonoured!”

“Nay, Sir Knight,” answered the pilgrim, “you do wrong so to revile the dead. He was a true knight and valiant in the field, as none know more surely than yourself.”

Then said the other pagan, Cymochles: “Old man, you dote. And, indeed, what know you of knighthood and valour? All is not gold that glitters; nor are all good knights that know how to set spear in rest and use the sword. Let a man be judged by his end. There he lies dead on the field, and the dead are nothing worth.”

Pyrochles spoke again: “Ay, he is dead and I must forego the vengeance that I vowed to have upon him. Nevertheless, what I can that will I have. I will despoil him of his arms. Why should a dead body be arrayed in so noble a fashion?”

“Nay, Sir Knight,” cried the pilgrim, “I pray you not to do so foul a deed. ’Tis a vile thing to rob the dead. Surely it would better befit a noble knight to leave these things to be the ornament of his tomb.”

“What tomb?” cried Pyrochles, in his rage; “the raven and the kite are tomb enough for such as he.”

Thus speaking, he laid a rude hand upon Sir Guyon’s shield, and Cymochles began to unlace his helmet. But while they were so busied, they chanced to spy a knight of gallant mien and bravely accoutred, riding towards them, with a squire behind him, who carried a spear of ebony and a covered shield. And Archimage, so cunning was he, knew him from afar, and he cried to the two brothers: “Rise, prepare yourselves for battle. Here comes the sturdiest knight in all the world, Prince Arthur. Many a pagan has he laid low in battle. You must use all your skill to hold your own against him.”

So the two made themselves ready for battle. And now the strange knight rode up, and with all courtesy made his salute to the company, to which greeting the two brothers made but a churlish return. He said to the pilgrim: “Tell me, reverend sir, what misfortune has befallen this knight. Did he die in course of nature, or by treason, or in fair fight?”

Said the pilgrim: “He is not dead, but in a swoon that has the likeness of death.”

Then Prince Arthur, turning to the two brothers, said with all courtesy: “Valiant sirs, who, I doubt not, have just complaint against this knight, who lies here dead, or seeming dead upon the ground, will you not abate your wrath awhile? I would not challenge your right, but would rather entreat your pardon for this helpless body.”

“But who are you?” said Cymochles, “that make yourself his daysman? Who are you that would hinder me from wreaking on his vile carcase the vengeance which I should have required had he lived? The man is dead, but his offence still lives.”

“It is but true,” said the Prince, “that evil lives after death, and that the curse goes down even to the third and fourth generation, so stern is the judgment of God. But yet the knight who raises his hand against the dead, sins against his honour.”

But Pyrochles made reply: “Stranger, you make yourself a sharer in the dead man’s crime.” And as he spoke, he lifted his great sword and dealt a blow which, but that the Prince’s horse swerved aside, had surely laid him on the earth. He reeled somewhat in the saddle, but so true was his seat, still kept his place.

Great was his wrath at such treacherous attack. “Traitor,” he said, “you have broken the law of arms, so to strike without challenge given, and you shall suffer such penalty as befits.” So speaking, he thrust his spear, and thought with that one thrust to end the battle. And so, indeed, it would have fallen out, but for Sir Guyon’s shield, which the pagan carried. Yet even through this, with its seven folds, did the spear-head pass, and pierced Pyrochles’ shoulder, and drove him bleeding to the earth.

When Cymochles saw what had happened, he leapt forward in great wrath, crying: “Now, by Mahomet, cursed thief! You shall pay for this blow!” and smote him on the crest so mightily that he had no chance but to leave his saddle, else had his head been cleft in twain. Now was the Prince in no small distress, for what could he do with his spear alone against two stalwart knights? For sword he had none, and they too were both fully armed, and well skilled in fight, unwounded one, and the other wounded indeed, but only made thereby more furious. Bravely did he bear himself, and bravely held his own, wounding now this adversary and now that, yet did not himself escape without hurt, for Cymochles wounded him sorely in the side, so that the blood flowed out amain. And when the brothers saw it, they rejoiced greatly, thinking that the end had come. But now the pilgrim, seeing that the Prince was hard bested, and all for want of a sword, came near and put Sir Guyon’s blade into his hand, saying, “My son, God bless your right hand; use the sword as he that owns it would have used!”

Right glad was the knight to have this help, and advanced himself with new courage to his task. He smote first this brother and then that, and both so fiercely that, though they were two against one, they could not hold their own, but began to give way. Only the Prince was at this disadvantage that, when Pyrochles held out against him the shield of Sir Guyon with the likeness of Queen Gloriana on it, his hand retreated and forebore the stroke. Once and again was the pagan saved thereby from instant doom. But for all that the appointed hour drew nigh. Cymochles, thinking to end the battle, smote the Prince upon the hauberk. So fierce was the blow, that it broke the links of the mail in twain, and made the Prince to reel, as he had never reeled before. But his courage rose all the higher, and his strength seemed to be doubled. High in the air he lifted Sir Guyon’s sword, and smote the pagan’s helmet so fiercely that he shore it in two, and the steel pierced to the brain, so that he fell dying to the ground.

