Again the knights hurtled mightily together, and Sir Bors, Sir Ector, and Sir Lionel drove at Sir Lancelot, and so great was their force that they smote Sir Lancelot's horse to the ground. By ill hap, the spear of Sir Bors pierced through his cousin's shield into his side, and the head of the lance broke off and remained in the wound.

Then Sir Lavaine, seeing his friend prone, did mightily assault Sir Mordred, who was on the other side, and hurled him to the ground; and, bringing Sir Mordred's horse to Sir Lancelot, he helped him to mount.

Sir Lancelot was exceeding wroth, and took a great strong spear, and smote Sir Bors, both horse and knight, to the ground; and likewise he served Sir Ector and Sir Lionel, and four other knights. The others retreated, for they feared his great strength.

'I marvel who is that knight that hath the red sleeve in his helm?' said King Arthur to Sir Gawaine, who sat with him.

'Sir,' said the other, 'he will be known ere he depart.'

When the king caused the trumpet to sound the end of the day's jousting, the heralds cried that the prize was to go to the knight with the red sleeve. But when the northern knights came to Sir Lancelot and would have him go to the king and take the prize, he said:

'Fair lords, let me depart, I pray you. For I have bought my victory with my life; and now I would rather have quiet than all the wealth of the world.'

Forthwith he galloped away with Sir Lavaine until they came to a great forest; and then Sir Lancelot groaned and said he could no further go, and forthwith he fell from his horse in a great swoon. Sir Lavaine went to find water in the wood, and had to go far ere he found it. But presently he saw a clearing, and there was a little hermitage and a stream running by. Sir Lavaine called the hermit, who was a man full reverend and noble of aspect, and told him how his friend lay in a deathly swoon.

In a little while they had brought Sir Lancelot to the hermitage, where the hermit took out the head of the spear and bound up the wound and gave to the knight a strong cordial. Anon he was refreshed and came to his senses again.

At the lodging of the king in Camelot, men spoke of the jousts, and wondered who might be the knight who had won the prize and who had been injured, as the northern knights had reported. Though King Arthur had it in his mind that it had been Sir Lancelot, he hoped it was not, for it grieved him much to think that Sir Lancelot was so badly wounded.

Next day the court journeyed towards London, and rested for the night at Astolat; and the town being full, it chanced that Sir Gawaine went to the manor of Sir Bernard, which lay just outside the city. When he had dined, the old knight Sir Bernard began to speak to him, and to ask who had done the best at the jousts at Camelot.

Ever since he had arrived, Sir Gawaine had seen how the fair girl, the daughter of the knight, who had attended upon him, was pale and thoughtful; and now she looked white and red by turns as he began to speak.

'There were two knights,' said Sir Gawaine, 'who each bore a white shield, and one had a red sleeve upon his helmet.'

Sir Gawaine saw how the damsel clasped her hands together, and her face lit up with a great light and her eyes were bright and proud.

'And I swear that never saw I so valiant and stout a knight as he,' said Sir Gawaine. 'For I dare swear that he beat down twenty knights of the Round Table, and his fellow also did well.'

'Now, blessed be God,' said the fair maid of Astolat, with a great cry of joy, 'that the good knight sped so well; for he is the one man in the world whom I have ever loved, and truly he shall be the last man that ever after I shall love.'

'Then do ye know his name?' asked Sir Gawaine.

'Nay, I know it not,' said Elaine, 'nor whence he came. But I know that I love him and none other.'

Then they told Sir Gawaine how they had first had knowledge of the strange knight; and the damsel said that he had left her his shield in place of the white one he had taken, so that none should know him. Sir Gawaine begged that she would fetch it from her chamber.

Elaine brought it and drew it from the case of leather in which she had wrapped it, and said, 'See, there is no spot of rust upon it, for I have cleaned it with my own hands every day.'

'Alas,' said Sir Gawaine, when he saw the device upon the shield, 'now is my heart full heavier than it hath ever been.'

'Why, oh why?' cried Elaine, and stood pale and breathless.

'Is the knight that owneth that shield your love?' asked Gawaine.

'Yes, truly,' said the maiden, 'I love him'; and then sadly she said, 'but would that he should tell me that I was also his love.'

'How ever that be,' said Sir Gawaine, 'you should know that you love the noblest knight in all the world, the most honourable and one of the most worth.'

'So thought me ever,' said the maid of Astolat, proudly smiling; 'for never have I seen a knight that I could love but that one.'

'And never hath he borne token or sign of any lady or gentlewoman before he bore thine,' said Sir Gawaine.

At these words the maid Elaine could have swooned for very joy, for she deemed that Sir Lancelot had borne her token for love of her. Therefore, she was cast more deeply in love with him than ever.

'But I dread me,' went on Sir Gawaine, 'for I fear we may never see him in this life again.'

'Alas! alas!' cried Elaine, throwing herself at the feet of the knight, and clutching his arm tightly, while she gazed with terror into his face. 'How may this be? oh, say not—say not that he is—is——'

She could not say the word, but Sir Gawaine made answer.

'I say not so, but wit ye well that he is grievously wounded.'

'Alas!' cried Elaine, 'what is his hurt? Where is he? Oh, I will go to him instantly.'

She rose, wildly ringing her slender hands.

'Truly,' said Sir Gawaine, who, though a great warrior, was a slow talker, and had no thought of the sorrow of the poor maid, 'the man that hurt him was one that would least have hurt him had he known. And when he shall know it, that will be the most sorrow that he hath ever had.'

'Ah, but say,' cried Elaine, 'where doth my lord lie wounded?'

'Truly,' replied Gawaine, 'no man knoweth where he may lie. For he went off at a great gallop, and though I and others of King Arthur's knights did seek him within six or seven miles of Camelot, we could not come upon him.'

'Now, dear father,' said the maid Elaine, and the tears welled from her eyes, 'I require you give me leave to ride and seek him that I love, or else I know well that I shall go out of my mind, for I may never rest until I learn of him and find him and my brother Sir Lavaine.'

So the maid Elaine made her ready, weeping sorely, and her father bade two men-at-arms go with her to guard and guide her on her quest.

When she came to Camelot, for two days was her seeking in vain, and hardly could she eat or sleep for her trouble. It happened that on the third day, as she crossed a plain, she saw a knight with two horses, riding as if he exercised them; and by his gestures she recognised him at length, and it was her brother. She spurred her horse eagerly, and rode towards Sir Lavaine, crying with a loud voice:

'Lavaine, Lavaine, tell me how is my lord, Sir Lancelot?'

Her brother came forward, rejoicing to see her, but he asked how she had learned that the stranger knight was Sir Lancelot, and she told him.

'My lord hath never told me who he was,' said Lavaine, 'but the holy hermit who hath harboured him knew him and told me. And for days my lord has been wandering and distraught in his fever. But now he is better.'

'It pleaseth me greatly to hear that,' said Elaine.

When Sir Lavaine took her into the room where lay Sir Lancelot so sick and pale in his bed, she could not speak, but suddenly fell in a swoon. And when she came to her senses again she sighed and said:

'My lord, Sir Lancelot, alas, why are ye in so sad a plight?'

Therewith she almost swooned again. But Sir Lancelot prayed Sir Lavaine to take her up and bring her to him. And she came to herself again, and Sir Lancelot kissed her, and said:

'Fair maid, why fare ye thus? It hurts me to see your sorrow, for this hurt of mine is of little account to cause you to grieve in this wise. If ye come to minister to me, why, ye are truly welcome, and ye shall quickly heal me, by the grace of God, and make me whole again.'

'I would gladly serve you till you are well again,' said the maid.

'I thank you, fair Elaine,' replied the knight, 'but I marvel how ye knew my name?'

'It was by Sir Gawaine, fair lord,' said the damsel, 'for he lodged at my father's house and saw your shield.'

Sir Lancelot's heart was heavy at these words, for he foreboded sorrow from this adventure.

Afterwards the maid Elaine never went from Sir Lancelot, but watched him day and night, and gave such comfort to him that never woman did more kindly nurse a wounded man than she.

Sir Lancelot was full courteous and kindly in his turn, never giving more trouble than he could avoid; both were of good cheer and merry together, for Sir Lancelot deemed not as yet that the maid loved him deeply, and the maid was glad to be with him and to do him all the service that she could.

