Ali Baba's son thought it was necessary to make some return to these civilities, and pressed his father to invite Cogia Hassan to supper. Ali Baba made no objection, and the invitation was accordingly given. The artful Cogia Hassan would not too hastily accept this invitation, but pretended he was not fond of going into company, and that he had business which demanded his presence at home. These excuses only made Ali Baba's son the more eager to take him to his father's house; and after repeated solicitations, the merchant consented to sup at Ali Baba's house the next evening.

A most excellent supper was provided, which Morgiana cooked in the best manner, and as was her usual custom, she carried in the first dish herself. The moment she looked at Cogia Hassan, she knew it was the pretended oil-merchant. The prudent Morgiana did not say a word to any one of this discovery, but sent the other slaves into the kitchen and waited at table herself; and while Cogia Hassan was drinking, she perceived he had a dagger hid under his coat.

When supper was ended, and the dessert and wine on the table, Morgiana went away and dressed herself in the habit of a dancing-girl; she next called Abdalla, a fellow slave, to play on his tabor while she danced. As soon as she appeared at the parlor door, her master, who was very fond of seeing her dance, ordered her to come in to entertain his guest with some of her best dancing. Cogia Hassan was not very well satisfied with this entertainment, yet was compelled, for fear of discovering himself, to seem pleased with the dancing, while, in fact, he wished Morgiana a great way off, and was quite alarmed lest he should lose his opportunity of murdering Ali Baba and his son.

Morgiana danced several dances with the utmost grace and agility; and then drawing a poniard from her girdle, she performed many surprising things with it, sometimes presenting the point to one and sometimes to another, and then seemed to strike it into her own bosom. Suddenly she paused, and holding the poniard in the right hand, presented her left to her master as if begging some money; upon which Ali Baba and his son each gave her a small piece of money. She then turned to the pretended Cogia Hassan, and while he was putting his hand into his purse, she plunged the poniard into his heart.

"Wretch!" cried Ali Baba, "thou hast ruined me and my family."

"No, sir," replied Morgiana, "I have preserved, and not ruined you and your son. Look well at this traitor, and you will find him to be the pretended oil-merchant who came once before to rob and murder you."

Ali Baba pulled off the turban and the cloak which the false Cogia Hassan wore and discovered that he was not only the pretended oil-merchant, but the captain of the forty robbers who had slain his brother Cassim; nor could he doubt that his perfidious aim had been to destroy him, and probably his son, with the concealed dagger. Ali Baba, who felt the new obligation he owed to Morgiana for thus saving his life a second time, embraced her and said, "My dear Morgiana, I give you your liberty; but my gratitude must not stop there: I will also marry you to my son, who can esteem and admire you no less than does his father." Then turning to his son, he added, "You, my son, will not refuse the wife I offer; for, in marrying Morgiana, you take to wife the preserver and benefactor of yourself and family." The son, far from showing any dislike, readily and joyfully accepted his proposed bride, having long entertained an affection for the good slave Morgiana.

Having rejoiced in their deliverance, they buried the captain that night with great privacy, in the trench along with his troop of robbers; and a few days afterwards, Ali Baba celebrated the marriage of his son and Morgiana with a sumptuous entertainment. Every one who knew Morgiana said she was worthy of her good fortune, and highly commended her master's generosity toward her.

During a twelvemonth Ali Baba forbore to go near the forest, but at length his curiosity incited him to make another journey.

When he came to the cave he saw no footsteps of either men or horses; and having said, "Open Sesame," he went in, and judged by the state of things deposited in the cavern that no one had been there since the pretended Cogia Hassan had removed the merchandise to his shop in the city. Ali Baba took as much gold home as his horse could carry.

Afterwards he carried his son to the cave and taught him the secret. This secret they handed down to their posterity; and using their good fortune with moderation, they lived in honor and splendor, and served with dignity some of the chief offices in the city.

A quaint and interesting cycle of animal stories was formed in the Middle Ages with the fox, called Reynard, as the hero or central character. Their origin was not different from that of the cycles that grew up concerning such popular heroes as King Arthur, Robin Hood, Charlemagne, and Siegfried; but one difference at least may be observed—Reynard is always represented as evil, though clever and successful. These stories of Reynard have furnished material for many workers in the field of literature and they have generally served as a vehicle for satire. Indeed, there was much satire in the original versions of the folk. Perhaps the greatest of these modern recensions is that of the German poet Goethe. The best version for use with children is that made by Sir Henry Cole ("Felix Summerley") and edited more recently by Joseph Jacobs in his usual masterly fashion. The introduction to this edition gives just the facts that the reader needs for understanding the significance of the Reynard cycle.



399

It may be noted that King Lion, after hearing many complaints about Reynard's evil ways, decides to bring him to court for trial. The first special constable sent to summon Reynard was Bruin the Bear, and now we are to learn—

HOW BRUIN THE BEAR SPED WITH REYNARD THE FOX

The next morning away went Bruin the bear in quest of the fox, armed against all plots of deceit whatsoever. And as he came through a dark forest, in which Reynard had a bypath, which he used when he was hunted, he saw a high mountain, over which he must pass to go to Malepardus. For though Reynard has many houses, yet Malepardus is his chiefest and most ancient castle, and in it he lay both for defense and ease. Now at last when Bruin was come to Malepardus, he found the gates close shut, at which after he had knocked, sitting on his tail, he called aloud, "Sir Reynard, are you at home? I am Bruin your kinsman, whom the King hath sent to summon you to the court, to answer many foul accusations exhibited against you, and hath taken a great vow, that if you fail to appear to this summons, your life shall answer your contempt, and your goods and honors shall lie confiscate at his highness's mercy. Therefore, fair kinsman, be advised of your friend, and go with me to the court to shun the danger that else will fall upon you."

Reynard, lying close by the gate, as his custom was for the warm sun's sake, hearing those words, departed into one of his holes, for Malepardus is full of many intricate and curious rooms, which labyrinth-wise he could pass through, when either his danger or the benefit of any prey required the same. There he meditated awhile with himself how he might counterplot and bring the bear to disgrace (who he knew loved him not) and himself to honor; at last he came forth, and said, "Dear uncle Bruin, you are exceeding welcome. Pardon my slowness in coming, for at your first speech I was saying my even song, and devotion must not be neglected. Believe me, he hath done you no good service, nor do I thank him which hath sent you this weary and long journey, in which your much sweat and toil far exceeds the worth of the labor. Certainly had you not come, I had to-morrow been at the court of my own accord, yet at this time my sorrow is much lessened, inasmuch as your counsel at this present may return me double benefit. Alas, cousin, could his Majesty find no meaner a messenger than your noble self to employ in these trivial affairs? Truly it appears strange to me, especially since, next his royal self, you are of greatest renown both in blood and riches. For my part, I would we were both at court, for I fear our journey will be exceeding troublesome. To speak truth, since I made mine abstinence from flesh, I have eaten such strange new meats, that my body is very much distempered, and swelleth as if it would break."

"Alas, dear cousin," said the bear, "what meat is that which maketh you so ill?"

"Uncle," answered he, "what will it profit you to know? The meat was simple and mean. We poor men are no lords, you know, but eat that for necessity which others eat for wantonness; yet not to delay you, that which I ate was honeycombs, great, full, and most pleasant, which, compelled by hunger, I ate too unmeasurably and am thereby infinitely distempered."

"Ha," quoth Bruin, "honeycombs? Do you make such slight respect of them, nephew? Why it is meat for the greatest emperor in the world. Fair nephew, help me but to some of that honey, and command me whilst I live; for one little part thereof I will be your servant everlastingly."

"Sure," said the fox, "uncle, you but jest with me."

"But jest with you?" replied Bruin, "beshrew my heart then, for I am in that serious earnest, that for one lick thereat you shall make me the faithfullest of all your kindred."

"Nay," said the fox, "if you be in earnest, then know I will bring you where so much is, that ten of you shall not be able to devour it at a meal, only for your love's sake, which above all things I desire, uncle."

"Not ten of us?" said the bear, "it is impossible; for had I all the honey betwixt Hybla and Portugal, yet I could in a short space eat it all myself."

"Then know, uncle," quoth the fox, "that near at hand here dwelleth a husbandman named Lanfert, who is master of so much honey that you cannot consume it in seven years, which for your love and friendship's sake I will put into your safe possession."

Bruin, mad upon the honey, swore, that to have one good meal thereof he would not only be his faithful friend, but also stop the mouths of all his adversaries.

Reynard, smiling at his easy belief, said, "If you will have seven ton, uncle, you shall have it."

These words pleased the bear so well, and made him so pleasant, that he could not stand for laughing.

Well, thought the fox, this is good fortune. Sure I will lead him where he shall laugh more measurably; and then said, "Uncle, we must delay no time, and I will spare no pains for your sake, which for none of my kin I would perform."

The bear gave him many thanks, and so away they went, the fox promising him as much honey as he could bear, but meant as many strokes as he could undergo. In the end they came to Lanfert's house, the sight whereof made the bear rejoice. This Lanfert was a stout and lusty carpenter, who the other day had brought into his yard a great oak, which, as their manner is, he began to cleave, and had struck into it two wedges in such wise that the cleft stood a great way open, at which the fox rejoiced much, for it was answerable to his wish. So with a laughing countenance he said to the bear, "Behold now, dear uncle, and be careful of yourself, for within this tree is so much honey that it is unmeasurable. Try if you can get into it; yet, good uncle, eat moderately, for albeit the combs are sweet and good, yet a surfeit is dangerous, and may be troublesome to your body, which I would not for a world, since no harm can come to you but must be my dishonor."