When Pyrochles beheld what had befallen his brother, he was so filled with rage that he cast away all caution and care, and rushed in madman’s fashion upon the Prince. And now might be seen how an evil deed finds its recompense. The sword which the pagan carried was, in truth, the Prince’s own, which had been filched from him by craft. Now Archimage had warned the knight before, saying: “Use not this blade against its rightful lord; it will not serve your will.” And well he knew that he spoke the truth. But Pyrochles had laughed him to scorn, saying:

“You think too much, old man, of magic charms and words.”

Yet now he found that the old man’s words were true. So perceiving that he smote to no purpose, he threw the sword down and leapt upon the Prince, and caught him round the middle and thought to throw him to the earth. But he strove to no purpose, for the Prince surpassed him both in strength and in skill, so that he was thrown to the ground, whereon he lay helpless as a bittern in the claws of an eagle. Full of rage he was, but he did not move nor cast a look upon his conqueror. But the Prince, full of courtesy and kindness, said: “Pagan, this is an evil day for you; but if you will give up your false faith, and yield yourself to be my liegeman for ever, I will give you life in reward for your courage, and blot out from my memory all your misdeeds.”

“Fool,” cried the pagan in his rage, “I defy your gift; use your fortune as you will, slay me, for I would not live at your behest.” And the Prince, much against his will, smote him that he died.

And now Sir Guyon, waking from his swoon, saw the pilgrim at his side, and cried out with joy, “Dear friend, for lack of whose guidance I have wandered long, how gladly do I see you again. But where are my shield and my sword?” Then the pilgrim told him what had befallen, and the knight rendered his thanks to the Prince right courteously, and he as courteously received them.

CHAPTER XIV
OF QUEEN ACRASIA

All day the two journeyed together with much sweet converse, and, when it was evening, they came to a fair castle, of which the gate was fast barred. So the Prince bade his squire wind his horn under the castle wall, which thing he did with such a will, that a watchman straightway looked forth from an upper storey; but the gate was barred as before. “What want you, strangers?” he asked.

“We seek shelter for the night,” answered the squire.

“Fly,” cried the man, “fly, my friends, for your lives. Willingly would I give you shelter, but this is no safe abiding place, so closely and fiercely do our enemies assail us. Truly many knights, coming as you have come this day, have perished miserably.” And while he was speaking a thousand villainous creatures swarmed up from all the rocks and caves about, armed in the strangest fashion, some with pikes, and some with clubs, and some with stakes hardened in the fire. Fiercely they rushed at the knights and their company, and for a while drove them back by mere force of numbers. But soon they were forced to fly, and though they came again and again, yet before the night fell they departed and left the travellers in peace. And now the castle gate was opened wide, and the lady of the place, Alma by name, coming to the door with a fair company of knights and dames, bade them welcome. Then she showed them her castle, which was marvellously well-ordered in all its parts. There was a noble hall in which the guests—and there was already gathered a goodly company of knights and ladies—were entertained; and a library where there was a great store of goodly books, and all other things which the heart of man could desire.

On the morrow, Sir Guyon and his guide set forth again, but Prince Arthur tarried behind, desiring to help the Lady Alma against the enemies who sought to take her castle. And this he did in such a fashion that she was troubled no more with them. Yet of his great deeds I will not further speak, being rather concerned with the doings of Sir Guyon, who was indeed now come to the accomplishment of his task.

First they came to a great water, where there was a ferry-boat ready prepared for their coming. In this they embarked and set forth, a stout ferryman being at hand to manage the craft. Two days they sailed and saw no land; but on the third day, as the light began to dawn in the East, they heard the sound of a great roaring. Now the pilgrim held the tiller and steered the craft. To him said the ferryman: “Pilgrim, steer an even course; there is a dangerous place which we must pass across,—on the one side is a great whirlpool, and a ship that comes too near it is sure to sink, and on the other a great rock of magnet, which, if we keep not a due distance, will draw us to itself. Steer then so that we may not fall into this danger or into that.”

Right skilfully did the pilgrim steer, and great was the need. The whirlpool, indeed, showed no sign of what had happened there before, for all was swallowed up in its depths; but on the rock they saw the ribs of ships which had been broken upon it, and the bones of men lying in its clefts. And birds of prey, mews and cormorants and the like, sat watching for such spoils as should come. Right willingly did they pass from that place of death. And when the ferryman, plying his oars with sturdy strength, had rowed awhile, Sir Guyon cried, pointing with his hand: “I see land yonder; steer thereto, good sir.”

“Nay,” said the ferryman, “it is not so. That is no land which you see, but what men call the Wandering Islands. Many men have come to their deaths through them. They seem firm ground, fairly grown with trees and grass and flowers; but let a man once set his foot upon them, he can never recover it again.”