Then in a little while came Sir Bors, the knight who had wounded Sir Lancelot, who was also his cousin, and Sir Bors lamented sorely that his had been the arm that had given his kinsman so sore a wound. But Sir Lancelot prayed him not to grieve, and said:

'I have that which I deserved, for in my pride I was nigh slain, for had I given thee, my cousin, warning of my being there, I had not been hurt. Therefore, let us leave off speaking thereof, and let us find some remedy so that I may soon be whole.'

'Fair cousin,' said Sir Bors, as he leaned on the bed, speaking in a low voice, 'there is one nigh thee, or I am much in error, that will not know whether to be glad or sorry when thou shalt be hale enough to ride away.'

'What dost thou mean?' asked Sir Lancelot.

'Is this she that is so busy about thee—is she the lady that men call the Lily Maid of Astolat?'

'She it is,' replied Sir Lancelot, 'and kindlier nurse hath never man found.'

'It is easy to see she loveth her task,' said Sir Bors, and he was full of pity and kindness for the fair meek maid, 'seeing that she loveth thee.'

'Nay, man, nay, that cannot be,' said Sir Lancelot, half angry, half denying. 'She hath come to me because I was sick, and because I wore her token in my helm, that's all.'

'Wise art thou in all knightly prowess, Sir Lancelot,' said Sir Bors, 'and full courteous and kindly art thou to all ladies and damsels. But I fear thou knowest not the heart of this fair maid. For it hath been easy for me to see by her looks this way how she is jealous of my talking to thee, and I know from her diligence about thee that she loveth thee with all her heart.'

'If that be so, then, by Heaven, I sorrow it is so,' said Sir Lancelot heavily. 'And I must send her from me forthwith.'

'Why shouldst thou do that, fair cousin?' said Sir Bors. 'She is a passing fair damsel and well taught, and I would that thou couldst love her in return. But as to that, I may not nor dare not counsel thee. For I know that love blows where it listeth and will be forced by none.'

'It repenteth me sorely,' said Sir Lancelot, and he was heavy in spirit thereafter, and was eager to get whole again and to go away.

In four or five days he made a plot with Sir Bors, that he should rise and clothe himself in his armour and get upon his horse, and in this way show to the hermit and to the maid Elaine that indeed and in truth he was strong enough to ride forth. Therefore they made excuses and sent both the hermit and the maid away into the forest to gather herbs.

Sir Lancelot rose from his bed, and Sir Bors helped him to put on his armour and to mount his horse. And so eager was the knight to feel that he was hale again that he put his lance in rest and spurred his horse, and so furiously did he ride across the mead, as if he rode at a knight, that of a sudden his wound broke out again, and he swooned and fell from his horse to the ground.

Sir Bors and Sir Lavaine made great sorrow and dole as they raised him and carried him back to the hermitage. It befell that Elaine, who had not gone far, heard their cries and came running swiftly, and seeing Sir Lancelot borne between them pale as with death, she cried and wept and kneeled beside him, and put her arms about his neck and kissed him many times, and called to him to wake him.

'O traitors that ye are,' she cried to her brother and to Sir Bors, 'why have ye let him go from his bed? Oh, if ye have slain him I will denounce you for his murderers.'

Therewith came the holy hermit and was right wroth, and they put Sir Lancelot to bed again, and the hermit stanched the wound and gave the knight a cordial, so that he awoke out of his swoon.

'Why have you put your life in jeopardy thus?' asked the hermit.

'For that I weary of being here,' said Sir Lancelot, 'and I would ride forth again.'

'Ah, Sir Lancelot,' said the hermit, 'your heart and your courage will never be done till your last day. But now ye must do as I command, and stay till I say ye are hale again.'

Soon after this Sir Bors departed, and the hermit promised that if he came back in a month, Sir Lancelot would be ready to depart with him. Thus Sir Lancelot stayed in the hermitage, and ever did the fair maid Elaine labour with diligence day and night to heal and comfort him, and to keep the time from wearying him. And never was child meeker to her parent, nor wife kinder to her husband, nor mother sweeter and more tender to her child, than Elaine was to Sir Lancelot.

The knight sorrowed that this was so; and he ever bore himself courteous, but not familiar in speech, for it grieved him that he had no love in his heart for her, however deep might be her love for him.

When the month was over, Sir Bors returned and found Sir Lancelot walking about the forest, hale and strong again and eager to be riding.

In a day they all made them ready to depart from the hermit, and to go to King Arthur's court, which was then in London. The Lily Maid went with them, sad that all her loving care was now ending, but glad to see the noble air with which Sir Lancelot bestrode his horse, and thankful that sometimes, as they rode upon their way, he turned to her smiling gravely, and spoke of the bright sunlight, the birds and trees they saw, and the company and travellers they passed.

Then they came to Astolat, and Sir Bernard gave them all great welcome, and they were well feasted and well lodged.

On the morrow, when they should depart, the maid Elaine was pale and very quiet, until Sir Lancelot came into the hall to say farewell. Then the maid, bringing her father and her two brothers with her, went up to Sir Lancelot and said:

'My lord, now I see that ye will depart. But oh, do thou have mercy upon me, for I must say that which damsels and gentlewomen are not used to say.'

Sir Lancelot with grave sad face looked at her and knew what she would say, and in very heaviness of spirit replied:

'Lady, it grieves me that I have unwittingly put such grief upon you.'

'O fair and gracious knight, suffer me not to die for love of you,' cried Elaine, and looked most piteously and wanly upon him. 'Oh, I would have none but you to be my husband.'

'Fair damsel,' replied Sir Lancelot, 'heavy is my grief to refuse you, but I have not turned my mind to marriage.'

'Alas,' said Elaine, and smiled sadly, 'then there is no more to be said.'

'Fair maid, I would that you will seek some knight more worthy of you,' said Sir Lancelot. 'When I am gone, do you set your heart upon some friend or kinsman; and for all the kindness ye have shown me, I will settle upon you a thousand pounds yearly.'

'Oh, of all this,' said the Lily Maid, 'I will have none; for if ye will not love me, wit ye well, Sir Lancelot, my happy days are done.'

'Say it not, fair maid,' said the knight, 'for many years and much love should be yours.'

But with a cry Elaine fell to the ground in a swoon, and her gentlewomen bore her into her chamber and sorrowed over her.

In great heaviness Sir Lancelot would depart, and went to his horse to mount it; and Sir Lavaine went with him.

'What would you do?' asked Sir Lancelot of him.

'What should I do,' said Sir Lavaine, 'but follow you, unless you drive me from you?'

'I cannot do that, so come with me,' said Sir Lancelot.

Then came Sir Bernard unto the knight and said, lifting his grey head and wrinkled and reverend face to Sir Lancelot as he bestrode his horse:

'Sir, I think my daughter Elaine will die for your sake. For ever was she quiet, but strong in mood and of a very fond heart.'

'It must not be,' said Sir Lancelot, 'but do thou cheer her, and when I am gone she will forget me. Never did I do or say aught but what a good knight should, and never made as if I cared for her. But I am right sorry for her distress, for she is a full fair maid, good and gentle, and sweet of voice and mood.'

'Father,' said Sir Lavaine, 'my sister Elaine doeth as I do. For since I first saw my lord Lancelot, I could never depart from him, nor never will if I may follow him.'

Night and day did the fair maid Elaine sorrow in silence, so that she never slept, ate or drank. At the end of ten days her ghostly father bade her leave such grief and change her thoughts.

'Nay,' she said, 'I may not, and I would not if I could. And I do no sin to love the most peerless knight in all the world, the most gentle and courteous of men, and the greatest in all nobility. Therefore, as I know I may not live, do thou shrive me, good father, for I must needs pass out of this world.'

Then she confessed her sins and was shriven. And anon she called her father and her brother, Sir Tirre, and begged that they would do as she desired as to her burial, and they promised.

In a little while she died, and a letter was put into her cold hand, and she was placed in a fair bed, with all the richest clothes she had about her. Then they carried her on the bed in a chariot, slowly, with many prayers and with much weeping, to the Thames, and there they put her and the bed in a barge.

Over all the bed and the barge, except her fair face, was placed a cloak of black samite, and an old and faithful servant of the house stepped into the barge to guide it.

They let it go from them with great grief, and the aged man steered it down the river towards London, where was the court of Arthur.

It happened that, as the king and his queen were looking from a window of the palace which looked upon the Thames, they saw the black barge, and marvelled what it might mean.

The king made the barge to be held fast, and took the queen's hand, and with many knights went down to the water's edge, and there they saw a fair gentlewoman lying on a rich bed, and she lay as if she slept.