"Sorrow not for me, nephew Reynard," said the bear, "nor think me such a fool that I cannot temper mine appetite."

"It is true, my best uncle, I was too bold. I pray you enter in at the end, and you shall find your desire."

The bear with all haste entered the tree, with his two feet forward, and thrust his head into the cleft, quite over the ears, which when the fox perceived, he instantly ran and pulled the wedges out of the tree, so that he locked the bear fast therein, and then neither flattery nor anger availed the bear. For the nephew had by his deceit brought the uncle into so false a prison that it was impossible by any art to free himself of the same. Alas, what profited now his great strength and valor? Why, they were both causes of more vexation; and finding himself destitute of all relief, he began to howl and bray, and with scratching and tumbling to make such a noise that Lanfert, amazed, came hastily out of his house, having in his hand a sharp hook, whilst the bear lay wallowing and roaring within the tree.

The fox from afar off said to the bear in scorn and mocking, "Is the honey good, uncle, which you eat? How do you? Eat not too much, I beseech you. Pleasant things are apt to surfeit, and you may hinder your journey to the court. When Lanfert cometh (if your belly be full) he will give you drink to digest it, and wash it down your throat."

And having thus said, he went towards his castle. But by this time, Lanfert, finding the bear fast taken in the tree, he ran to his neighbors and desired them to come into his yard, for there was a bear fast taken there. This was noised through all the town, so that there was neither man, nor woman, nor child but ran thither, some with one weapon, and some with another—as goads, rakes, broom-staves, or what they could gather up. The priest had the handle of the cross, the clerk the holy water sprinkler, and the priest's wife, Dame Jullock, with her distaff, for she was then spinning; nay, the old beldames came that had ne'er a tooth in their heads. This army put Bruin into a great fear, being none but himself to withstand them, and hearing the clamor of the noise which came thundering upon him, he wrestled and pulled so extremely that he got out his head, but he left behind him all the skin, and his ears also; insomuch that never creature beheld a fouler or more deformed beast. For the blood covering all his face, and his hands leaving the claws and skin behind them, nothing remained but ugliness. It was an ill market the bear came to, for he lost both motion and sight—that is, feet and eyes. But notwithstanding this torment, Lanfert, the priest, and the whole parish came upon him, and so becudgeled him about his body part, that it might well be a warning to all his misery, to know that ever the weakest shall still go most to the wall. This the bear found by experience, for every one exercised the height of their fury upon him. Even Houghlin with the crooked leg, and Ludolf with the long broad nose, the one with a leaden mall, and the other with an iron whip, all belashed poor sir Bruin; not so much but sir Bertolf with the long fingers, Lanfert and Ortam did him more annoyance than all the rest, the one having a sharp Welsh hook, the other a crooked staff well leaded at the end, which he used to play at stab ball withal. There was Birkin and Armes Ablequack, Bane the priest with his staff, and Dame Jullock his wife; all these so belabored the bear, that his life was in great danger. The poor bear in this massacre sat and sighed extremely, groaning under the burden of their strokes, of which Lanfert's were the greatest and thundered most dreadfully; for Dame Podge of Casport was his mother, and his father was Marob the steeple-maker, a passing stout man when he was alone. Bruin received of him many showers of stones till Lanfert's brother, rushing before the rest with a staff, struck the bear in the head such a blow that he could neither hear nor see, so that awaking from his astonishment the bear leaped into the river adjoining, through a cluster of wives there standing together, of which he threw divers into the water, which was large and deep, amongst whom the parson's wife was one; which the parson seeing how she floated like a sea-mew, he left striking the bear, and cried to the rest of the company, "Help! oh, help! Dame Jullock is in the water; help, both men and women, for whosoever saves her, I give free pardon of all their sins and transgressions, and remit all penance imposed whatsoever." This heard, every one left the bear to help Dame Jullock, which as soon as the bear saw, he cut the stream and swam away as fast as he could, but the priest with a great noise pursued him, crying in his rage, "Turn, villain, that I may be revenged of thee"; but the bear swam in the strength of the stream and suspected not his calling, for he was proud that he was so escaped from them. Only he bitterly cursed the honey tree and the fox, which had not only betrayed him, but had made him lose his hood from his face, and his gloves from his fingers. In this sort he swam some three miles down the water, in which time he grew so weary that he went on land to get ease, where blood trickled down his face; he groaned, sighed, and drew his breath so short, as if his last hour had been expiring.

Now whilst these things were in doing, the fox in his way home stole a fat hen, and threw her into his mail, and running through a bypath that no man might perceive him, he came towards the river with infinite joy; for he suspected that the bear was certainly slain: therefore he said to himself, "My fortune is as I wished it, for the greatest enemy I had in the court is now dead, nor can any man suspect me guilty thereof." But as he spake these words, looking towards the river, he espied where Bruin the bear lay and rested, which struck his heart with grief, and he railed against Lanfert the carpenter, saying, "Silly fool that thou art, what madman would have lost such good venison, especially being so fat and wholesome, and for which he took no pains, for he was taken to his hand; any man would have been proud of the fortune which thou neglectest." Thus fretting and chiding, he came to the river, where he found the bear all wounded and bloody, of which Reynard was only guilty; yet in scorn he said to the bear, "Monsieur, Dieu vous garde."

"O thou foul red villain," said the bear to himself, "what impudence is like to this?"

But the fox went on with his speech, and said, "What, uncle? Have you forgot anything at Lanfert's, or have you paid him for the honeycombs you stole? If you have not, it will redound much to your disgrace, which before you shall undergo, I will pay him for them myself. Sure the honey was excellent good, and I know much more of the same price. Good uncle, tell me before I go, into what order do you mean to enter, that you wear this new-fashioned hood? Will you be a monk, an abbot, or a friar? Surely he that shaved your crown hath cropped your ears; also your foretop is lost, and your gloves are gone; fie, sloven, go not bare-handed; they say you can sing peccavi rarely."

These taunts made Bruin mad with rage, but because he could not take revenge, he was content to let him talk his pleasure. Then after a small rest he plunged again into the river, and swam down the stream, and landed on the other side, where he began with much grief to meditate how he might get to the court, for he had lost his ears, his talons, and all the skin off his feet, so that had a thousand deaths followed him, he could not go. Yet of necessity he must move, that in the end compelled by extremity, he set his tail on the ground, and tumbled his body over and over; so by degrees, tumbling now half a mile, and then half a mile, in the end he tumbled to the court, where divers beholding his strange manner of approach, they thought some prodigy had come towards them; but in the end the King knew him, and grew angry, saying, "It is sir Bruin, my servant; what villains have wounded him thus, or where hath he been that he brings his death thus along with him?"

"O my dread Sovereign Lord the King," cried out the bear, "I complain me grievously unto you; behold how I am massacred, which I humbly beseech you revenge on that false Reynard, who, for doing your royal pleasure, hath brought me to this disgrace and slaughter."

Then said the King, "How durst he do this? Now by my crown I swear I will take the revenge which shall make the traitors tremble!"

Whereupon the King sent for all his council, and consulted how and in what sort to persecute against the fox, where it was generally concluded that he should be again summoned to appear and answer his trespasses; and the party to summon him they appointed to be Tibert the cat, as well for his gravity as wisdom; all which pleased the King well.



400

After many ups and downs in fortune Reynard is finally on good terms with the king when Isegrim the Wolf appears with another accusation. Reynard's denial of the charges led the Wolf to challenge him to mortal combat, a well known medieval way of settling the truth of conflicting evidence. The result appears in the following:

THE BATTLE BETWEEN THE FOX AND THE WOLF

The fox answered not a word, but bowing himself down humbly to the earth, both before the King and the Queen's Majesties, went forth into the field; and at the same time the wolf was also ready, and stood boasting, and giving out many proud and vainglorious speeches. The marshals and rulers of the lists were the leopard and the loss. These brought forth a book, on which the wolf swore and maintained his assertion that the fox was a traitor and a murderer, which he would prove on his body, or else be counted a recreant. Then Reynard took the book, and swore he lied as a false traitor and a thief, which he would prove on his body, or be accounted a recreant.

When these ceremonies were done, the marshals of the field bade them do their devoir. And then every creature avoided the lists, save Dame Rukenaw, who stood by the fox, and bade him remember the words and instructions she had given him, and call to mind how, when he was scarce seven years old, he had then wisdom enough to pass the darkest night without lantern or candle-light, or the help of the moon, when any occasion required him; and that his experience was much greater, and his reputation of wisdom more frequent with his companions; and therefore to work so as he might win the day, which would be an eternal monument to him and his family for ever.

To this the fox answered, "My best aunt, assure yourself I will do my best, and not forget a tittle of your counsel. I doubt not but my friends shall reap honor and my foes shame by my actions." To this the ape said amen, and so departed.

When none but the combatants were in the lists, the wolf went toward the fox with infinite rage and fury, and thinking to take the fox in his forefeet, the fox leaped nimbly from him and the wolf pursued him, so that there began a tedious chase between them, on which their friends gazed. The wolf taking larger strides than the fox often overtook him, and lifting up his feet to strike him, the fox avoided the blow and smote him on the face with his tail, so that the wolf was stricken almost blind, and he was forced to rest while he cleared his eyes; which advantage when Reynard saw, he scratched up the dust with his feet, and threw it in the eyes of the wolf.