So they journeyed on in a straight course, and in so doing came to one of these islands, whereon they espied a fair lady sitting. On the rock she sat, and she had a little boat hard by. “Come hither, my friends,” she said. “I have somewhat here which I would show you, and which you would willingly see.”

But Sir Guyon said: “Nay, nay. We are otherwise minded; this is the Lady of the Lake who caused me to be parted from my guide.” So they passed on, and took no heed. But when, after a while, they passed hard by another island, on which sat a maiden in sore distress, as it seemed, Sir Guyon’s heart was moved; for was it not a good knight’s part to succour ladies in distress? “Steer thither,” he cried.

“Not so. This damsel in distress is but a show; no damsel she, but some ill creature ready to devour any that she may deceive.” So they passed on, nor did they halt when, passing by a pleasant bay, they heard a sound of sweet singing.

“O Guyon,” such was the song which they heard, “flower of chivalry, most famous of all knights upon earth, turn thy bark hither, and rest awhile.”

“Listen not,” said the pilgrim, “they do but seek to lure you to your death.”

These things past, they came to the place for which they were bound. And the pilgrim said: “This, Sir Knight, is the place where you must contend for the mastery. Take your arms, and make yourself ready, for the hour of trial is at hand.”

And now the ferryman drove the boat upon the shore, and Sir Guyon and his guide stepped out upon the sand. Straightway they heard a hideous bellowing as of savage beasts, and soon the beasts themselves came in view, threatening as if they would devour them. But no sooner did the pilgrim hold out his staff than they ceased their roaring, and humbled themselves to the ground. And now they came to the Bower of Bliss, a place most daintily adorned with all that could please the eye. The porch by which they entered was of ivory cunningly adorned with carved work, in which was told the story of Jason and Medea; how he sailed in the good ship Argo, and how he won the love of the king’s daughter, and how she helped him to win the fleece of gold from the dragon which guarded it, and how she fled with him over the sea. And when they had passed through the porch they came to a very fair meadow, adorned with the fairest trees and flowers. And the meadow being passed they came to another gate, where there sat a comely damsel, who pressed the clusters of a vine which hung above her head into a cup. This cup she proffered to the knight, and he, suspecting evil in all that seemed most fair and pleasant, took it from her hand, and threw it violently on the ground, so that it was broken into many pieces, and all the liquor was spilt.

Sir Guyon and the Men in Bestial Shapes.

Many other tempting sights did they see, and all the knight passed by unscathed, the pilgrim not ceasing on occasion to give counsel and warning. So at last they came to the most sacred place of the Bower, where the queen herself, Acrasia by name, had her abode. Fair she was beyond all words and daintily arrayed, and at her feet there lay a goodly knight asleep. He was of goodly aspect, just come to the years of manhood, with the down newly sprung upon his cheeks and his lips. His arms hung idly on a tree hard by, but his shield was without an emblem, as if he had put away the purpose of his life.

Sir Guyon and the pilgrim drew near, none seeming to heed them, so occupied were they with the pleasures of the place. And then the pilgrim threw over the queen and the knight a net which he had cunningly prepared for that same purpose. Fast did it hold them for all their struggles, neither force nor art could avail them, though they strove with all their might. The queen being thus captured, they bound her with chains of adamant, for nothing else could hold her safely; but the knight they soon set free, for he was of a noble nature, though it was much decayed by evil ways, and he was willing to take to himself good advice and counsel. And the beauty and glory of the Bower did they deface and spoil, the goodly carvings they broke in pieces, and cut down the pleasant groves. As for the beasts, when the pilgrim raised his staff over them, they left their bestial shapes and came back to their own, for, indeed, they were men whom this same evil queen had changed to the forms and thoughts of beasts. So did Sir Guyon perform the command of Queen Gloriana.

CHAPTER XV
BRITOMART

Sir Guyon returned to rest awhile in the castle of the Lady Alma, where also he had Prince Arthur for companion. Acrasia he sent to Queen Gloriana under a strong guard, lest perchance her friends and followers, of whom there was great multitude, should seek to deliver her. After a while the two knights set out again on their journey. Many good deeds they did, helping the weak and setting right the things that were wrong. It happened on a certain day that they espied a knight riding towards them, with an aged squire by his side, who seemed too weak for the burden which he bare. The knight had a shield with the device of a lion on a field of gold. Sir Guyon said to Prince Arthur, “Let me, I pray you, have this turn.”