The king took the letter gently from the fair hand which held it, and went into his court, and ordered all his knights to assemble, and then opened the letter and read what was written. The words were these:

'Most noble knight, my lord Sir Lancelot du Lake, now hath death come to me, seeing that you would not give me your love. Yet do thou do this little thing I ask, now that I am dead, for I ask thee to pray for my soul and to bury me, and think of me sometimes. Pray for my soul and think of me, as thou art a knight peerless and most gentle.'

Sir Lancelot heard it word by word and went pale as ashes, so that men marvelled to see his sorrow. When it was finished, he said:

'My lord, King Arthur, wit ye well that I am right heavy for the death of this fair damsel. God knoweth that I was never causer of her death by my will, as her brother Sir Lavaine here will avouch for me. She was both fair and good, and exceeding kind to me when I was wounded; but she loved me out of all measure, and of that I was sore heavy.'

'Ye might have loved her,' said the queen, weeping for sorrow at the hapless fate of one so fair and fond.

'Madam,' said Sir Lancelot, 'I could not be constrained to love her, but I sorrow for her death exceedingly.'

'Truth it is,' said the king, 'that love is free and never will be forced, for all the prayers that may be said to it. But thou wilt of thy worship bury this fair maid, Sir Lancelot?'

'That will I do,' said the knight, 'and in all richness and solemnity.'

Thus was it done, and all the knights of the Round Table sorrowfully followed the body of the fair Elaine to the grave.

On her tomb in letters of gold both thick and deep were set the words:

'Here lieth the body of Elaine, the Lily Maid of Astolat, who died of a passing great love'



X

HOW THE THREE GOOD KNIGHTS ACHIEVED THE HOLY GRAAL

Now the time drew nigh which had been foretold by Merlin, before he had been snared by a greater wizardry than his, and buried alive beneath the great stone in the forest of Broceliande.

He had prophesied that, with the coming of King Arthur, the island of Britain should grow in strength and fame, and her knights should be more valiant and more pure in word and deed than the knights of any other land. But that, in a little while, they would become proud, and finding that none could withstand them, they would use their strength evilly.

To the court of King Arthur, as he sat in London, came tidings of how his barons warred with each other in remoter parts of his dominions, seizing the strong castles of each other, putting one another to death, and forsaking the ways of the Holy Church of Christ and turning to the idolatry of the old British pagans, some of whom still lurked and performed their evil rites in the desolate and secret places of the forests and the hills.

The heart of the king was heavy as he sat thinking, and he wondered why this evil was entering into the hearts of his knights and barons. He resolved to take good counsel, and therefore commanded his clerk to come to him and bade him write down all his thoughts.

Then he gave the letter to a trusty knight, named Sir Brewis, and bade him take it to the Archbishop of Britain, where he sat, an old and feeble man, in his great cathedral of St. Asaph, far on the verge of the western sea. He was the king's kinsman, and already known for his great sanctity as St. David. In a month the knight brought back the answer, which was in these words:

'The time draws nigh for the trial and testing of Britain. Three good knights shall come to you, and you must pray that their spirit shall spread like fire in the hearts of all your knights. You shall have all my prayers, dear kinsman, and I bid you say to all your knights, "Watch and Pray."'

A few days later, when the king sat in hall before the great fire, for it was passing cold and the wintry wind snarled at the windows, the great door was flung open, and into the hall came three men bearing a wounded knight in armour upon his shield. When they had set him down, the knights that were with the king knew him for Sir Kay the seneschal, and Sir Kay looked sourly about him, and bade those that carried him take him to his pallet and fetch a leech, and not stand gaping like fools.

'How now,' said Sir Gawaine, 'who hath tumbled thee, Sir Kay?'

'A fool whose head I will rase from his shoulders when I am hale again,' snapped Sir Kay, as he was borne away to his bed.

Then into the hall came a troll, and after the troll came a knight dressed all in white armour, who, going towards the king, knelt at his feet.

'Sir,' the knight said, 'I would that ye make me a knight.'

'Of what lineage have ye come?' asked the king.

'I am the only son left to my mother,' replied the knight, 'and she is the widow of Earl Evroc of the Wolds.'

'Ah,' said the king, and frowned, 'was he one of those turbulent lords of the north that now slay and war as if they were kin to the pagans, and threaten to bring ruin into my kingdom?'

'Nay, lord,' said the young knight, 'my father hath been dead these twenty years.'

'Then what is your name? What have ye done to deserve knighthood?' asked the king, who was angry at the hurt his old friend and foster-brother Kay had received.

'Sir, I am Perceval who slew the Dragon Knight, and I am not yet made a knight.'

All those that stood there cried out in joy, and King Arthur raised the young knight from his knees and kissed him on both cheeks.

'Fair young warrior, I knew ye not,' said the king, 'and I repent me my churlish speech. We all have heard your great deeds, and much have I longed to see ye, and many reproaches gave I to Sir Kay, whose churlish manner thrust you from my hall.'

'Sir,' said Perceval, when he had clasped the hands of the knights, all of whom were eager to know him, 'I vowed that I would not come to you until that I had avenged the blow which Sir Kay had given to my good friend Tod, who is my squire, and good fortune brought Sir Kay to me, or perhaps it was the will of Heaven. For as I came riding hitherwards this morning, I saw in the snow where a hawk had torn a thrush, and the blood lay on the whiteness of the ground. I stopped and gazed upon it, for I thought of the white life of Christ who gave His blood to save us all. Then I wondered whether the blood that He had shed upon the cruel Cross would ever be so pitiful a thing in men's minds that this dear Britain of ours would be rid of the evil which seems to be creeping into it, and in place thereof would turn as white as the sheets of snow that now lay over all the fields and ways. As I thought thus, I sank deeper and deeper in my thoughts. Suddenly I felt one strike me on the arm with the flat of his sword. I turned and saw a knight, who asked me why I gaped like a mooncalf at the torn bird. I told him it was my pleasure so to do. He asked if it was my pleasure to have to do with him, but I said I would liefer pursue my thoughts again. Nevertheless, he would not let me in quiet, and I drew my sword and beat him in my anger to the ground. When my squire unlaced his helm he knew him for Sir Kay, and told some passing men to bear him unto the court.

'So have I punished him both for the insult to my friend and squire and to myself.'

Men marvelled at the quiet speech and gentle looks and manners of one whose fame for great deeds was in all men's mouths; and Sir Gawaine said:

'Of a truth, young chieftain, it had served Sir Kay rightly if ye had slain him, and he should thank thee for sparing him.'

The other knights agreed that Sir Kay had done most unknightly in thus picking a quarrel with one who had not offended, and he had merited defeat.

Thereupon King Arthur knighted Perceval, and they made him great cheer and welcome; and the king knew in his heart that this was one of the three good knights whom St. David had spoken of, and he wondered who were the other two.

It chanced that seven nights before, the good Sir Bors had fared forth from the court of Arthur to seek knightly adventures. And his spirit was joyful as he rode, for he felt that some great adventure was to come to him, howbeit he knew not why he felt this was to be.

Northward he fared through the land, and the snow had not yet fallen, but so mild was the season that men's thoughts had stirred towards spring. For many days he journeyed and the ways were more lonely, the country more desolate, the rocky hills more bare. He wondered why it was that the land seemed so forsaken, as if the folk had long since left the fields to become solitary wastes.

At length it befell that one evening he could find no place wherein to shelter for the night; there was no hermit's cell nor castle nor knight's hold through all the way by which he had come that day. Towards twilight he came upon a wide moor, and the cold moon peered at him over the distant mountains. Far in the midst of the waste he saw a great pile, as of a castle, and pricked his horse towards it.

It was indeed a castle, but its walls were broken and mossy, as if long years had passed since it housed fire and gay company. He rode over the drawbridge into the great courtyard, and the echo of his horse's hoofbeats was the only sound that greeted him.

He sought the upper chambers, and found in one a rough bed of fern leaves, and, having supped from the scrip he carried with him, he composed himself to sleep, glad that at least a roof and thick walls shielded him from the freezing cold which now swept over the land.

Forthwith he slept; but at midnight he awoke and found it was deeply dark, and looking to the arrow slit in the wall he sought some friendly star. As he looked, a great red light burst through, and with that there came, thrusting fiercely, a great spear like a long flame, which darted at him, and then stayed just before him. The point of it burned blue and dazzling.