This grieved him worse than the former, so that he durst follow him no longer, for the dust and sand sticking in his eyes smarted so sore, that of force he must rub and wash it away, which Reynard seeing, with all the fury he had he ran upon him, and with his teeth gave him three sore wounds on his head, and scoffing said, "Have I hit you, Mr. Wolf? I will yet hit you better; you have killed many a lamb and many an innocent beast, and would impose the fault upon me, but you shall find the price of your knavery. I am marked to punish thy sins, and I will give thee thy absolution bravely. It is good for thee that thou use patience, for thy evil life is at my mercy. Yet, notwithstanding, if thou wilt kneel down and ask my forgiveness, and confess thyself vanquished, though thou be the worst thing living, yet I will spare thy life, for my pity makes me loath to kill thee."

These words made Isegrim both mad and desperate, so that he knew not how to express his fury; his wounds bled, his eyes smarted, and his whole body was oppressed. So that in the height of his fury he lifted up his foot and struck the fox so great a blow that he felled him to the ground. But Reynard, being nimble, quickly rose up again and encountered the wolf, that between them began a dreadful and doubtful combat.

The wolf was exceeding furious, and ten times he leaped to catch Reynard fast, but his skin was so slippery and oily he could not hold him. Nay, so wondrous nimble was he in the fight, that when the wolf thought to have him surest, he would shift himself between his legs and under his belly, and every time gave the wolf a bite with his teeth, or a slap on the face with his tail, that the poor wolf found nothing but despair in the conflict, albeit his strength was much the greater.

Thus many wounds and bitings passing on either side, the one expressing cunning, and the other strength; the one fury, the other temperance. In the end the wolf being enraged that the battle had continued so long, for had his feet been sound it had been much shorter, he said to himself, "I will make an end of this combat, for I know my very weight is able to crush him to pieces; and I lose much of my reputation, to suffer him thus long to contend against me."

And this said, he struck the fox again so sore a blow on the head with his foot, that he fell down to the ground, and ere he could recover himself and arise, he caught him in his feet and threw him under him, lying upon him in such wise, as if he would have pressed him to death.

Now began the fox to be grievously afraid, and all his friends also, and all Isegrim's friends began to shout for joy; but the fox defended himself as well as he could with his claws, lying along, and the wolf could not hurt him with his claws, his feet were so sore; only with his teeth he snatched at him to bite him, which, when the fox saw, he smote the wolf on the head with his fore-claws, so that he tore the skin between his brows and his ears, and one of his eyes hung out of his head, which put the wolf to infinite torment, and he howled out extremely. Then Isegrim wiping his face, the fox took advantage thereof, and with his struggling got upon his feet.

At which the wolf was angry, and striking after him, caught the fox in his arms, and held him fast; never was Reynard in so great a strait as then, for at that time great was their contention; but anger now made the wolf forget his smart, and gripping the fox altogether under him, as Reynard was defending himself his hand lighted into Isegrim's mouth, so that he was in danger of losing it. Then said the wolf to the fox, "Now either yield thyself as vanquished, or else certainly I will kill thee; neither thy dust, thy mocks, nor any subtle invention shall now save thee; thou art now left utterly desperate, and my wounds must have their satisfaction."

When the fox heard this he thought it was a hard election, for both brought his ruin; and suddenly concluding, he said, "Dear uncle, since fortune commands me, I yield to be your servant, and at your commandments will travel for you to the Holy Land, or any other pilgrimage, or do any service which shall be beneficial to your soul or the souls of your forefathers. I will do for the King or for our holy father the Pope, I will hold of you my lands and revenues, and as I, so shall all the rest of my kindred; so that you shall be a lord of many lords, and none shall dare to move against you.

"Besides, whatsoever I get of pullets, geese, partridges, or clover, flesh or fish, you, your wife, and children shall have the first choice, ere any are eaten by me. I will ever stand by your side, and wheresoever you go, no danger shall come near you; you are strong, and I am subtle; we two joined together, what force can prevail against us? Again, we are so near in blood that nature forbids there should be any enmity between us; I would not have fought against you had I been sure of victory, but that you first appealed me, and then you know of necessity I must do my uttermost. I have also in this battle been courteous to you, and not shown my worst violence, as I would on a stranger, for I know it is the duty of a nephew to spare his uncle; and this you might well perceive by my running from you. I tell you, it was an action much contrary to my nature, for I might often have hurt you when I refused, nor are you worse for me by anything more than the blemish of your eye, for which I am sorry, and wished it had not happened; yet thereby know that you shall reap rather benefit than loss thereby, for when other beasts in their sleep shut two windows, you shall shut but one.

"As for my wife, children, and lineage, they shall fall down at your feet before you in any presence; therefore, I humbly desire you, that you will suffer poor Reynard to live. I know you will kill me, but what will that avail you, when you shall never live in safety for fear of revengement of my kindred? Therefore, temperance in any man's wrath is excellent, whereas rashness is ever the mother of repentance. But, uncle, I know you to be valiant, wise, and discreet, and you rather seek honor, peace, and good fame than blood and revenge."

Isegrim the wolf said, "Infinite dissembler, how fain wouldst thou be freed of my servitude? Too well I understand thee, and know that if thou wert safe on thy feet thou wouldst forswear this submission; but know all the wealth in the world shall not buy out thy ransom, for thee and thy friends I esteem them not, nor believe anything thou hast uttered. Too well I know thee, and am no bird for thy lime bush; chaff cannot deceive me. Oh, how wouldst thou triumph if I should believe thee, and say I wanted wit to understand thee; but thou shalt know I can look both on this side and beyond thee. Thy many deceits used upon me have now armed me against thee. Thou sayest thou hast spared me in the battle; but look upon me, and my wounds will show how falsely thou liest; thou never gavest me a time to breathe in, nor will I now give thee a minute to repent in."

Now whilst Isegrim was thus talking, the fox bethought himself how he might best get free, and thrusting his other hand down he caught the wolf fast by the neck, and he wrung him so extremely hard thereby, that he made him shriek and howl out with the anguish; then the fox drew his other hand out of his mouth, for the wolf was in such wondrous torment that he had much ado to contain himself from swooning; for this torment exceeded above the pain of his eye, and in the end he fell over and over in a swoon; then presently Reynard leaped upon him, and drew him about the lists and dragged him by the legs, and struck, wounded, and bit him in many places, so that all the whole field might take notice thereof.

At this, all Isegrim's friends were full of sorrow, and with great weeping and lamentation went to the King and prayed him to be pleased to appease the combat and take it into his own hands; which suit the King granted, and then the leopard and the loss, being marshals, entered the lists and told the fox and the wolf that the King would speak with them, and that the battle should there end, for he would take it into his own hands and determine thereof; as for themselves they had done sufficiently, neither would the King lose either of them. And to the fox they said the whole field gave him the victory.

The greatest and most inspiring cycle of medieval romances is that concerned with the adventures of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. Developing largely as separate stories, these romances were brought together into an organic collection by Sir Thomas Malory in the third quarter of the fifteenth century. This work, called Le Morte D'Arthur, has remained the standard Arthuriad and is the source of most modern versions. It is one of the great monuments of English prose, and, while at first the strangeness of its style may repel, the wonderful dignity of the story and the sonorous quality of the language make a strong appeal to children as well as to older readers. Teachers should at least be acquainted with a portion of Malory, and the three selections following are taken from his text. No. 404 is added as a suggestion as to how this material may be worked up to tell to children.



401

According to a tradition in Le Morte D'Arthur, Uther Pendragon, the father of Arthur, was a powerful king in England. To fulfill a promise made to Merlin, Uther Pendragon allowed Merlin to take Arthur on the day of his birth, that the child might not be known as the son of the king. Merlin took the child to Sir Ector, and the wife of Sir Ector reared Arthur as one of her own children. The following story is an account of how Arthur learned of his parentage.

HOW ARTHUR BECAME KING

SIR THOMAS MALORY

After the death of Uther Pendragon, stood the realm in great jeopardy long while, for every lord that was mighty of men made him strong, and many weened to have been king. Then Merlin went to the Archbishop of Canterbury and counselled him to send for all the lords of the realm and all the gentlemen of arms, that they should to London come by Christmas.

So the Archbishop, by the advice of Merlin, sent for all the lords and gentlemen of arms that they should come by Christmas even unto London. So in the greatest church of London, whether it were Paul's or not the French book maketh no mention, all the estates were long or day in the church for to pray. And when matins and the first mass were done, there was seen in the churchyard, against the high altar, a great stone four square, like unto a marble stone, and in midst thereof was like an anvil of steel a foot on high, and therein stuck a fair sword, and letters there were written in gold about the sword that said thus:

"Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone and anvil, is rightwise king born of all England."

Then the people marveled and told it to the Archbishop. "I command," said the Archbishop, "that you keep you within your church, and pray unto God still; that no man touch the sword till the high mass be all done."

So when all masses were done, all the lords went to behold the stone and the sword. And when they saw the scripture, some assayed; such as would have been king. But none might stir the sword nor move it. "He is not here," said the Archbishop, "that shall achieve the sword, but doubt not God will make him known. But this is my counsel," said the Archbishop, "that we provide ten knights, men of good fame, and they to keep this sword."