So he put his spear to rest, and charged, and the stranger did likewise. They met full and fair; Sir Guyon’s spear, so fast and furious was the onset, was like to pierce the stranger’s shield, but this it did not avail to do, nor did it drive the stranger from his seat: nevertheless he was somewhat shaken. On the other hand, Sir Guyon himself was carried back, ere he was aware, nigh upon a spear’s length behind the crupper of his saddle, yet without hurt to life or limb. Nevertheless his anger was great, for never since the day when he first bore arms as a knight had he been dismounted in such fashion. And indeed, if he had known the whole truth of the matter, his anger had been both less and greater; less because the spear by which he had been overthrown was of the magic sort, and greater, because the knight by whom he had been overthrown was no man, but a maid, even the famous Britomart. Full of rage he was and hot to do away his disgrace, as leaping from the ground he drew his sword. And now the pilgrim in great haste came between the knight and his purpose, for being a holy man and wise, he perceived that there was some marvellous power in that same spear-point. This indeed he did not disclose, for it was not lawful so to do, but he made other pretence: “Nay, Sir Knight, it were ill advised to seek amends with your sword for the mischance of your spear. If haply your steed swerved somewhat to the side, or your page was somewhat careless in the ordering of your equipage, why should you be so carried away by wrath; for, remember, you have no quarrel with this knight.”

With such prudent counsels did the pilgrim pacify Sir Guyon’s wrath. Thus concord was made between the two, in which the prince also was joined.

When they had journeyed awhile Prince Arthur and Sir Guyon set off on an adventure of their own, to rescue some fair lady in distress. But Britomart, finding that they two would suffice for that enterprise, on which her own mind was in nowise set, rode on without company until she came to a fair castle, with a meadow before the gate, on which she saw six knights setting upon one. He was not a little pressed by such odds, yet in nowise dismayed. Indeed, the six dared not to stand up against him face to face, so shrewd were the blows which he dealt them, but sought to take him at a disadvantage from behind. Britomart endured not to see such knavish work, but setting spurs to her horse and crying aloud, “Have done with such foul tricks,” made all haste to help. And when they ceased awhile from the attack, she said to the single knight: “How comes it, sir, that you do battle in such fashion and at such odds?”

“Sir,” he made answer, “these six would have me swear that the lady of this castle hard by is fairer than the lady whom I love. Now that I utterly refuse; I had sooner die than break my plighted word in such a fashion.”

Then said one of the six, speaking for his fellows: “In this castle which you see there dwells a lady of such a beauty that none in all the world can be compared with her. She has ordained this law, that any knight coming to this place, if he have no lady-love already, shall vow himself to her service; but if he have such a lady-love, then he shall confess that she is of less grace and beauty, or failing so to do, shall do battle with us.”

“By heaven!” cried Britomart, “this is a hard choice! And tell me, pray, if this knight be obedient to this same law, what reward shall he have?”

“He shall have the lady’s fair regard. But tell us, sir, for yourself—have you a lady-love?”

“That,” said Britomart, “I answer not; whether I have such or have not, I pay no such homage as you ask to your lady. Rather, I take up this good knight’s cause against you.” And even while she spoke, she rode at one of the six and laid him low upon the ground, and then at another, and then again at a third, with the like end. Meanwhile the knight had discomfited the fourth. And the two that were left were fain to sue for peace. “See,” said Britomart, “how truth and honour prevail!”

Then was Britomart taken into the castle and received with great honour. Yet she misliked the place and the company, for that they both seemed unduly given over to ease and luxury. Nor would she doff her armour, nor, indeed, do aught but raise the visor of her helmet. And when the lady of the place, seeing that the stranger was very fair and of a noble presence, bore herself as one greatly enamoured, she departed in great discontent. The six knights would fain have stopped her going, and one of them, Gardanté by name, shooting with an arrow, for to come to closer quarters was not to his mind, wounded her in the side. But he and his companions received manifold more hurt than they gave, not only from Britomart, but from the strange knight and Sir Guyon also, for they, hearing the tumult, came to her help.

As they journeyed, it came into Sir Guyon’s mind to inquire of his companion concerning her condition, and how she came to be wandering in these parts. Britomart was not a little disturbed by this questioning. For a while she was silent, and could make no answer, but trembled and blushed, no knight but a very woman. But when the passion had passed, and she had gathered her strength together, she said: “Sir Knight, I would have you know that from a child I have been trained in things of war, to carry a shield, and to put spear in rest, that the life of ease, which women, for the most part, follow, pleased me not; and as for fingering the fine needle and the slender thread, by heaven! I had sooner be struck dead by a foeman’s spear! And so, all my heart being set on deeds of arms and perilous adventures, by sea and by land, wheresoever they might be met, I came from my own country, which men call the Greater Britain, into this land. For it was told me that in this same fairy land many such adventures were to be found, and much glory and honour won thereupon. And now, courteous sir, I would ask you one question: Know you, perchance, of one Artegall, for he has done me a wrong for which I would fain requite him?”

Scarcely had she spoken the words, when she fain would have called them back. But Sir Guyon, taking them up with no small heat, made answer: “Fair warrior, surely you do ill to accuse so true and loyal a knight as is Sir Artegall with ill-behaviour. Truly of all who have ever taken part in tilt or tourney, there is not one that stands in better repute than he. It were indeed the greatest of marvels that he should do an unworthy act, or even think in his heart an unworthy thought. And if you have come with such a purpose in your heart, then I say that you have journeyed far on a false errand.”