As he lay marvelling, the spear went back a space; then he grasped his sword that lay beside him, but before he could defend himself the flaming spear dashed forward again and smote him in the shoulder.

Then the spear went back and the chamber was deep dark again, and for very pain Sir Bors lay and groaned. Nor could he sleep more that night. When it was dawn he arose, thinking to ride forth, but when he went down into the courtyard to saddle his horse in the stable, he marvelled to see that where there had been an open ruined gateway the night before, was now a great black oaken door, spiked and bolted.

For a long time he essayed by every means to get himself out of that castle, but he could not find a way. Yet never did he hear or see aught that showed that any one lived there. Many times he went throughout the place, but never found aught but ruin and emptiness, and the dust and darkness of long neglect everywhere.

When three days had gone, Sir Bors was faint with the pain of his wound and the hunger with which he suffered. Then, as he sat beside his horse in its stall, he suddenly heard the clank of armour, and going forth into the courtyard saw a knight all armed, with his shield on his shoulder and his sword naked in his hand.

Without a word the stranger darted at him, and hardly did Sir Bors have time to dress his shield; and then they lashed mightily at each other, and thrust and hewed sorely. Thus for half the day they fought, and so fiercely that soon Sir Bors had many wounds, so that blood oozed from the joints of his armour. But the other knight seemed to be unharmed, and never seemed to breathe heavily. Then Sir Bors became extremely wroth, and beat so fiercely upon the other that he pressed him always backward until the stranger was nigh to the door of a chamber which opened into the courtyard; and suddenly he dashed backwards into the chamber and shut the door.

Nor would he come forth, for all that Sir Bors called him coward and recreant. Nor would he answer one word, nor had he said one word since Sir Bors had seen him.

After some time Sir Bors resolved to go back and rest himself beside his horse, for his great wounds burned him sorely; but as he turned, suddenly, without a sound, the stranger knight dashed forth, and struck a felon blow at the good knight's neck. But Sir Bors was aware of him in time and defended himself full well.

So fiercely did Sir Bors lay on, that soon the other was beaten to his knees, and then the good knight rushed at him to hurl him headlong and to slay him. Suddenly the other knight seemed to fall together as if dead; but the armour sounded hollow as it fell, and Sir Bors marvelled.

Swiftly he hacked the fastenings of the helm and tore it from the neck armour. Then a great fear seized and shook him. The armour was empty!

He knew then that he had fought with a demon. He crossed himself and prayed, and weak with deadly fear and his wounds, he went into the stall and sat beside his horse, and marvelled how he could win with life from the fell power that seemed to hold him prisoner.

Suddenly, from a dark cavernous hole in the dungeons, came a great boar, with curving tusks keen as sword-blades, and rushed at Sir Bors full fiercely. Hardily did the knight defend himself from the strength and the fierce rushes of the great beast. The boar with its long tusks tore the shield from the grasp of Sir Bors, and slashed his shield arm sorely, and then Sir Bors was wroth, and with a very fierce blow he smote off the boar's head. Immediately thereupon, with the pain of his many wounds and the weakness of his famine, Sir Bors fainted, and lay upon the frozen snow as one dead. For long he stayed thus ere he revived, and then he rose and dragged himself into the stall where lay his horse, half dead with hunger, before an empty manger.

All that night Sir Bors lay in a sad pass, for he thought that now he would never see dawn again in life. He prayed and commended his soul to God, and confessed his sins and prepared himself for death as behoved a good knight; and thereafter he slept sweetly.

At the dawn he awoke, exceeding hungry, and looking forth into the court he had it in his mind to carve meat from the dead boar. But he was astounded beyond measure to find that it was not there. In its place was a great trencher of steaming hot collops of meat, and toasted bread, with hot milk in great plenty.

Sir Bors ran towards the food, and so ravenous was his hunger that he would have devoured it instantly. But he bethought him before he had placed any of it to his lips, and dropping it he crossed himself and ran back into the stall and tried not to look forth. He knew that the food was placed there by some fell fiend or demon to tempt him, and if he ate of that unholy food, his soul would be for ever lost.

Anon sweet voices sounded in the courtyard as if to attract him forth, and the smell of the hot food was wafted strongly into the stable. The fiends themselves could not enter, for there was a horse-shoe hung in the proper way upon the lintel of the door, and, moreover, Sir Bors had stuck his sword-point in the ground, and the holy sign of the cross prevented the evil things from crossing the threshold.

All that day did Sir Bors lie half dying, while the fiends tempted him, but the knight was too strong and manful of soul to yield, and would liefer die than become the slave of the powers of the Netherworld.

Then in the twilight he commended his soul to God, for he felt near to death. When he had finished his prayer, he heard great and horrible cries in the court as of rage and disappointment. Then came an old man at the door of the stable, white of hair and very reverend; and he came and put his hand upon Sir Bors' head and spoke mildly and said:

'Good and faithful knight, sorely tried have ye been, and now you shall have no more adventures here. Full worshipfully have ye done and better shall ye do hereafter. And now your wounds shall be healed and ye shall have good cheer until to-morrow.'

Therewith there was all manner of sweetness and savour in the place, and Sir Bors saw as in a mist a shining vessel borne by a wondrous maiden. He knew that this was the Holy Graal; and he bowed his head, and forthwith he was whole of his wounds.

On the morrow he departed after a night's sweet sleep, and rode to Arthur's court and told of his adventures.

The king and queen and all the fellowship of the Round Table were passing glad to see Sir Bors whole and well, and they made much of him, for they felt that he would do things of great renown.

Then at the feast of Pentecost went all the court to the minster to hear their service; and when they returned to the palace the king ordered that dinner should be prepared in the hall of the Round Table, for this was one of the days when he was wont to assemble all his knights at a great feast of knighthood.

While they waited for the horn to sound, warning them that the meal was ready, one came running to the king, saying that a thing of marvel had happened. And Arthur went to the hall of the Round Table with his knights, and there in the seats about the great circular board they found letters of gold written, which said, 'Here should sit Sir Bedevere,' or 'Here should sit Sir Gawaine,' and thus was the name of a knight written in every seat.

In the Siege, or Seat, Perilous, where twice or thrice a reckless knight had dared to sit, but only to be struck dead by a sudden flashing blow of mystery, there were written the words, 'In the four hundredth and fourth and fiftieth year after the passion of our Lord, shall he that shall fill this seat come among ye.'

All the knights marvelled and looked each at the other.

'It seemeth me,' said Lancelot, 'that this is the very day on which this seat shall be filled by him for whom it is appointed, for this is the four hundred and fifty-fourth winter since Christ died on the rood.'

It was seen that on each side of the Siege Perilous was written, on the right one, the name of Sir Perceval, and on the left one, the name of Sir Bors.

Then the horn was sounded to dinner, and each knight took the seat appointed for him, and young knights served them. All the sieges round the table were filled except the Siege Perilous.

Men ate and drank soberly, for they felt that an adventure strange and marvellous should happen that day, and so indeed it befell.

For when they had eaten, and the priest was saying in a great silence the grace after meat, suddenly a shrill wind sounded without, and all the doors and windows shut fast. Men looked at each other in the twilight thus caused, and many a face was white with fear.

Then the door opened and an old and reverend man entered, white of beard and head, and clothed also in white; and Sir Bors knew him for the same who had come to him at the Castle of Fiends. By the right hand the ancient man brought a young knight, clad in red armour, with a sword at his side, but with no shield.

'Peace be with you, fair lords,' said the old man. Then turning to the king he said:

'Sir, I bring here a young knight, the which is of king's lineage, whereby the marvels of this court shall be accomplished, and the trial of this thy kingdom shall be brought to a happy end, if that may be. And the name of him is Galahad.'

'Sir,' said the king, 'ye be right welcome and the young knight with you.'

The old man made the young knight unarm him, and he was in a coat of red sendal, and bare a mantle that was furred with ermine. Then was the young man led by the reverend man to the Siege Perilous, and sat him thereon, and men marvelled to see that the death-stroke did not flash like lightning and slay him.



'Sir,' said the old man to him, 'wit ye well that that is your seat. For you are he that shall surely achieve the Holy Graal, and such of these your fellows as are pure in heart and humble shall achieve it with you.'

'Sir,' said the king, 'if it may be that ye know, will ye tell us what my knights must do to achieve the Holy Vessel, and thus bring peace into my kingdom in place of war? For many of those that are kings and barons under me are warring with each other, and threaten to rend this island of Britain, and some are forsaking Christ and are turning to the evil faith and cruel worship of the pagan gods of Britain. And it goeth to my heart to know this, and I have much dread.'