So it was ordained, and there was made a cry, that every man should essay that would, for to win the sword. And upon New Year's Day the barons let make a jousts and a tournament, that all knights that would joust or tourney there might play, and all this was ordained for to keep the lords and the commons together, for the Archbishop trusted that God would make him known that should win the sword. So upon New Year's Day, when the service was done, the barons rode unto the field, some to joust and some to tourney, and so it happened that Sir Ector rode unto the jousts, and with him rode Sir Kay his son, and young Arthur that was his nourished brother; and Sir Kay had been made knight at All Hallowmass afore.

So as they rode to the joustsward, Sir Kay had lost his sword, for he had left it at his father's lodging, and so he prayed young Arthur for to ride for his sword. "I will well," said Arthur, and rode fast after the sword, and when he came home, the lady and all were out to see the jousting. Then was Arthur wroth, and said to himself, "I will ride to the churchyard and take the sword with me that sticketh in the stone, for my brother Sir Kay shall not be without a sword this day." So when he came to the churchyard, Sir Arthur alit and tied his horse to the stile, and so he went to the tent and found no knights there, for they were at jousting; and so he handled the sword by the handles, and lightly and fiercely pulled it out of the stone, and took his horse and rode his way until he came to his brother Sir Kay, and delivered him the sword.

As soon as Sir Kay saw the sword, he wist well it was the sword of the stone, and so he rode to his father, Sir Ector, and said, "Sir, lo here is the sword of the stone, wherefore I must be king of this land."

When Sir Ector beheld the sword, he returned again and came to the church, and there they alit, all three, and went into the church. And anon he made Sir Kay to swear upon a book how he came to that sword. "Sir," said Sir Kay, "by my brother Arthur, for he brought it to me."

"How gat ye this sword?" said Sir Ector to Arthur.

"Sir, I will tell you. When I came home for my brother's sword, I found nobody at home to deliver me his sword, and so I thought my brother Sir Kay should not be swordless, and so I came hither eagerly and pulled it out of the stone without any pain."

"Found ye any knights about this sword?" said Sir Ector.

"Nay," said Arthur.

"Now," said Sir Ector to Arthur, "I understand ye must be king of this land."

"Wherefore I," said Arthur, "and for what cause?"

"Sir," said Ector, "for God will have it so, for there should never man have drawn out this sword, but he that shall be rightways king of this land. Now let me see whether ye can put the sword there as it was and pull it out again."

"That is no mastery," said Arthur, and so he put it in the stone; therewithal Sir Ector essayed to pull out the sword and failed.

"Now essay," said Sir Ector unto Sir Kay. And anon he pulled at the sword with all his might, but it would not be.

"Now shall ye essay," said Ector to Arthur.

"I will well," said Arthur, and pulled it out easily. And therewithal Sir Ector knelt down to the earth, and Sir Kay. "Alas," said Arthur, "my own dear father and brother, why kneel ye to me?"

"Nay, nay, my lord Arthur, it is not so. I was never your father nor of your blood, but I wot well ye are of an higher blood than I weened ye were." And then Sir Ector told him all, how he had taken him for to nourish him, and by whose commandment, and by Merlin's deliverance. Then Arthur made great doole when he understood that Sir Ector was not his father.

"Sir," said Ector unto Arthur, "will ye be my good and gracious lord when ye are king?"

"Else were I to blame," said Arthur, "for ye are the man in the world that I am most beholden to, and my good lady and mother your wife, that as well as her own hath fostered me and kept. And if ever it be God's will that I be king as ye say, God forbid that I should fail you."

"Sir," said Sir Ector, "I will ask no more of you but that ye will make my son, your foster brother, Sir Kay, seneschal of all your lands."

"That shall be done," said Arthur, "and more, by the faith of my body, that never man shall have that office but he, while he and I live."

Therewithal they went unto the Archbishop and told him how the sword was achieved, and by whom; and on the Twelfth-day all the barons came thither, and to essay to take the sword, who that would essay. But there afore them all, there might none take it out but Arthur; wherefore there were many lords wroth, and said it was great shame unto them all and the realm to be over-governed with a boy of no high blood born, and so they fell out at that time that it was put off until Candlemas, and then all the barons should meet there again; but always the ten knights were ordained to watch the sword day and night, and so they set a pavilion over the stone and the sword, and five always watched. So at Candlemas many more great lords came thither for to have won the sword, but there might none prevail. And right as Arthur did at Christmas, he did at Candlemas, and pulled out the sword easily, whereof the barons were sore agrieved and put it off in delay till the high feast of Easter, yet there were some of the great lords had indignation that Arthur should be king, and put it off in a delay till the feast of Pentecost. And at the feast of Pentecost all manner of men essayed to pull at the sword that would essay, but none might prevail but Arthur, and he pulled it out afore all the lords and commons that were there, wherefore all the commons cried at once, "We will have Arthur unto our king. We will put him no more in delay, for we all see that it is God's will that he shall be our king, and who that holdeth against it, we will slay him." And therewith they all kneeled at once, both rich and poor, and cried Arthur mercy because they had delayed him so long, and Arthur forgave them, and took the sword between both his hands, and offered it upon the altar where the Archbishop was, and so was he made knight of the best man that was there. And so anon was the coronation made. And there was he sworn unto his lords and the commons for to be a true king and to stand with true justice from thenceforth the days of his life.



402

After Arthur was made king, he spent several years in war with his lawless barons before he finally established a stable government in England. Malory's accounts of these wars are interspersed with stories of miraculous incidents, accounts of the adventures of knights, and descriptions of feasts, tournaments, and jousts. The following is a description of the jousting between the knights of King Arthur and those of two French kings, Ban and Bors, who had come to aid Arthur in his wars.

A TOURNEY WITH THE FRENCH

SIR THOMAS MALORY

Then the king let purvey for a great feast, and let cry a great jousts. And by All Hallowmass the two kings were come over the sea with three hundred knights well arrayed both for peace and for war. And King Arthur met with them ten miles out of London, and there was great joy as could be thought or made. And on All Hallowmass at the great feast, sat in the hall the three kings, and Sir Kay seneschal served in the hall, and Sir Lucas the butler, and Sir Griflet. These three knights had the rule of all the service that served the kings. And anon, as they had washed and risen, all knights that would joust made them ready. By when they were ready on horseback there were seven hundred knights. And Arthur, Ban, and Bors, with the Archbishop of Canterbury, and Sir Ector, Kay's father, they were in a place covered with cloth of gold like an hall, with ladies and gentlewomen, for to behold who did the best, and thereon to give judgment.

And King Arthur and the two kings let depart the seven hundred knights into two parties. And there were three hundred knights of the realm of Benwick and of Gaul turned on the other side. Then they dressed their shields, and began to couch their spears many good knights. So Griflet was the first that met with a knight, one Ladinas, and they met so eagerly that all men had wonder; and they so fought that their shields fell to pieces, and horse and man fell to the earth; and both French knight and English knight lay so long that all men weened they had been dead. When Lucas the butler saw Griflet so lie, he horsed him again anon, and they two did marvelous deeds of arms with many bachelors. Also Sir Kay came out of an enbushment with five knights with him, and they six smote other six down. But Sir Kay did that day marvelous deeds of arms that there was none did so well as he that day. Then there come Ladinas and Gracian, two knights of France, and did passing well, that all men praised them. Then come there Sir Placidas, a good knight, and met with Sir Kay, and smote him down horse and man, wherefore Sir Griflet was wroth, and met with Sir Placidas so hard that horse and man fell to the earth. But when the five knights wist that Sir Kay had a fall, they were wroth out of wit, and therewith each of them five bare down a knight. When King Arthur and the two kings saw them begin to wax wroth on both parties, they leaped on small hackneys and let cry that all men should depart unto their lodging. And so they went home and unarmed them, and so to evensong and supper. And after, the three kings went into a garden and gave the prize unto Sir Kay, and to Lucas the butler, and unto Sir Griflet.



403

One part of Le Morte D'Arthur will illustrate almost as well as another the nature of the adventure stories that grew up in the Middle Ages regarding the traditional heroes of chivalry. The following selection is taken from the first part of the book.

ADVENTURES OF ARTHUR

SIR THOMAS MALORY

Then on a day there came in the court a squire on horseback, leading a knight before him wounded to the death. He said, "There is a knight in the forest who hath reared up a pavilion by a well, and hath slain my master, a good knight whose name was Miles; wherefore I beseech you that my master may be buried, and that some knight may revenge my master's death."

Then the noise was great of that knight's death in the court, and every man said his advice. Then came Griflet that was but a squire, and he was but young, of the age of King Arthur; so he besought the king for all his service that he had done him to give him the order of knighthood.

"Thou art full young and tender of age," said Arthur, "for to take so high an order on thee."

"Sir," said Griflet, "I beseech you make me knight."

"Sir," said Merlin, "it were great pity to lose Griflet, for he will be a passing good man when he is of age, abiding with you the term of his life. And if he adventure his body with yonder knight at the fountain, it is in great peril if ever he come again, for he is one of the best knights in the world, and the strongest man of arms."

"Well," said Arthur. So at the desire of Griflet the king made him knight. "Now," said Arthur unto Sir Griflet, "sith I have made you knight thou must give me a gift."

"What ye will," said Griflet.

"Thou shalt promise me by the faith of thy body, when thou hast jousted with the knight at the fountain, whether it fall ye to be on foot or on horseback, that right so ye shall come again unto me without making any more debate."

"I will promise you," said Griflet, "as you desire."