Now Britomart, in her secret heart, was glad to hear such praises of Sir Artegall. For, indeed, as will be seen, she loved him, and it was her woman’s craft, by speaking ill of him to his friends, so to call forth his praises. And when, with this thought in her heart, she had again uttered some injurious words concerning him, Sir Guyon answered: “It would be well, lady, that you should listen to reason in this matter. Truly he is not one whom you can compel by force to do this thing or that, for there is not, I take it, a knight upon earth that can match him in equal fight. And, indeed, for what you ask me, where is Sir Artegall to be found, I cannot tell you. He is not one who will remain for long time in any certain place; rather he wanders round the world, seeking occasion for great deeds, by which he can help to right such as suffer wrong.”

Britomart was greatly pleased to hear such praises of the knight. Still she dissembled the matter and said: “Whether it be easy or hard to find the man I know not; but at least I would know how I may profitably seek him. Tell me some mark by which I may know him, the manner of his shield, the fashion of his arms, the bearing of his steed, and other things by which I may certainly know the man should I chance to encounter him.” Then Sir Guyon told her all that she would know, and she, listening to all that he said, found it most welcome to her heart.

CHAPTER XVI
OF MERLIN’S MAGIC MIRROR

There was a certain king of old time in the land of Deheubarth, which men now call South Wales. His name was Ryence, and he had for his principal counsellor one Merlin, who was a great magician. This Merlin made by his art a wonderful mirror, which was so contrived that he who looked in it could see anything from the lowest parts of the earth to the highest part of the heavens, if only it concerned him. If a foe contrived any evil against him, if a friend had used any falsehood in respect of him, there he could see it plainly set forth. This mirror Merlin gave to the king for a protection, that if at any time an enemy should invade his dominions, he should know of his design before tidings could come to him from without, and so should be able to be beforehand with him. Never had prince a more noble present, nor one more worthy of reward, for there could be no treason within the realm or enmity without but that it came straightway to the king’s knowledge.

Now Britomart was the daughter of King Ryence, and it chanced on a certain day that she came into his closet, for he kept nothing secret from her, seeing that she was his only child and the heir of his kingdom, and there saw Merlin’s mirror. She had seen it indeed not once or twice only, and knew its virtues. There came into her head the thought that she might see therein the image of the man who should be her husband. Such a thought maidens are wont to entertain, and Britomart, being her father’s only child, and knowing that she would one day come to the kingdom, was the more curious in this regard, nor had she had to that time any thought of one man more than of another. So looking into the mirror she saw a very comely knight, armed cap-à-pie. He had the visor of his helmet up, showing a face that would strike fear into an enemy and be loving to a friend. He was tall of stature, and bore himself with a manly grace. For his crest he had a hound couchant, and his armour seemed of ancient fashion, massive and strong to look at; on it was written in old letters these words, “The Arms of Achilles which Artegall did win.” The shield was of seven folds, and it bore an ermilin crowned, white on a field of blue. The maiden looked and liked well what she saw, and went her way, not knowing—such was the simplicity of her age—that she had seen with her eyes the fate that should rule the fortunes of her life. That keen archer Love had wounded her with his arrow, but she knew it not. Yet from that day she began to droop. No longer did she carry herself with princely pride. Sad and solemn was she, and full of fancies, yet knew not why. That she ailed somewhat she was well aware, but thought it was not love, but some passing mood of melancholy. Such was she by day, and at night, when she laid herself down to rest, sleep fled far from her eyes. She kept a sorrowful watch as the hours of the night went by, and she watered her couch with her tears; and if, when nature was worn out with these long watchings, she fell into some brief slumber, then some fearful dreams would come and bring with them a worse unrest.

One night her nurse, Glaucé by name, caught her in her arms as she was leaping from her bed, and held her down by force. “Ah, my child,” she cried, “how is it that you are in this evil plight? What is it that has changed your cheerful mood to this sadness? Surely there is some cause for these troubles that haunt you by night, and drive away sleep from your eyes. And in the days when your equals in age disport themselves, you mope in solitary corners, and have no enjoyment of your princely life. I doubt much whether the cause be not love; yet if the love be worthy of your race and royal birth—and that it is I seem to myself to read by many signs and tokens—then I do swear most solemnly to help you. Away, dear child, with your fears! Neither danger or death shall keep me from bringing you due relief.” Then she caught the maid in her arms, and embraced her in all tenderness, and chafed her limbs to drive away the cold, and kissed her eyes, still entreating that she should show the secret of her heart. For a while the maid was silent; then she said, “Dear nurse, why should you grieve for me? Is it not enough that I must die? Must you die also?”