'Sir king,' said the old white man, 'none may tell you what shall be the end of this quest of the Holy Graal, but I can tell you and these your knights what they must do to save this land from the ruin which doth threaten it. Ye know that the Holy Vessel was that wherein Christ ate the lamb on the Thursday before he was hung upon the Cross. And Joseph of Arimathea did bring it here to Britain, and here hath it been for more than four hundred and fifty winters. And while ye and your kingdom did love Christ and did do His word, the Sangreal stayed within your borders. But now ye war with each other, and are evil livers and full of pride and mastery, and if ye do not repent and stay your dishonour, then shall the Holy Vessel pass from Britain, and ruin and death and civil war shall stalk through the land and leave it desolate.'

Having spoken thus, the old man went from the hall, and none stayed him; for too many there were who knew that they had been the evil livers at whom his words had pointed.

Then uprose Sir Gawaine, who was a faithful knight and true man to his king, though a proud one and a hasty. He was filled with sorrow for the ruin that threatened his fair land.

'Now I do here avow,' he said, 'that to-morrow, without fail, I shall set forth, and I shall labour with all the strength of my body and my soul to go in quest of the Holy Graal, so that if I be fit to see it and to bring it hither, this dear land may be saved from woe.'

So hot were his words that many of the better knights rose also, and raising their right hands did make a like avowal; and those that cared not for the quest felt that they must seem to do as the others did, and so made avowal also, though in their hearts they thought more of pride and earthly power.

'Gawaine, Gawaine,' cried the king, and the great tears stood in his eyes, 'I know ye do right to avow this and to cause these others to avow also; but a great dread is upon me, for I have great doubt that this my fellowship shall never meet again.'

'Fear not,' said Lancelot, 'for bethink ye, my lord, in no better adventure can we find death than in this quest, and of death we are all sure.'

On the morrow the knights armed themselves, and bade farewell to King Arthur and his queen, and there was much weeping and great sorrow. And as the knights rode through the streets of Camelot the crowds stood and wept, both rich and poor. All were full of dread to see so many brave knights depart that never more would return.

Having passed through the gates of the town, every knight took the way that he liked best.

Now Sir Galahad was without a shield, and he rode four days without adventure. At evensong on the fourth day he came to an abbey of white monks, and there was given great cheer. He found two other knights of the Round Table at that abbey, the one King Bagdemagus and the other Sir Ulfin; and the three had supper together, and made great cheer one of the other, and spoke of the adventures each would desire to have.

'There is within this abbey, as men tell me, a shield,' said King Bagdemagus, 'which no man may bear about his neck, but he is injured or slain within three days. Yet to-morrow I will adventure to win it.'

In the morning, therefore, after they had heard mass, King Bagdemagus asked the abbot to show him where was the shield. Then was he led to the high altar in the church, and behind it was hung a shield which glowed with shining whiteness, and in the middle thereof was a red cross which seemed to quiver as if it were living.

'Sir,' said the abbot, 'this shield ought not to hang about any knight's neck unless he be one of the three best knights of the world, and I counsel you to beware.'

'No matter,' said King Bagdemagus, 'I will essay it, for though I am not Sir Lancelot, yet I am a good knight enough.'

This he said in his pride, and took the shield and put the strap about his neck, and bade good-bye to the other twain, and so went forth with his squire.

They had not ridden but two miles or more, when at the opening to a wood Sir Bagdemagus saw a knight in white armour on a horse, riding up and down as if to do battle with any that should venture to go into the forest drive.

When the white knight saw him he called out:

'Who art thou? Thou bearest the shield of a knight peerless, but not the armour.'

'Who am I?' replied King Bagdemagus scornfully. 'I am he that shall give a good account of myself with thee.'

With that he levelled his lance and ran furiously upon the knight. But the other stood still, and when the spear-head was nigh his shield, he lightly turned it aside, and as Sir Bagdemagus swept by, the knight, with a quick fierce stroke of his sword, smote him so hard that the blade bit through the mail even to the shoulder-bone; whereby Sir Bagdemagus fell to the ground in a swoon.

The white knight called the squire to him and said:

'Bear ye this shield to the young knight, Sir Galahad, who is at the white abbey. Greet him from me, and say that it is for him to wear this shield, and none other. And tell him that I shall meet him erelong, if God wills, and that we shall fare together to that which is appointed for us.'

The squire did as he was bidden, and told Sir Galahad of the white knight's words. Sir Galahad asked him what was the device upon the shield of the white knight, and he answered, 'A red heart.' Then said the young knight, 'It shall be even as he saith.'

Sir Galahad mounted his horse and rode alone, ever northward, for he knew that the Holy Graal was hidden in a castle somewhere in the north among the warring barons. Many days he rode without adventure, until on a day he came to an old and venerable wood, dark and thick and close, where the moss hung like thick beards from the hoary branches.

There, in a laund or glade in the midmost part of the forest, he found an old and white dame, kneeling before a green cross beside the path, weeping piteously as she prayed and beat her breast.

'What ails ye, lady?' asked Sir Galahad.

'Ah, good knight,' said the old dame, and as she rose it was well seen she was of gentle birth, I weep for that I have lived to see the day when sons of mine shall slay each the other. I have three sons, and all are of the worshipful company of the Round Table. But two are wasteful livers, and have taken from me all that whereby I lived; and ever hath my youngest boy, Sir Hewlin, withstood their evil ways. Wherefore they hated him. And yesterday did Sir Nulloth and Sir Dew, my elder sons, return, and did quarrel with my dear lad Hewlin. And now I fear they go about to slay him. Oh, if that they kill him, who is the prop and comfort of my old age, I shall surely die.'

'Sad it is, lady,' said Sir Galahad, and mournful was his mind, 'to think that in this dear land of Britain there should be knights that are given to such thoughts of evil as to slay their own kin. Lead me to them, I pray ye.'

He set the dame upon his saddle before him, and she led the way through the forest. When they had gone but a mile she started, and stopped the horse, and then they heard the sound of clashing steel. Sadly did that poor lady shriek and cry:

'Ah! they slay him now! My dear son! My dear boy!'

Swiftly Sir Galahad made his horse to leap forward, and in a little while they came upon a great meadow, where two knights on foot were together fighting another single knight with swords. Forthwith Sir Galahad cried with a loud and a stern voice, 'Hold, put up your swords, ye evil brothers, that would slay each other!'

All turned at the cry. Then, seeing his mother, the young knight Sir Hewlin threw down his sword. And leaping from Sir Galahad's horse the reverend lady tottered to her youngest son and threw herself upon his breast, and he clasped his mother in his arms.

But the two evil brothers laughed scornfully at Sir Galahad.

'Who art thou, thou knight in red?' they cried. 'Thinkest thou to frighten us with thy big words?'

Quickly they mounted their horses and ran upon Sir Galahad together. But the lance of one he received upon his shield, and the weapon snapped in twain; and that of the other he thrust aside and, as the knight thundered by, he brought down his sword, with so fierce and wrathful a stroke, that the head of the knight flew from his shoulders.

Seeing this, the other, who was Sir Nulloth, made haste to throw himself from his horse, and came and kneeled before Sir Galahad, praying mercy.

'I know who ye are,' he said. 'You are Sir Galahad, the stainless knight, who shall prevail in all thy deeds, and whom no weapon may wound until ye have fulfilled your high destiny. And I will do faithfully any behest ye may lay upon me.'

'I will then,' said Sir Galahad sternly, 'that thou makest peace with thy mother and thy brother here instantly; that thou seekest naught of them till thy dying day, which shall not be far from thee; and that thou goest this day and place thyself in the service of Sir Bedevere, or Sir Uriens upon the coasts, and help to thrust forth the hateful pagan from the land.'

The knight swore to do all this, and after he had made his peace with his kindred, he set forth to do Sir Galahad's bidding. And it was as the stainless knight had foretold, for in seven days Sir Nulloth had found death, bravely fighting the pagan pirates.

Sir Galahad went forward, sore of heart to think that such evil was in the land and in men's minds, that any could be found to wish the death of a brother and to care naught for the sorrow of an old mother.