Then took Griflet his horse in great haste, and dressed his shield and took a spear in his hand, and so he rode at a great wallop till he came to the fountain, and thereby he saw a rich pavilion, and thereby under a cloth stood a fair horse well saddled and bridled, and on a tree a shield of divers colors and a great spear. Then Griflet smote on the shield with the butt of his spear, that the shield fell down to the ground. With that the knight came out of the pavilion and said, "Fair knight, why smote ye down my shield?"

"For I will joust with you," said Griflet.

"It is better ye do not," said the knight, "for ye are but young, and late made knight, and your might is nothing to mine."

"As for that," said Griflet, "I will joust with you."

"That is me loath," said the knight, "but sith I must needs, I will dress me thereto. Of whence be ye?" said the knight.

"Sir, I am of Arthur's court."

So the two knights ran together that Griflet's spear all to-shivered; and therewithal he smote Griflet through the shield and the left side, and brake the spear that the truncheon stuck in his body, that horse and knight fell down.

When the knight saw him lie so on the ground, he alit, and was passing heavy, for he weened he had slain him, and then he unlaced his helm and gat him wind, and so with the truncheon he set him on his horse and gat him wind, and so betook him to God, and said he had a mighty heart, and if he might live he would prove a passing good knight. And so Sir Griflet rode to the court, where great dole was made for him. But through good leeches he was healed and saved.

Right so came into the court twelve knights, who were aged men, and they came from the Emperor of Rome, and they asked of Arthur truage for this realm, other-else the emperor would destroy him and his land.

"Well," said King Arthur, "ye are messengers, therefore ye may say what ye will, other-else ye should die therefore. But this is mine answer: I owe the emperor no truage, nor none will I hold him, but on a fair field I shall give him my truage that shall be with a sharp spear, or else with a sharp sword, and that shall not be long."

And therewith the messengers departed passingly wroth, and King Arthur as wroth, for in evil time came they then; for the king was passingly wroth for the hurt of Sir Griflet. And so he commanded a privy man of his chamber that or it be day his best horse and armor with all that longeth unto his person, be without the city or to-morrow day. Right so or to-morrow day he met with his man and his horse, and so mounted up and dressed his shield and took his spear, and bade his chamberlain tarry there till he came again. And so Arthur rode a soft pace till it was day, and then was he ware of three churls chasing Merlin, and would have slain him. Then the king rode unto them and bade them, "Flee, churls!" Then were they afeard when they saw a knight, and fled.

"O Merlin," said Arthur, "here hadst thou been slain for all thy crafts had I not been."

"Nay," said Merlin, "not so, for I could save myself an I would; and thou art more near thy death than I am, for thou goest to the deathward, an God be not thy friend."

So as they went thus talking they came to the fountain and the rich pavilion there by it. Then King Arthur was ware where sat a knight armed in a chair. "Sir knight," said Arthur, "for what cause abidest thou here, that there may no knight ride this way but he joust with thee? I rede thee leave that custom," said Arthur.

"This custom," said the knight, "have I used and will use maugre who saith nay, and who is grieved with my custom let him amend it that will."

"I will amend it," said Arthur.

"I shall defend thee," said the knight.

Anon he took his horse and dressed his shield and took a spear, and they met so hard either on other's shield, that all to-shivered their spears. Therewith anon Arthur pulled out his sword. "Nay, not so," said the knight; "it is fairer that we twain run more together with sharp spears."

"I will well," said Arthur, "an I had any more spears."

"I have enow," said the knight, so there came a squire and brought two good spears, and Arthur chose one and he another; so they spurred their horses and came together with all their mights, that either brake their spears to their hands. Then Arthur set hand on his sword. "Nay," said the knight, "ye shall do better. Ye are a passing good jouster as ever I met withal, and once more for the love of the high order of knighthood let us joust once again."

"I assent me," said Arthur.

Anon there were brought two great spears, and every knight gat a spear, and therewith they ran together that Arthur's spear all to-shivered. But the other knight hit him so hard in midst of the shield that horse and man fell to the earth, and therewith Arthur was eager, and pulled out his sword and said, "I will assay thee, sir knight, on foot, for I have lost the honor on horseback."

"I will be on horseback," said the knight.

Then was Arthur wroth, and dressed his shield toward him with his sword drawn. When the knight saw that, he alit, for him thought no worship to have a knight at such avail, he to be on horseback and he on foot, and so he alit and dressed his shield unto Arthur. And there began a strong battle with many great strokes, and so hewed with their swords that the cantels flew in the fields, and much blood they bled both, that all the place there as they fought was overbled with blood, and thus they fought long and rested them, and then they went to battle again, and so hurtled together like two rams that either fell to the earth. So at the last they smote together that both their swords met even together. But the sword of the knight smote King Arthur's sword in two pieces, wherefore he was heavy. Then said the knight unto Arthur, "Thou art in my daunger whether me list to save thee or slay thee, and but thou yield thee as overcome and recreant, thou shalt die."

"As for death," said King Arthur, "welcome be it when it cometh, but to yield me unto thee as recreant I had liefer die than be so shamed."

And therewithal the king leaped unto Pellinore, and took him by the middle and threw him down, and raised off his helm. When the knight felt that, he was adread, for he was a passing big man of might, and anon he brought Arthur under him, and raised off his helm and would have smitten off his head.

Therewithal came Merlin and said, "Knight, hold thy hand, for an thou slay that knight thou puttest this realm in the greatest damage that ever was realm; for this knight is a man of more worship that thou wotest of."

"Why, who is he?" said the knight.

"It is King Arthur."

Then would he have slain him for dread of his wrath, and heaved up his sword, and therewith Merlin cast an enchantment to the knight, that he fell to the earth in a great sleep. Then Merlin took up King Arthur, and rode forth on the knight's horse.

"Alas!" said Arthur, "what hast thou done, Merlin? Hast thou slain this good knight by thy crafts? There liveth not so worshipful a knight as he was; I had liefer than the stint of my land a year that he were alive."

"Care ye not," said Merlin, "for he is wholer than ye; for he is but asleep, and will awake within three hours. I told you," said Merlin, "what a knight he was; here had ye been slain had I not been. Also there liveth not a bigger knight than he is one, and he shall hereafter do you right good service; and his name is Pellinore, and he shall have two sons that shall be passing good men; save one they shall have no fellow of prowess and of good living, and their names shall be Percivale of Wales and Lamerake of Wales."

Right so the king and he departed and went unto an hermit that was a good man and a great leech. So the hermit searched all his wounds and gave him good salves; so the king was there three days, and then were his wounds well amended that he might ride and go, and so departed.

And as they rode, Arthur said, "I have no sword."

"No force," said Merlin, "hereby is a sword that shall be yours, an I may."

So they rode till they came to a lake, the which was a fair water and broad, and in the midst of the lake Arthur was ware of an arm clothed in white samite, that held a fair sword in that hand.

"Lo!" said Merlin, "yonder is that sword that I spake of."

With that they saw a damosel going upon the lake. "What damosel is that?" said Arthur.

"That is the Lady of the Lake," said Merlin; "and within that lake is a rock, and therein is as fair a place as any on earth, and richly beseen; and this damosel will come to you anon, and then speak ye fair to her that she will give you that sword."

Anon withal came the damosel unto Arthur and saluted him, and he her again. "Damosel," said Arthur, "what sword is that, that yonder the arm holdeth above the water? I would it were mine, for I have no sword."

"Sir Arthur, king," said the damosel, "that sword is mine, and if ye will give me a gift when I ask it you, ye shall have it."

"By my faith," said Arthur, "I will give you what gift ye will ask."

"Well!" said the damosel. "Go ye into yonder barge, and row yourself to the sword, and take it and the scabbard with you, and I will ask my gift when I see my time."

So Sir Arthur and Merlin alit and tied their horses to two trees, and so they went into the ship, and when they came to the sword that the hand held, Sir Arthur took it up by the handles, and took it with him, and the arm and the hand went under the water. And so they came unto the land and rode forth, and then Sir Arthur saw a rich pavilion.

"What signifieth yonder pavilion?"

"It is the knight's pavilion," said Merlin, "that ye fought with last, Sir Pellinore; but he is out; he is not there. He hath ado with a knight of yours that hight Egglame, and they have foughten together, but at the last Egglame fled, and else he had been dead, and he hath chased him even to Carlion, and we shall meet with him anon in the highway."

"That is well said," said Arthur, "now have I a sword; now will I wage battle with him, and be avenged on him."

"Sir, you shall not so," said Merlin, "for the knight is weary of fighting and chasing, so that ye shall have no worship to have ado with him; also he will not be lightly matched of one knight living, and therefore it is my counsel, let him pass, for he shall do you good service in short time, and his sons after his days. Also ye shall see that day in short space, you shall be right glad to give him your sister to wed."

"When I see him, I will do as ye advise me," said Arthur. Then Sir Arthur looked on the sword, and liked it passing well.

"Whether liketh you the better," said Merlin, "the sword or the scabbard?"

"Me liketh better the sword," said Arthur.

"Ye are more unwise," said Merlin, "for the scabbard is worth ten of the swords, for whiles ye have the scabbard upon you, ye shall never lose no blood be ye never so sore wounded, therefore keep well the scabbard always with you."

So they rode unto Carlion, and by the way they met with Sir Pellinore; but Merlin had done such a craft, that Pellinore saw not Arthur, and he passed by without any words.

"I marvel," said Arthur, "that the knight would not speak."

"Sir," said Merlin, "he saw you not, for an he had seen you, ye had not lightly departed."