“Talk not of dying,” cried the nurse; “never was wound yet for which no salve could be found. The god who has wounded you has, I doubt not, in his quiver another arrow for your lover’s heart.”

So they talked together; the maid would have it that there was no remedy for her trouble; the old nurse still steadfastly affirmed that the cure could easily be found. At last the damsel told the secret of her grief, as it seemed to her: “Alas, dear mother,” she said, “it is no living man whose image dwells in my heart and makes this pain; it is but the shadow and semblance of a knight; I saw him one day in the magic mirror of the king my father; this is the baited hook which, as some foolish fish, I swallowed; it is this thought that brings me to my death.”

“Is this all, my daughter?” cried the nurse; “then is nothing strange or against nature here. Why should you not set your heart on one who seemed so worthy of your love?”

“Oh, mother,” answered the girl, “I seemed to myself like the Greek boy of old who saw his own face in the fountain and perished miserably.”

“Nay,” cried the nurse, “he was but the lover of a shadow, and rightly faded into a flower. But of this image which you saw, there is, be sure, a substance somewhere, and there are arts by which it may be found. And now, dear child, let me give you my counsel. If you can banish this thought from your mind till the convenient time be come, then do so. If it is too strong for you, then I vow and promise that, by one means or another, I will find this very knight whose image you beheld.”

The maid was somewhat encouraged by these words, and slept awhile. But on the morrow, and as the days went by, the old trouble came again, and Glaucé, seeing that neither words nor prayers, nor strange spells of the magic art, for such she tried, were of any avail, judged that some other remedy must needs be found. What this remedy might be she long doubted in herself. At last it seemed to her that he who had made the mirror, that is to say, the wise magician Merlin, might tell her in what land the knight of the image might dwell, for though he dwelt in farthest Ind, yet find him she would. Forthwith these two, that is to say, Glaucé and the maiden Britomart, disguised themselves in mean attire, that no one might learn their purpose, and betook themselves to Maridunum, where, in a cave which he had hollowed out for himself beneath the earth, so as to escape from the curious eyes of men, Merlin had his abode. When they were come to the place they stood awhile without, in doubt and fear, whether they had done well in making so bold a venture.

At last the maid, moved by love, which is ever bold, led the way, and Glaucé following, they stood within the cave. There they found the magician busy on some wonderful work, for he was writing strange characters on the ground, the spells by which he bound the spirits of the earth to his service. He was not one whit moved at their coming, of which, indeed, he was aware beforehand, for indeed by his art he knew the secret thoughts of others. Nevertheless he made as though he knew not their errand, saying: “Tell me now on what business you are come?”

Then Glaucé answered: “Blame us not, kind sir, that we have thus disturbed you in your solitude, coming thus unbidden, but the need was great.”

“Speak on,” said Merlin.

Then she began: “Three months have passed since this maiden here began to sicken of some strange disease. What it is, and whence it began, I know not; only this I know, that unless you can find some remedy she must shortly die.”

The magician smiled at her woman’s craft, knowing well that she had in her heart that which she would not tell. “Madam,” he said, “I take it from what you say that this damsel has more need of the physician’s art than of any skill of mine. They who may find a remedy for their trouble elsewhere, do ill to have recourse to the magic art.”

The old dame was not a little disturbed by these words, but yet was loath to show her true purpose. “Sir,” she said, “the trouble has taken too strong a hold on this maiden’s life that the physician’s art could work a cure. I fear me much that some bad spell has been cast upon her. Some witch or evil spirit has done this thing; therefore it is that we seek your help.”

When he heard these words Merlin could no more contain himself, but laughed aloud. “Glaucé,” he said, “what avails this pretence by which you seek to hide your purpose? And you, fair Britomart, why have you thus disguised yourself in mean attire, as the sun hides himself behind a cloud? You have come, by the ordering of Fate, to the very place where you shall find the help which you need.” The maiden, hearing her name so called, blushed a rosy red; but the nurse, not one whit dismayed, but rather taking heart at Merlin’s words, said:

“Sir, if you know our troubles, and, indeed, what is there that you do not know, have pity upon us, and help us in our need.”

Merlin sat silent awhile, for many thoughts were in his mind. At last he spoke: “Most noble maid, who have learned to love in this strange fashion, be not dismayed by this hard beginning of your life. It was no chance look, O Britomart, in the mirror of the king your father, but the unchanging course of the purposes of Heaven, that showed you this image. Believe me, it is no ill-fortune that you love this noble knight. Submit yourself, therefore, to the purposes of God, and be content to do His will.”

Then said Glaucé: “Tell us, man of wisdom, what means she shall use, what ways she shall take, to find this man. Or has she no need of toil, but may sit still while her fate is fashioned for her?”