Thus for many months Sir Galahad rode about the land, seeking out the knights who, with their bands of soldiers, fought to wrest from each other land and castles. And ever he strove to make peace between them, and to show them how, while they fought with each other, Christian against Christian, the pagan hordes were let unhindered into the land, ravening, burning, and slaying.

Some of the battling knights did forsake their evil ways, and went to Sir Bedevere and Sir Uriens, with whom they strove to push back the fierce pagans into their long black ships. But many others, so lost to honour and knightliness were they, performed not their promises, and continued to fight each with the other.

So fierce, indeed, was the fighting through all that land, that the peasants forsook the fields and hid themselves; and the pagans from the northern wilderness came over the walls and wandered, killing and burning and robbing. And thus in many parts the crops were not sown or reaped, the wheat stood unharvested and wild, and the grass and weeds grew tall on the very hearths of the poor peasants and husbandmen.

The heart of Sir Galahad grew sick, seeing the evil which was come into the land, and he feared that soon the Holy Graal would be taken from the island of Britain, and that then ruin would stalk throughout the length and breadth of the realm.

Once, at the dawning, Sir Galahad looked from the door of a little hermitage where he had passed the night, and was aware of a great company of men coming over the moor. They were all horsed, and were going towards the sea, which was on the right hand, where steep and fearful cliffs fell sheer to the thundering surf beneath. And in their midst he saw they held captive a full noble knight, who seemed wounded, and whose armour was all broken and cracked, as if he had fought valiantly before he had been overcome. Him they were going to hurl headlong down the cliffs.

Sir Galahad began to arm himself full hastily to meet them. But as he dressed his armour he was aware of a knight coming swiftly from a little wood that lay towards the sea-edge. Then was the heart of Sir Galahad exceeding joyful when he saw that the knight was all in white armour, and that on his shield was the device of a heart; for he knew that this was Sir Perceval.

Sir Perceval spurred towards the band of knights, and in a loud voice called on them to release their captive.

'Who art thou?' they cried.

'I am a knight of the Pendragon of these islands, King Arthur,' answered Perceval, 'and thy captive is my friend, Sir Bors of Brittany.'

'Ha! ha!' the others laughed, and spurred furiously towards him. 'Slay him!' they shouted. 'We own no Arthur here. We are our own lords.'

With spears in rest, seven of the knights thundered against Sir Perceval. But by this time Sir Galahad was upon his horse, and, making no outcry, he spurred upon the others.

Three knights he dashed to the ground with one lance-thrust; but then the spear broke. Therewith he drew his sword, and smote in the thick of them so furiously on the left and on the right that they could not abide him, but fled from about Sir Bors, who, wresting a sword from one of them, rode after the seven that were fighting Sir Perceval.

So valiantly and hardily did the three knights lay about them that in a little while their enemies had fled, leaving more than half their number slain.

Then did the three knights make great cheer and welcome of each other, and told each their adventures, and promised that now they were together they would never more part till death should summon them.

So, together, they fared thereafter many months, doing noble deeds, and seeking earnestly to bring men's hearts to turn to friendship and union, so that, united, the lords of the northern lands should turn upon the pagans and destroy them utterly.

It befell that, on a morn, they came to a castle on a great cliff that was in the marches of Scotland; and they heard a horn sound in that castle and much shouting. On the walls thereof were men of a savage aspect, peering and looking down at them. And those men had fair hair, with steel helms which had great horns or wings upon them. On their tall bodies were leather jerkins, with gold chains and many ornaments.

Then Sir Galahad and his friends were aware that on the topmost pinnacle of the castle was a banner, floating and flapping in the morning wind. Black was that banner, and in the midmost part thereof was a golden raven, with beaks open as if it croaked, and its wings were wide thrown, as if it flew over a field of slain men.

They knew that this was a horde of pagans who had wrested this castle from its rightful lord, and that full fierce would be the battle.

Then from a hole or cave beneath a tree near by came a maiden, richly dressed, but sad and pitiable of face and thin of form, as if from long pining.

'Fair lords,' said she, 'for God His love turn again if ye may, or else here ye will come unto your death.'

'Nay,' said Sir Galahad, 'we will not turn again, for He shall help us in whose service we be entered in. Who are ye, fair damsel, in such painful guise?'

'Fair lords, I am Issyllt,' said the maiden, and the tears filled her eyes. 'My father is Earl Hernox, the lord of this castle. And whether he be dead by torture at the hands of his hateful enemies and these fiends, or whether he be still alive against a time when they have more leisure to torture him, I know not. But three nights ago came certain knights with a horde of these evil pagans, and stormed this castle, and for all my dear father's valiant deeds, and the prowess of my three dear brothers, they overcame our people, and my three brothers I saw slain before my eyes. When they rushed upon my father, my nurse dragged me away, and we fled hither. But I cannot go away, not knowing whether my father is dead. And if he be dead I care not whether the pagan fiends catch and slay me.'

'Fair maiden,' said Sir Galahad, 'be of good heart, for your father may yet be delivered unto you.'

'Ha, fair lord, I know not how that may be,' said the maiden. Then, glancing at the castle, she saw the portcullis yawn, and some ten knights rush forth, with pagans besides on foot. Whereat she clasped her hands in terror.

'Now God be with ye, fair lords,' she cried. 'You have my prayers, and may Heaven grant ye victory. But dread is on me for your deaths, brave knights.'

Full wrathful were the three good knights to hear the girl's sad tale, and hard was their rage to hear that Christian knights had leagued themselves with the heathen Saxons so as to get their aid in a private quarrel with the Earl Hernox. Therefore, very joyously did Galahad and Perceval leap forward, lances in rest, against the traitorous knights that rushed towards them from the castle.

Marvellous indeed was it to see the deeds of those three stainless knights that day; for when their lances were broken, they drew their swords, and their wrath, their fierceness and their valour, none could withstand.

While Sir Bors smote with deadly blows the pagans that swarmed about him, Sir Galahad and Sir Perceval dealt death among the traitorous knights, so that not one was left alive. And seeing this, the fair-haired fierce pagans lost heart. Turning, they wished to flee into the castle and pull down the portcullis.

But swiftly on their heels dashed the three brave knights, and the pagans, never stopping, heard the hoofs of their horses thunder over the drawbridge close behind them. The horde of Saxons took flight into the hall, and there they stood and got breath. But the knights, leaping from their horses, rushed in on foot, and back to back they met the onslaught of the yelling heathens.

Very fierce was the anger in the hearts of the three knights, so that they stayed not their hands even when the pirates gave way and fled from the dreadful place of slaughter. But the knights pursued them wheresoever they tried to hide, and hither and thither about the castle they ran, and in and out the chambers, up and down the stairs, until for very weariness they had perforce to cease.

Then when they beheld the great multitude of pagans they had slain, they were sobered and sad, thinking themselves great sinners.

'Certes,' said Sir Bors, 'I ween that God willed that we should slay so many, for they must have done great evil.'

'They are indeed foul pagans,' said Sir Galahad, 'and have done great wrong and cruelty in their time to women and little children through this fair land of Britain. But I doubt we have been mad this little while to slay so many mothers' sons as these.'

Then from out a secret chamber came a priest, white with great age, and with a countenance that shone marvellously bright; and when he saw how many were slain in that hall, he was abashed. Sir Galahad put off his helm, and the two knights with him, and all three kneeled down and confessed the madness of their sin which had slain even those that craved for quarter.

'Ye have done more than ye wist, brave knights,' said the priest, when he had absolved them; 'for the evil knights that led these pagan thieves had plotted to gain this castle because of the great and holy treasures that are hidden here. And by a prophecy I know that ye are the three good knights, peerless among all, who should achieve this deed. Therefore, when ye have ordered these slain to be removed, and when the hall shall be garnished and your harness shall be cleaned of the signs of battle, ye shall see that which hath been ordained for ye.'

When all had been done as they had commanded, and the place well cleansed and fresh rushes laid along the floor, the three knights sat on a bench, and the Earl Hernox and the maid Issyllt with them, and there was much cheer and rejoicing between them all.

Then the old priest called the earl and his daughter from the room, and left the three knights together. Suddenly, as they sat talking, the doors were shut and the windows were darkened, and a great wind arose with a sad sound, wailing and piping. Then the darkness suddenly went away, and they saw a great light shining in the midmost part of the hall, so bright and strong that hardly could their eyes suffer it. Soon through the light they could see a table of silver, whereon was a wide dish also of silver, marvellously and delicately wrought.