So they came unto Carlion, whereof his knights were passing glad. And when they heard of his adventures, they marveled that he would jeopard his person so, alone. But all men of worship said it was merry to be under such a chieftain, that would put his person in adventure as other poor knights did.

This meanwhile came a messenger from King Rience of North Wales, and king he was of all Ireland, and of many isles. And this was his message, greeting well King Arthur in this manner wise, saying that King Rience had discomfited and overcome eleven kings, and every each of them did him homage, and that was this, they gave him their beards clean flayed off, as much as there was; wherefore the messenger came for King Arthur's beard. For King Rience had purfled a mantle with king's beards, and there lacked one place of the mantle; wherefore he sent for his beard, or else he would enter his lands, and burn and slay, and never leave till he have the head and the beard.

"Well," said Arthur, "thou hast said thy message, the which is the most villainous and lewdest message that ever man heard sent unto a king; also thou mayest see my beard is full young yet to make a purfle of it. But tell thou thy king this: I owe him none homage, nor none of mine elders, but or it be long to, he shall do me homage on both his knees, or else he shall lose his head, by the faith of my body, for this is the most shamefulest message that ever I heard speak of. I have espied thy king met never yet with worshipful man, but tell him I will have his head without he do me homage." Then the messenger departed.

"Now is there any here," said Arthur, "that knoweth King Rience?"

Then answered a knight that hight Naram, "Sir, I know the king well. He is a passing good man of his body, as few be living, and a passing proud man, and Sir, doubt ye not he will make war on you with a mighty puissance."

"Well," said Arthur, "I shall ordain for him in short time."



404

The story of "Arthur and Sir Accalon" is taken from Maude Radford Warren's King Arthur and His Knights. (By permission of the publishers, Rand McNally & Co., Chicago.) The stories in Malory are retold in a simple and direct style that can be read easily by children in the fifth grade. Most teachers will probably find themselves obliged to use some such book for any of these great cycles which they desire to teach, owing to the amount of time and energy required for working it up from the original source.

ARTHUR AND SIR ACCALON

MAUDE RADFORD WARREN

There was a woman in Arthur's Court named Morgan le Fay, who had learned a great deal about magic. She was a wicked woman, and hated the king because he was more powerful than she, and because he was so good.

However, she pretended to be a true friend to him, and the king believed in her. One day when they were talking together, she asked him if he would not let her take charge of his wonderful sword Excalibur, and its scabbard. She said that she would guard them so carefully that they would never be stolen. As she was very eager, Arthur granted her request.

One day in time of peace, King Arthur went out hunting with a certain knight named Sir Accalon, who was the lover of Morgan le Fay. They rode for a long time, and when they were tired, stopped to rest beside a great lake. As they looked over its shining waters, they saw a beautiful little ship, which sailed straight towards them, and ran up to the sands at their feet. It was all covered with golden silks, which waved in the gentle wind. King Arthur and Sir Accalon climbed into it and examined it thoroughly, but they found no one on board.

They rested on two couches which were on the deck, until it grew dark. Then they were about to return home, when all at once, a hundred torches set on the sides of the ship were lighted, and suddenly there appeared twelve beautiful damsels who told the two that they were welcome, and that they should be served with a banquet.

Presently the maidens led the king and the knight into a room which had a table covered with a white cloth embroidered in purple. It bore many golden dishes, and each dish had a beautiful design carved upon it. Some dishes had vine-leaves, others ivy-leaves; some had angels with long robes sweeping back in graceful lines; and all these dishes held choice food. The king and Sir Accalon ate to their hearts' content.

Then the damsels led them into two separate chambers. King Arthur was tired and so sleepy that he gave but one glance at his bedroom. He saw that it was hung in red silk embroidered with gold dragons and griffins. Then he threw himself on his bed and slept very soundly.

When he awoke, he found himself not in the pretty bed-chamber, but in a dark place. He could see nothing, but all about him he heard the sound of complaining and weeping. He was much bewildered, but in a moment he cried:

"What is this? Where am I?"

Then a voice answered:

"You are in prison, as we are."

"Who are you?" asked Arthur.

The voice replied:

"We are twenty knights, prisoners, and some of us have been here as long as seven years. We are in the dungeons of a wicked lord named Sir Damas. He has a younger brother, and the two brothers are enemies, quarreling about their inheritance. Now the younger brother, Sir Ontzlake, is very strong, but Sir Damas is not strong, and moreover, he is a coward. So he tries to find a knight who will fight for him against Sir Ontzlake.

"But Sir Damas is so much hated that no one will fight for him. So he goes about the country with a body of rough men, and whenever he sees a knight, he captures him. Then he asks him to fight with Sir Ontzlake. So far, all the knights have refused, and have been thrown into prison. We do not have food enough, but we would rather die here than fight for Sir Damas, who is so wicked."

At that moment a damsel entered the prison with a torch, which faintly lighted the dismal place, and advanced to the king.

"Sir," she said, "will you fight for my lord, Sir Damas? If you will, you shall be taken from this prison. If you will not, you shall die here."

Arthur considered for some time, and then said:

"I would rather fight than die in prison. If I fight, will you deliver also all these prisoners?"

The damsel promised, and Arthur consented to fight. While she went to tell Sir Damas, Arthur said to the other prisoners:

"My friends, I do not know Sir Damas, and I do not know Sir Ontzlake. I do not know whether they are bad or good. But I will fight, and then, when I have conquered, I shall judge between them, and do justice to both."

"That is a good plan," said the knights, "but why are you so sure that you will conquer?"

"I am Arthur, the King," he replied.

At that the knights set up a great cry of joy, and the king continued:

"I shall send for my good sword Excalibur and the scabbard, and with these I shall surely win."

So when Arthur and the knights were let out of prison, the king sent the damsel who had visited them to Morgan le Fay for his sword and scabbard.

Meantime, the knight who had accompanied Arthur on the little ship, Sir Accalon, also awoke. He found himself in the palace of Morgan le Fay, and he wondered very much where Arthur was. He went to the lady, who said to him:

"My dear lord, the day has come when you can have great power if you want it. Should you like to be king of this land, instead of Arthur?"

Now Sir Accalon was a traitor at heart. He wanted very much to be king, even if the good Arthur was to be killed; so he said:

"Yes, truly."

Then she said:

"You shall be king, and I shall be your queen. All you need to do is to fight a great battle, which you shall win. I have been using my magic. It was I who sent the ship of silk to you and Arthur. I had him put into prison, and I had you brought here."

Sir Accalon wondered very much. Then she told him of the fight King Arthur was to make against Sir Ontzlake.

"But I have caused Sir Ontzlake to fall sick," she said, "and he cannot fight. I shall go with you to his castle and you can offer to fight for him."

"I to fight with the king!" cried Sir Accalon. "He would surely overthrow me."

"He cannot," said Morgan le Fay, "because you are to fight with his sword. A little while ago he sent to me for Excalibur and the scabbard, but I returned him a false sword which looks like Excalibur, and a false scabbard. You shall take the true ones, and then you will surely overcome him and rule this land."

Then Sir Accalon was glad, and he hastened with the lady to the castle of Sir Ontzlake. They found him groaning because he was ill and because Sir Damas had sent him a challenge to fight with a knight, and he could not accept it. He was much relieved when Morgan le Fay told him that Sir Accalon would fight in his place.

Early in the afternoon, King Arthur and Sir Accalon rode into the field where the combat was to be held. Arthur did not know who Sir Accalon was, nor did any one else, except Morgan le Fay. Two sides of the field were full of people, who came to watch, half of whom were friends of Sir Damas, and the other half were friends of Sir Ontzlake.

Arthur and Sir Accalon rode at each other so furiously that at the shock of the meeting both fell off their horses. Then they began to fight fiercely with their swords. The king could make no headway with his false steel, but whenever Sir Accalon struck at Arthur he drew blood.

The king was much amazed. He grew weaker and weaker, but still he kept on his feet. Those who watched him were sorry for him; they thought they had never seen a man fight so bravely. At last Arthur's sword broke, and fell in two pieces on the ground. When Sir Accalon saw this, he cried:

"Now, yield to me."

"I will never yield," said the king, "and if you do not get me another sword, you will be shamed before all men, for it is an unknightly thing to fight with a defenseless man."

"I do not care," said Sir Accalon. "If you will not yield, defend yourself with your shield as best you can."

He rushed at the king. Arthur was so weak that he could hardly stand, but he guarded himself as well as he could with his shield. Soon he could do no more, and fell to the ground.

At this moment the Lady of the Lake, who had given Arthur his sword, came upon the field. She was invisible, but anyone who had listened intently could have heard a sound like a ripple of water as she walked. She caused Excalibur to fall out of the hand of Sir Accalon and drop near Arthur.

When it fell, Arthur saw that it was his own Excalibur. He grasped its handle and some of his strength came back. He struggled to his feet, and rushing up to Sir Accalon, seized the scabbard of Excalibur and threw it far over the field.

"Now," he said, "send for a second sword and fight with me."

Then Sir Accalon was afraid. Yet he thought that Arthur was so weak that he could still be overcome. So he sent for a second sword, and they began to fight again. Arthur's strength, however, had largely returned, and in a short time he gave Sir Accalon a mortal stroke.

Sir Accalon fell to the ground, and the king, leaning over him, cried:

"Tell me who you are."

Then Sir Accalon was filled with remorse, and he said:

"Oh, my King, I have been a traitor to you, but now I am dying, and I am sorry for what I have done. I deserve my death."