“The fates,” answered Merlin, “are firmly fixed; not the less it becomes those whom they concern to do their own endeavour, and to be fellow-workers with God.” Then he told Britomart the true name and lineage of Sir Artegall, how that he was son to Gorloïs, King of Cornwall in time past, and brother to Cador, then king of the same land. Then he turned to Britomart and opened to her the future, how she should be wife to Sir Artegall, and how from them would come a line of kings who should reign with great glory. Many things that should come to pass in after days, both good and evil, did Merlin unfold to her.

CHAPTER XVII
HOW BRITOMART TOOK TO ARMS

From Merlin’s cave these two, Britomart and Glaucé, her nurse, went back to their own home. There they consulted together many days how they might best carry out their purpose of seeking Sir Artegall. At last Glaucé said: “My daughter, I have conceived in my heart a scheme, somewhat bold, I must confess, yet such as may be accomplished if you are both brave and prudent. And above all things, it is in good accord with the conditions of these present days. You must know that the good King Uther has of late made war against the pagan brothers, Octa and Oza, who are newly come to this country from the lands which lie about the Northern Sea, and has won a great victory over them and their people, and that all Britain is now in a great flame of war. My counsel therefore is, seeing that armed men are everywhere, let us make ourselves as armed men. Let our hands, weak though they be by nature, learn to handle the spear and the sword, nor shall we fail therein, for there are no scholars so apt as they who have need for their teacher. And, indeed, my daughter, you are one who should easily learn such matters, for you are both tall and strong, and need practice only, which being had, you should be as truly martial a maid as you could wish. Nor is such a thing unknown in the race from which you come. Such was the bold Boadicea, who reigned in old time over the Iceni, for she made haughty Rome to tremble before her, and others, as Gwendolen and Emmilen. Hear also this thing which I saw with my own eyes. On the battlefield at Menevia, where King Uther last fought against the pagan hosts, there was a Saxon virgin who thrice struck to the earth the great Ulfin himself. Verily she had slain him as he lay, but that Caradoc held her hand, and Caradoc himself had much ado to escape from her without hurt.”

“Tell me, I pray you, her name,” said Britomart.

“They call her Angela,” the nurse made answer, “and she is as fair as she is strong. She is the leader of a tribe who are more to be feared than all other Saxons; they call themselves Angles.”

Much was the maiden moved by this tale, so that she made her resolve, unknown to her father, to take upon herself all the duties and adventures which were fitting to a knight. And she said to her nurse: “See, Glaucé, that you have all things ready that are convenient to my new estate.” And this Glaucé did with all readiness and care. Fortune also helped in the matter; for about this time a band of Britons, being abroad on a foray, took a great spoil of Saxon goods, and among them goodly armour decked with gold, and arms of proof which belonged to the Saxon queen Angela. These spoils King Ryence commanded to be hung up in the chapel of his palace, that they might be a memorial for all time of the great victory which God had given to his arms. Into this same chapel Glaucé led the maiden Britomart late in the night when no one was near, and taking down the armour, clad her in it, and she gave her the arms also, chief among these being a wonderful spear which King Bladud had made by magical arts many years before. This virtue it had, that whosoever might be struck by the point thereof, could not stay in his saddle, but must be borne to the ground. And when Glaucé had so furnished the maiden with due equipment of war, then she took for herself such arms and armour as befitted a squire, and put them on. This done, they left the place by secret ways, unseen of any. Thus did it happen that Britomart came in guise of a knight into the company of Sir Guyon and the Red-Cross Knight.

Not long after this they parted from each other, for the Knight had an errand of his own, and Britomart was bent on the finding of Sir Artegall. Many miles did she ride, and through many lands did she travel, till at last she came to the shore of the sea. There she lighted from off her horse and bade Glaucé unlace her helmet, and sat down upon a rock to rest awhile and refresh herself with the breeze that blew from off the waves. And as she sat, she thought within herself: “Ah me, how like is love to this restless sea! How shall my frail bark escape where there are so many dangers, and no certain guide?” So she spake to herself, sighing the while; weep she would not, for tears, she thought, did not become a knight. But Glaucé comforted her, calling to her mind what Merlin had prophesied about the things to come. Nor were these words in vain; but there soon befell a thing which roused her more than many words. She spied a knight in shining armour riding towards her in all haste, with his spear in rest as one that had some hostile purpose. Quickly she mounted her horse, and bade Glaucé lace her helmet, and addressed herself without delay to battle. Now, by the time she had put her shield in place and made ready her spear, the knight was close at hand.

“Sir Knight,” said he, “know you that you travel on this road against my strict commands? I suffer not any to pass by this way. Others who have so trespassed have come by their death. Therefore I counsel you to go back while there is yet time.”