Then the doors opened and they saw angels entering; and two bare candles of wax, and the third held a towel, and in the hand of the fourth was a spear which bled marvellously from the point thereof. Going to the table the angels set the candles and the towel upon it, and the spear was placed beside the shining vessel.

Of a sudden the knights were aware that there sat one beside the table who was marvellously old and white; and he was dressed in the habit of a bishop, and his face was very winning, and a great brightness flowed from it.

On the breast of his robe were words in the Latin tongue, which said, 'Lo, I am Joseph, the first bishop of Christendom, who did take our Lord's body down from the cruel rood.'

The three marvelled greatly, for that bishop had been dead more than four hundred years. Seeing their looks of perplexity, the bishop smiled sweetly upon them, and said:

'Marvel not, O knights, for though I am now a spirit, I know thy weakness, and have come to aid thee.'

Then the bishop took up the shining vessel from the table, and came to Galahad; and the knight kneeled down and took of the food that was within the holy dish. And after that the other two received it. Of marvellous savour was the food, and like none that they had ever eaten or thought of at any time before.

Then the bishop said to Galahad:

'Son, knowest thou what is this vessel I hold in my hands?'

'Nay, holy man, I know not,' replied Galahad.

'It is the holy vessel which men call the Sangreal, out of which our Lord ate the lamb at the feast before He was betrayed to that death upon the rood whereby He redeemed the world, if men would but choose His gentle law.'

'It is what we have most desired to see, holy father,' said Sir Galahad.

'And it is what, alas, no others in this realm shall ever see,' said the bishop; and his countenance, which before had been sweet and gentle, now saddened and was dark. 'For this night it shall depart from this land of Logris, so that it shall never more be seen here.

'Alas,' cried Galahad and Perceval, 'that is great sorrow to hear. O holy bishop and spirit, say not that it means that this land shall be rent in ruin and given up to heathendom again?'

'It must be so,' said the bishop sadly. 'Christ is not served in gentleness, nor is His law worshipped in this land, where men slay their brothers, rob their kindred, and make treaties with the pagans. And its knights are turned to evil livers, desiring mastery and proud power. Therefore hath Christ sent me to disinherit this land of this holy thing with which He hath honoured it since that time when I brought it here four hundred and fifty-five winters ago.'

Hearing these words of doom, Sir Galahad and Sir Perceval wept full piteously for the fate of their country. When they had mourned greatly, they asked if there was no hope of turning the land from its evil ways.

'There is none,' said the bishop sorrowfully. 'Have ye three not tried manfully these last two years since ye have sought that which ye now see? And all thy labours, thy battling, thy griefs, have they availed aught? No, it is the will of God that in due time this land and this people shall be put into the melting-pot. And when the season appointed shall come, sorrow and death, rebellion and treachery shall stalk through the land, and naught shall stand of its present kingdoms; the pagans shall blot out the holy memory of God and Christ, and shall turn the fanes of prayer into the lairs of wolves, and owls shall rest where hymns of praise have been sung. And no wars of goodly knights may hinder these things of dreadful doom. But I have this message for ye two, Galahad and Perceval; that inasmuch as ye have seen this which you craved to see, and have lived purely and unspotted from pride or evil, thy souls shall go with me when I shall depart. But you, my son,' he said, looking at Sir Bors, 'still find in your heart the love of kin, and a longing for battle, and so you shall remain, to fight for Christ while yet you are alive.'

Suddenly a fierce light came where they sat, so that Sir Bors kneeled as one blinded for a time. When it had passed, he looked and saw where Sir Galahad and Sir Perceval still kneeled, with their hands lifted as if in prayer. But there was naught to see of the holy vessel or the spear, nor was Joseph there.

Then, going to the two knights, he found that they were dead.

Sir Bors knew then that their souls had gone with Joseph and the holy vessel, and had been borne to the heaven for which their pure and humble hearts had yearned while yet they lived.

Then Sir Bors made great sorrow for his two fellows, and knew that never more would he be as joyful or as careless as he had been. With right heavy mood he craved of Earl Hernox to have a grave dug deep in the living rock whereon the castle was builded. This the earl gladly did, and very solemnly the two good knights were buried, and long did Sir Bors mourn over the grave.

In a little while thereafter Sir Bors armed himself, and departed, and after many adventures, rode southwards till he came to Camelot. And there he told the king and such knights as there were, how the two stainless knights had achieved the Holy Graal, and how their souls had been taken up with the sacred vessel.

All the court mourned for the two knights, and the king commanded a history to be written of what Sir Bors had told. It was so done, and the book richly adorned with many coloured letters, was kept in the great treasure-chest in the castle of Sarum.

Ever after Sir Bors was a silent man, for he could not forget the holy and terrible sight he had seen. Of the doom which was coming in due time upon the dear and fair land of Britain, as was prophesied by St. Joseph, he told no man, but kept the words fast locked in his heart.



XI

OF THE PLOTS OF SIR MORDRED; AND HOW SIR LANCELOT SAVED THE QUEEN

After the quest of the Sangreal was completed, and all the knights that were left alive had returned to the court of King Arthur, there was great joy among the people, and the king and Queen Gwenevere were passing glad of the remnant that had come home again.

Especially did the queen make much of Sir Lancelot and of Sir Bors his cousin, for they were the two most noble and courteous knights of the Round Table, and none thought of them but as men peerless and beyond compare.

Sir Mordred, who was the king's nephew, was jealous of the two knights, and went about privily among such knights as were his familiars, and spoke sneering words concerning Sir Lancelot and the queen and Sir Bors. Once Sir Mordred said such words in the hearing of his brother Sir Gawaine; but that knight so heavily and wrathfully took him to task, that Sir Mordred knew that Sir Gawaine envied not the two knights, and could never be brought to think other than friendly thoughts of them.

Therefore Sir Mordred hated the two knights more than ever. Of a slight frame was Mordred, but tall, with dark hair, sallow face, and deep-set grey eyes beside a thin long nose. Few loved him, for he was never cheery nor very friendly, and ever seemed to sneer with his thin lips and his cold wolfish eyes.

In a little while strange dark rumours began to go about the court, and it was whispered that so proud had Sir Lancelot become of his fame and prowess, that he harboured evil thoughts against the king, and that he aimed to make a kingdom for himself out of the countries that lay about his own lands of Joyous Gard in the northern marches.

Then fresh rumours went about, and these were the most evil of all. It was said that he sought to slay the king, and wished to make Gwenevere his own queen, and with her he would rule over all Britain.

First, men laughed and passed the rumours with a shrug and a gesture of scorn; but when they were repeated again and again, some began half to believe them. Many said that there must be some truth therein, for Sir Lancelot was ever wending his way to the north country, and fought there many battles and overcame many knights.

But others said this was because many ladies and damsels, who had lost lands and homes and been evilly oppressed by the warring barons in those parts, had heard of his great fame for knightly deeds and noble manners, and came beseeching him to be their champion against those who had robbed them.

Others said that it was but natural that when he was at the court he should speak much to the queen, for he had from the first vowed himself to be her knight, and many deeds of daring and prowess had he done for her.

Yet others there were who believed that what rumour said might be true; and others, who were good and noble knights, sorrowed to think that such evil thoughts should be spread about by some treacherous tongues.

When men came to ask who had set these evil tongues to wag, it was always found that a certain mean knight, named Sir Pinel, had first spoken wrong of Lancelot and Sir Bors and the queen. And men noticed that it was not long before the queen began to look coldly at Sir Pinel, and then they knew that his rumours had reached her ears.

'What profit doth Sir Pinel think to gain from those false tales of her?' said Sir Brastias one day, as he and Sir Gareth came from the hawking together. 'For none ever reckoned him as a knight of any merit, and all good men will now think less of him.'

'I fear me,' said Sir Gareth, 'that there is more beneath it all than we wot of. Sir Pinel is a bosom friend of Sir Mordred's. Often have I seen their heads together in places apart. And though he is my brother, Sir Mordred is one I cannot love.'

'What fear you, Gareth?' asked Sir Brastias.

'I fear naught that he may do,' said Gareth, 'but I think he hates Sir Lancelot and he hates Gawaine also, the chief of our party, because he hath roundly told Mordred that he is a traitor, and that he will not be drawn from his firm friendship with Sir Lancelot and his kinsmen. I think Sir Mordred would do much to cause some ill to Gawaine or Sir Lancelot, so long as his own evil body was not hurt.'