He told the king his name, and all about his treachery, and that of Morgan le Fay.

King Arthur was sad.

"It is very hard to be deceived in a friend," he said, "but I forgive you freely. I will try to cure your wound, and sometime I shall trust you again."

"You cannot cure me," said Sir Accalon. "I am dying. Let them carry me off the field."

So he was taken to a neighboring abbey, while the people crowded about the king to congratulate him, but Arthur said:

"I am sad at heart. My victory is no comfort to me, for to-day I have lost a friend whom I believed true."

Then he called the two brothers, Sir Damas and Sir Ontzlake, and judged their cause. He decided that their property must be divided equally between them, and that they must be friends. They promised never to quarrel again. Arthur told them that they must be kind to other knights and to all people. He said that if he heard that they were not, he could come and punish them.

After this, Sir Damas gave back to the twenty knights all their money, and they went on their way rejoicing. King Arthur mounted his horse and rode over to the abbey, where he sat by the bed of Sir Accalon till the poor knight died. Then the king went back alone to his Court at Camelot.

405-411

Miguel de Cervantes, the greatest literary genius of Spain, was born in 1547 in a small town near Madrid, and he died in 1616, the year of the death of Shakespeare. He received a fair education, and by reading he gained a thorough knowledge of the romantic poetry of Spain and Italy and of the romances of chivalry. At the age of twenty-one he went to Italy. For several years he was a soldier in the Spanish army. When he was twenty-eight years old, he was captured by pirates of Algiers and was held a prisoner for five years. When he returned to Spain, he attempted to make a living by writing dramas and romances, and later he secured an unimportant governmental position as commissary and tax-collector in Seville. In 1606 he published the first part of Don Quixote. This book immediately became very popular, but it did not bring him much money nor did it win for him the recognition of literary men. All his life he was poor, and sometimes apparently he was actually in want of food. In 1615, one year before his death, he published the second part of Don Quixote, the greatest national book of Spain.

Don Quixote is a humorous satire upon the romances of chivalry, which at the time were so popular in Spain as to corrupt the national life by their loose morals and false ideals. So complete was the success of Cervantes that the whole nation began to laugh at the absurdities of the romances of chivalry, and it is said that not one new edition of any book of chivalry appeared in Spain after the publication of Don Quixote.

Although the world no longer takes serious consideration of the ideals of the romances of chivalry, Don Quixote will always be remembered as a great book, for it abounds in good-humored satire of human follies that are found in all ages and countries. Sancho Panza represents the type of person who does not have imagination or spiritual ideals. Not much less ridiculous, though much more deserving of sympathy, is Don Quixote, who represents the type of person who is controlled by imagination and fanciful ideals, unbalanced by practical judgment. The life of a person of either type must be filled with absurdities.

The following selections are taken from Stories of Don Quixote retold by H. L. Havell.

STORIES FROM DON QUIXOTE

I. DREAMS AND SHADOWS

The scene is laid in a village of La Mancha, a high and arid district of Central Spain; and the time is towards the close of the sixteenth century. On the outskirts of the village there stood at the time mentioned a house of modest size, adjoining a little farm, the property of a retired gentleman whose real name was Quisada or Quijada, but who is now known to all mankind by the immortal title of Don Quixote. How he came to alter his name we shall see presently.

On a hot summer afternoon this worthy gentleman was sitting in a small upper room, which served him as a study, absorbed in the contents of a huge folio volume, which lay open on the table before him. Other volumes, of like bulky proportions, were piled up on chairs or strewn on the floor around him. The reader was a man some fifty years of age, tall and spare of figure, and with high, stern features of the severest Spanish type. In his eyes, when from time to time he paused in his reading and gazed absently before him, there was a look of wild abstraction, as of one who lives in a world of dreams and shadows. One hand, with bony, nervous fingers, rested on the open page; with the other he grasped his sword, which lay sheathed on his lap.

No sound disturbs the sultry stillness of the chamber, save only the droning of an imprisoned bee and the rustling of paper when the eager student turned a leaf. Deeper and deeper grew his absorption; his eyes seemed to devour the lines, and he clutched his hair with both hands, as if he would tear it out by the roots. At last, overpowered by a frenzied impulse, he leaped from his seat, and plucking his sword from the scabbard, began cutting and thrusting at some invisible object, shouting in a voice of thunder: "Unhand the maiden, foul caitiff! Give place, I say, and let the princess go! What, wilt thou face me, vile robber? Have at thee, then, and take the wages of thy villainy." As he uttered the last words he aimed a tremendous thrust at his visionary opponent and narrowly escaped transfixing the comely person of a young lady who at this very moment entered the room, with signs of haste and alarm. Behind her, in the dimly-lighted passage, appeared the portly figure of an elderly dame, who was proclaimed, by the bunch of keys which hung at her girdle, to be the gentleman's housekeeper.

"Dear uncle, what ails thee?" said the young lady, gazing with pity and wonder at the poor distracted man, who stood arrested in his last attitude, with rolling eyes and hair in wild disorder, while great beads of sweat poured down his face. But he, whose mind was still soaring in the regions of high romance, at once converted his niece into a rescued princess, saved from violence by his prowess; and, lowering his blade and dropping gracefully on one knee, he raised her hand to his lips and said: "Fear nothing, gentle lady! There lies thine enemy in his gore"; and he pointed to a table which had been overset in one of his wild rushes, carrying with it an inkstand, the contents of which were now trickling in a black stream across the uncarpeted boards.

His niece was accustomed to the strange fits of her eccentric relative, and, humoring his fancy, she answered: "Thou hast done well, and I thank thee. But sit down now and rest awhile after thy toils; and I will bring thee something to drink." With that she led him to a couch and left the room, taking the housekeeper with her. In a few moments she returned, bearing a great pitcher of cold water.

"'Tis a most rare elixir," said he, after taking a deep draught, "prepared by the great enchanter Alquife, and of a magic potency." Then, being exhausted by his violent exertions of body and mind he stretched himself on the couch and soon sank into a quiet sleep.

II. PREPARING FOR THE QUEST

The extraordinary scene which has just been described was only one among many which had occurred during several months, down to the time when our story begins; and we must now go back a little and give some account of our hero's habits and studies, which ended by bringing him to so desperate a state. At that time by far the most popular form of light literature was the Romances of Chivalry,—huge interminable fictions, filled with the most extravagant visions that ever visited the slumbers of a mad poet. Merely to unravel the story of one of these gigantic romances is a task which would tax the strongest brain. They dealt with the adventures of Knights-Errant, who wandered about the earth redressing grievances and succoring the oppressed. Those who venture into these vast jungles of romance are occasionally rewarded by passages of great sweetness, nobility, and charm; but the modern reader soon grows weary of enchanted forests, haunted by giants, dragons, and other impossible monsters, of deserts where despairing lovers roam haggard and forlorn, of dwarfs, goblins, wizards, and all the wild and grotesque creations of the mediaeval fancy.

But in the times of which we are writing the passion for Books of Chivalry rose to such a height that it became a serious public evil. In Spain it reached its climax; and our humble gentleman of La Mancha is only an extreme example of the effect which such studies produced on the national mind. Being bitten by the craze for chivalrous fiction, he gradually forsook all the healthy pursuits of a country life and gave himself up entirely to reading such books as Amadis of Gaul, Palmerin of England, and Belianis of Greece; and his infatuation reached such a point that he sold several acres of good arable land to provide himself with funds for the purchase of those ponderous folios with which we saw him surrounded when he was first introduced to our notice. From dawn till eve he pored over his darling books, and sometimes passed whole nights in the same pursuit, until at last, having crammed his brain with this perilous stuff, he began to imagine that these wild inventions were sober reality. From this delusion there was but one step to the belief that he himself was a principal actor in the adventures of which he read; and when the fit was on him, he would take his sword and engage in single combat with the creatures of his brain, stamping his feet and alarming the household with his cries.

At first his frenzy was intermittent, and each attack was followed by a lucid interval; but finally he lost his wits altogether and came to the insane resolution of turning knight-errant and going out into the world as the redresser of wrongs and the champion of the innocent. His intention once formed, he at once took steps to carry it into effect. From a dark corner of the house he brought out an old suit of armor, which had been lying neglected for generations and was now covered with mould and eaten with rust. He cleaned the pieces and repaired them as well as he could; and observing that the helmet was a simple morion, wanting a protection for the face, he made a vizor of pasteboard to supply the defect. Then, wishing to prove the strength of his vizor, he drew his sword and with one stroke destroyed what had cost him the labor of a week. He was considerably shocked by the ease with which he had demolished his handiwork; but having made a second vizor and strengthened it with bars of iron, he did not choose to try any further experiments, but accepted the helmet, thus fortified, as the finest headpiece in the world.

Then he paid a visit to his old horse, and though the poor beast was a mere living skeleton, broken-winded and with his feet full of sandcracks, to his master's eyes he seemed a nobler steed than Bucephalus, or Bavieca, the famous charger of the Cid. It was evident that such a noble steed, who was to carry a warrior so famous, must have a name by which all the world might know him; and accordingly, after deliberating for four days and passing in review a multitude of titles, he determined to call the beast Rozinante.

Having settled this weighty question, he next began to consider what name he should assume himself, being by no means satisfied with that which he had received from his father. Eight days were passed in debating a matter so important to himself and to posterity, and at the end of that time he resolved to call himself Don Quixote. But, remembering that Amadis, not contented with his simple name, had taken the additional title of Amadis of Gaul, he determined, in imitation of that illustrious hero, his model and teacher in all things, to style himself Don Quixote de La Mancha, and thereby confer immortal honor on the land of his birth.