She made answer in few words: “Let them fly who have need for flight. You may frighten children with your words. As for passing by this way, I am prepared to do it, even without your leave. Verily, I will pass or die.” Scarcely had she spoken when the stranger knight rode at her with his spear in rest. He smote her full on the breast, and she bowed her head, so fierce was the stroke, till it well-nigh touched the crupper of her saddle. But her counter-stroke was deadlier by far. The spear-point passed through his shield and through his cuirass, and, glancing thence, pierced his left side. The power of the stroke bore him from the saddle, and laid him bleeding on the ground, where he lay wallowing in his blood. So fell the knight, Sir Marinell, upon the shore which he called his own. And Britomart rode on; and as she went she saw pearls and precious stones of every kind, and ingots of gold half buried in the sand. Much she wondered to see such riches, but she would not descend for a single hour. What were jewels or precious stones or gold to her, that they should hinder her in her quest?

The story of Sir Marinell, briefly told, is this. His mother was a daughter of Nereus, God of the Sea, and his father a mortal man. He was reared up in arms, and became a great and famous knight. And he had for his possession this same shore; a place in which Nature of her own will had set much riches, pearls and precious stones and the like, and to which, by the ordering of Nereus, great store of the treasure which the sea swallows up through shipwreck was brought, for his daughter made request of the same for her son. This coast, then, he most jealously guarded against all comers. And being, as has been said, valiant and strong and expert in arms, and also because he knew the place and was able to take a new-comer unawares, he seemed to be invincible. Many knights, seeking to pass along the coast, for, indeed, the fame of its treasures was spread abroad, were slain, and yet more, being vanquished in battle, for life’s sake, submitted themselves to him, and became vassals and servants to him. One hundred knights, men of name all of them, were so bound to his service. In the end, Sir Marinell, what with the multitude of his riches, and the pride of having so many knights of renown at his beck and call, became not a little puffed up, and his mother, knowing that the wise man had said of old, “Pride goeth before a fall,” would fain know how he might be kept from mischief. So she went to a certain god of the sea, Proteus by name, who had the gift of foretelling things to come. And Proteus said to her: “My daughter, keep this thy son from all womankind, for from a woman he shall have a deadly hurt.” And the mother, taking these words to be spoken of woman’s love, set her son’s mind against all such things, and did most carefully keep him from all company of women. And he, to do her pleasure, obeyed her in this matter, yet could not so escape his fate. And this fate was all the harder, because this knight was beloved of a fair and virtuous maiden, Florimell by name, whom he might have wedded much to his joy and profit. Of this same Florimell more shall be told hereafter.

Britomart, after having thus vanquished Sir Marinell, still went on her quest, and came at night to the castle of a certain Malbecco. To this same place there had also come, earlier by the space of an hour or so, two other knights, Sir Paridell and Sir Satyrane. It was this same Satyrane that helped the Lady Una in her wanderings when she was parted by evil chance from the Red-Cross Knight. To them Sir Paridell’s squire had said: “My lords, you will not find entertainment here. The master of this castle, Malbecco by name, is a mere churl, and hates all company, and this for two reasons: the first of these reasons is that his mind is wholly set on riches, and he hates all doings by which they may seem to be wasted; and the second is that he, being old and crabbed, is wedded to a very fair young wife, whom he would fain keep from the sight of all eyes but his own. Verily he keeps her as in prison.”

When Sir Paridell heard the squire’s story, he said: “Why do we suffer this old dotard to behave himself in this churlish fashion? ’Twere better to kill the villain and spoil his home.”

“Nay,” said Sir Satyrane, who was a loyal and true knight, and would fain bear himself honestly to all men; “we will first gently entreat this man to give us entertainment. And if he will not listen to gentle words, then will we threaten him; for some who heed not fair words will take account of foul. And if we accomplish nothing either by entreaties or by threats, then we will make our way into his dwelling by force, and deal with him as he deserves.”

“So be it,” said Sir Paridell, and coming to the gate he knocked. “Sir Porter,” he said, “two knights seek shelter and entertainment.”

Now the porter was Malbecco himself, for it was his custom to play the porter’s part. He answered: “All in this house, my friend, are now gone to their beds, and the keys have been taken to the master of the house, and he also is in his bed, nor is there anyone so bold that would venture to wake him from his sleep. I pray you, therefore, to be patient and to seek entertainment elsewhere.”

The two knights were not a little wroth at this fellow’s churlishness, but knew not what they should do, for he took no heed, neither of blandishments nor of threats. And while they parleyed with him, the sky was overcast, and there came so bitter a blast of wind and so fierce a storm of rain and hail that they were constrained to depart and seek shelter in a little hut that was near at hand, being a sty for pigs. While they were faring as best they could in this place, there came another knight to the castle gate. He also sought for entertainment and was denied, and he also, under compulsion from the storm, sought shelter in the hut. And when, the place being indeed already filled, he was not suffered to enter, he fell into a great rage.

“Nay,” said he, “this will I not suffer. Either I will lodge with you, or you shall be dislodged. Choose then whether of these two things ye will have.” The two knights scarce knew how they should answer him. They liked not to deny him lodging, and they liked not to yield to his boasting. But of the two Paridell was the less disposed to take the matter patiently.