Nothing now remained but to choose a lady to be the mistress of his affections and the load-star of his life; for, as he wisely reflected, a knight-errant without a lady-love was like a tree without fruit or a body without a soul. "If," he said to himself, "I should encounter some giant, as commonly happens to knights-errant, and cut him in twain or otherwise vanquish him and make him my prisoner, will it not be well to have some lady to whom I may send him as a gift, so that he may enter the presence of my sweet mistress and bow the knee before her, saying in a humble and submissive voice: 'Lady, I am the giant Caraculiambro, vanquished in single combat by the knight Don Quixote de La Mancha, whose praise no tongue can tell, and I have been commanded by him to present myself to your grace, that you may dispose of me as your Highness pleases.'"

Our good knight was highly pleased with his own eloquence, and still more so when he had made choice of his lady. In a neighboring village there was a young girl, employed on a farm, with whom he had at one time been in love, though he had never brought himself to declare his passion. Her name was Aldonza Lorenzo, and her he resolved to constitute the queen of his heart, having conferred on her the sounding title of Dulcinea del Toboso, or "The Sweet Lady of Toboso," the village where she was born.

III. THE QUEST BEGINS

"The world is waiting for me," murmured our enthusiast, leaping from his bed at the first peep of dawn and arming himself from head to foot. Then treading softly, so as not to alarm the household, he went to the stable, saddled Rozinante, and leading him out through a back gate of the yard, mounted and rode forth into the plain, hugely delighted to find himself fairly started on his great enterprise.

But hardly had he reached the open country when the terrible thought occurred to him that he had not been dubbed a knight and by the laws of chivalry was not entitled to engage in combat with any one who bore that rank, and further, even if he were already a knight, he was obliged as a novice to wear plain armor, without device of any kind. So much was he perturbed by these reflections that he was within an ace of giving up his whole design, and would have done so but for a happy inspiration, which saved mankind from so dire a calamity. Many of the heroes of his books of chivalry had got themselves dubbed knight by the first person whom they met, and remembering this, he resolved to follow their example. And as to his armor, he would rub and polish it until it was whiter than ermine.

His scruples thus removed, he continued his journey, leaving his good steed to choose what direction he pleased, as was the fashion with knights-errant when they set out on their adventures. Thus pacing along and dreaming of mighty deeds, he gave vent to his feelings in the following rhapsody: "What a theme for the eloquence of some great master of style—the feats of high emprise wrought by the valiant arm of Don Quixote de La Mancha! Happy the pen which shall describe them, happy the age which shall read the wondrous tale! And thou, brave steed, shalt have thy part in the honor which is done to thy master, when poet and sculptor and painter shall vie with one another in raising an eternal monument to his fame."

Then recalling his part as an afflicted lover, he began to mourn his hard lot in soft and plaintive tones: "O lady Dulcinea, queen of this captive heart! Why hast thou withdrawn from me the light of thy countenance and banished thy faithful servant from thy presence? Shorten, I implore thee, the term of my penance and leave me not to wither in solitude and despair."

Lost in these sublime and melancholy thoughts he rode slowly on from hour to hour, until the sun became so hot that it was enough to melt his brains, if he had possessed any. All that day he continued his journey without meeting with any adventure, which vexed him sorely, for he was eager to encounter some foeman worthy of his steel. Evening came on, and both he and his horse were ready to drop with hunger and fatigue, when, looking about him in search of some castle—or some hovel—where he might find shelter and refreshment, he saw not far from the roadside a small inn, and, setting spurs to Rozinante, rode up to the door at a hobbling canter just as night was falling.

The inn was of the poorest and meanest description, frequented by muleteers and other rude wayfarers; but to his perverted fancy it seemed a turreted castle, with battlements of silver, drawbridge, and moat, and all that belonged to a feudal fortress. Before the door were standing two women, vagabonds of the lowest class, who were traveling in the company of certain mule-drivers; but for him they were instantly transformed into a pair of high-born maidens taking the air before the castle gate.

To complete his illusion, just at this moment a swineherd, who was collecting his drove from a neighboring stubble field, sounded a few notes on his horn. This Don Quixote took for a signal which had been given by some dwarf from the ramparts, to inform the inmates of the castle of his approach; and so, with huge satisfaction, he lifted his pasteboard vizor, and uncovering his haggard and dusty features, thus addressed the women who were eyeing him with looks of no small alarm, and evidently preparing to retreat: "Fly not, gracious ladies, neither wrong me by dreaming that ye have aught to fear from me, for the order of chivalry which I profess suffers not that I should do harm to any, least of all to maidens of lofty lineage, such as I perceive you to be."

Hearing themselves accosted by that extraordinary figure in language to which they were so little used, the women could not restrain their mirth, but laughed so long and loud that Don Quixote began to be vexed and said in a tone of grave rebuke, "Beauty and discourtesy are ill-matched together, and unseemly is the laugh which folly breeds in a vacant mind. Take not my words amiss, for I mean no offence, but am ready to serve you with heart and hand."

At this dignified reproof, the damsels only laughed louder than before, and there is no saying what might have come of it if the innkeeper, who appeared at this moment, had not undertaken the office of peacemaker, for which he was well fitted, being a fat, good-humored fellow, who loved a quiet life. At first, when he saw that fantastic warrior on his spectral steed, he was much inclined to join the girls in their noisy merriment. But finding some ground for alarm in so many engines of war, he contrived to swallow his laughter, and going up to Don Quixote, said to him civilly enough: "If your honor is in search of quarters for the night, you will find in this inn all that you require excepting a bed, which is not to be had here."

Finding the governor of the fortress—that is to say, the landlord of the inn—so obsequious, Don Quixote replied cheerfully: "Sir Castellan, you will not find me hard to please, for

Arms are all my rich array, My repose to fight alway."

"If that be your case, then," answered the innkeeper, humoring his strange guest, "'tis plain that

Your couch is the field, your pillow a shield, Your slumber a vigil from dusk until day:

and therefore you may dismount in the full assurance of finding under my humble roof divers good reasons for keeping awake for a twelvemonth, should such be your desire."

As he said this, he went and held the stirrup for Don Quixote, who was so weak from his long fast that it cost him much pain and effort to dismount. "I commend to thy especial care this my good steed," said he, as soon as he had found his feet: "he is the rarest piece of horseflesh that ever lived by bread."

The innkeeper bestowed but one glance on poor Rozinante, and finding little to admire in him, he thrust him hastily into the stable and came back to attend to the wants of his guest. Meanwhile Don Quixote submitted to be disarmed by the young women, who had now made their peace. Having removed his body armor, they tried to relieve him of his helmet, which was attached to his neck by green ribbons. Being unable to loose the knots, they proposed to cut the ribbons, but as he would not allow them to do this, he was obliged to keep his helmet on all that night, which made him the strangest and most diverting object that could be imagined.

While the ladies were thus employed, our brave adventurer entertained them with a strain of high-flown gallantry, seasoned with scraps from the old ballads and romances which he had read. Not understanding a word of what he said, they simply asked him, when they had finished, if he wanted anything to eat. "A slight refection would not be ill-timed," answered Don Quixote, and learning that there was nothing to be had but a "little trout," he bade them bring it with all speed. "Many little trouts," he added jestingly, "will serve my turn as well as one big one. Only let it be brought at once, for I begin to be conscious of a wondrous void within the compass of my sword-belt."

The "little trout" proved to be neither more nor less than a dish of stockfish, Poor John, or in plain English, salted cod, and that of the rankest. An odor the reverse of savory heralded its approach, and Don Quixote sat down at the table, which had been set, for coolness, before the door, and applied himself to his lenten fare. But being much incommoded by his helmet, he could not find the way to his mouth, and remained staring in dismay at the reeking mess and the filthy black bread which accompanied it, until one of the damsels, perceiving his distress, came to his relief and fed him with small morsels, which she deftly conveyed to their proper destination through the opening of his helmet. To give him drink was a harder matter, but this problem was solved with great ingenuity by the landlord, who brought a hollow cane, and placing one end in his mouth, poured the wine in at the other.

And so in solemn silence, broken now and then by the stifled laughter of the onlookers, the strange meal proceeded; and when it was nearly at an end, a clownish fellow passed by, blowing on a rustic pipe. But for Don Quixote, who had transformed the inn into a castle, the fat publican into a powerful governor, and the vagabond damsels into high-born ladies, it was an easy matter to find in those rude notes a strain of rare music, provided for his delectation while he sat at table; and he concluded his repast in a state of high satisfaction with his first day's adventures.

IV. THE KNIGHTLY VIGIL

But one uncomfortable thought chilled the heat of his enthusiasm—he had not yet been dubbed a knight and was therefore still unqualified to engage in any chivalrous adventure. Accordingly, as soon as he had finished his scanty and sordid meal, he took the landlord aside, and shutting himself up with him in the stable and falling on his knees before him, said: "I will never rise from this posture, valiant knight, until thou hast granted me of thy courtesy the favor which I desire, and which shall redound to thine honor and to the benefit of the human race."

Dumbfoundered at the strange attitude and still stranger language of his guest, the landlord stared at him, not knowing what to do or say. He begged him to rise, but Don Quixote steadily refused, so that at last he was obliged to give the promise required.