'Sad it is,' said Brastias full gloomily, 'to think a man of such great kin should harbour hatred and murder against the chief of his kin. And that such should be, methinks, betokens that evil is about to fall upon our famous brotherhood of the Round Table, and on this dear land of Britain.'

Now it befell that the poor queen had heard, through her maidens, of the rumours concerning herself and Sir Lancelot, and, taking counsel of no one, she bethought how she could prove to the remnant of the Round Table that she was free of any plots against the king or the fair kingdom of Britain.

She resolved that she would invite the knights to a privy dinner, and when they had eaten she would throw herself upon their knightly pity and honour, telling them how the evil rumours wronged and hurt her bitterly. And she doubted not that thus their manly sympathy and worship of her, their queen, would, by her words, cast out the evil effects of the slanderous tales.

Therefore, at that dinner, she had Sir Gawaine and his brethren, that is to say, Sir Gareth, Sir Agravaine, Sir Gaheris and Sir Mordred. Also there were the kin of Sir Lancelot, to wit, Sir Bors, Sir Blamore, Sir Bleobaris, Sir Ector de Maris, and Sir Lionel. But Sir Lancelot had gone into the Scottish marches, to do battle with a notable robber and oppressor there. There were other knights, making in all the number of twenty-four. And these were all the remnant of the one hundred and fifty that had gone forth in the Quest of the Sangreal.

Among the guests were Sir Pinel and his cousin, Sir Mador.

Now Sir Gawaine had a custom of eating apples which he used daily at dinner and at supper. He loved all manner of fruit, and in especial a certain brown or russet apple, which was called Afal Coch. Every one knew of this fondness of Sir Gawaine's, and whoever dined or feasted him took care to provide such apples for his pleasure.

The queen had known this, and among the fruit for the table she had ordered such apples to be placed.

Now Sir Mordred, as Sir Gareth had suspected, hated Sir Gawaine with a deep hatred, and therefore he had, by crafty dealing, taken all the russet apples from the dish except one, and into this he had thrust a deadly poison. He guessed that, as every one knew of Sir Gawaine's fondness for that sort of fruit, no one would take it, but would leave it for Sir Gawaine, who would eat it and die thereof.

When the feast was near an end, and men laughed and jested together, the dish of fruit was handed round, and Sir Pinel, the mean knight, noticed that there was but one of the apples which Sir Gawaine loved; and to spite that knight, whom he hated, he took that apple, ere the dish went to Sir Gawaine.

Sir Mordred saw him take it, yet would not cry out to warn his fellow-traitor, for this would have revealed himself. He saw Sir Pinel's teeth sink into the brown apple, and Sir Pinel's sneering look as he glanced across at Sir Gawaine, who was searching vainly in the dish for his favourite fruit.

Then Sir Mordred saw Sir Pinel's face go red, and then deadly white. And as the poison gripped him, Sir Pinel rose shrieking from the table, crying out that some enemy had poisoned him.

Then he sank writhing to the ground, shrieking and moaning, clutching at the ground and at the legs of the chairs. Suddenly, with a great groan, he lay still and was dead.

Every knight leaped from the table, ashamed, full of rage and fear, nigh out of their wits, but dumb. They looked at each other and then at the dead Sir Pinel, and all their eyes kept from the face of the queen, where she sat on the high seat, with two of her ladies beside her.

The reason they could not speak was that they knew the queen had heard of the evil tales which Sir Pinel had spread about her, and that she must have hated him bitterly. And she had made this feast, and had invited him thereto, and now he was dead at the board, by means of deadly poison placed in the food which she had set before him.

Then for very shame some began to leave the chamber; and others could not bear to look upon the queen, who sat with a face that went now pale, now red. She had seen what happened, and who it was had been slain, and she had read the suspicion in men's gestures.

Then the voice of Sir Mador rang out, and checked men from going from the room, and drew all eyes to where he stood, a tall and burly man, red and angry of face, and fierce of eyes.

'Look!' he cried, and held between his fingers and high above his head the apple which Sir Pinel had bitten, 'this is the thing whereof my kinsman, Sir Pinel, hath lost his life. The matter shall not end here, for I have lost a noble knight of my blood, and I will be revenged to the uttermost.'

Then, turning, he savagely looked at the queen, and with fierce rolling eyes he roared out:

'Thou art the murderess! Thou—the queen! Hear me, knights and chieftains. I charge the queen with the murder of my kinsman, Sir Pinel, and justice upon her will I have.'

Every one in the hall stood still as if they were of stone. None could gainsay him, none could utter a word on behalf of the queen, for all had suspicion that she had slain Sir Pinel for his slanders of her.

Then suddenly the queen rose, white and trembling.

'My lords and knights, I did not cause it!' she cried in a broken voice. 'I am innocent! I know not how it came!'

And therewith she fell down in a swoon.

Sir Mordred's pale face smiled with a bitter sneer. He knew not then whether what had happened would help his evil plots or no; but he resolved to say naught, and so went out with all the other silent knights, whilst the ladies of the queen took her up lamenting, and bore her to her chamber.

With the noise and the sorrow that was in the court, King Arthur came and craved to know what was the matter; but none of the silent knights would speak until he met Sir Gawaine, who replied, and said:

'Sir, the queen did invite us to a privy feast with her. And one of the knights did eat of the fruit on the table, and he is dead by poison. Therefore, I dread lest the queen will be shamed for this.'

King Arthur was passing heavy at the hearing of these words, and went unto the queen to comfort her.

On the next day, when the king sat in hall with his two court judges, as was his wont daily, to hear any causes or charges which might be brought before him, all men stood with gloomy faces, and there was no laughing and jesting talk, as was usual at this time.

Sir Mador came forward and charged the queen of murder, and required that justice should be done upon her.

The king heard him with a sad face and in silence. Then he said:

'Fair lords and noble knights, heavy is my grief for this, and rather would I give my life for my queen at this moment than that my tongue should frame so evil a charge against my dear wife and your noble queen. But I am here to see that law is done, as justly to the highest as to the lowest. I doubt not that God will soon clear her of this seeming evil.'

'I know not how that may be,' said Sir Mador angrily, 'for the evil deed is clear to any man's eyes.'

'I deem this deed was never done by my queen, nor by her desire,' said the king sternly, 'but by some traitor that would do her evil and wishes to see her die. But as I am her judge, I may not be her champion and fight against you for her fair fame. I doubt not, however, that some good knight will take this charge upon himself, and put his body in jeopardy for my queen. For if this be not done, dost thou know what is the penalty?'

'She must be burnt,' said Mador sullenly. 'But she hath done the deed and will merit the doom.'

'Cease, hasty man,' said King Arthur sternly; 'it goeth to my heart to hear ye pronounce the doom thou wouldst visit upon that fair lady. Fear not, Sir Mador, she shall find some good knight to do combat for her. Therefore do thou name thy day of battle.'

'But hark ye, lord,' said Sir Mador, 'there is none of the four-and-twenty knights that were bidden to this dinner that hath not suspicion of the queen for this deed. Therefore, no knight can take this charge upon him in her behalf. What say ye, my lords?'

He turned to the silent, moody men about the dais.

The knights looked troubled, and were dumb for some moments; but at the last Sir Gawaine said:

'We cannot excuse the queen, for she gave the feast. And either the poison came by her will or by her servants.'

But most of the knights were silent, and Sir Bors and his kindred were very sorrowful. King Arthur was heavy at the words of Sir Gawaine.

'Now, king,' cried Sir Mador triumphantly, 'I require ye, as ye be a righteous king, give me a day that I may have justice.'

'That will I do,' said the king, 'as I must do, that am a just king. I give you this day fifteen days, that ye be ready armed on horseback in the meadow beside the wall at London; and if it so fall out that there be a knight to encounter with you, then God speed the right; and if there be no knight to take arms for my queen, then must she suffer by fire.'

So sorrowful were the king's words that many knights had much ado to keep from weeping.

'And meanwhile,' said Sir Mador, 'I do require that ye keep the queen in close ward and prison, lest any try a rescue, and thus defeat the justice that is my due.'

Though it went to the king's heart to have to order this, he gave the queen into the keeping of Sir Kay, who kept her in her chamber, guarded by three knights, to the great grief of her women and all the court.

Then the queen sent for Sir Bors, and when he was come she threw herself on her knees full piteously before him, and wept sorely, and begged that he would save her from this dreadful death.

'For by my confession unto Heaven,' she cried, 'I know naught of this wicked deed how it was brought about. And will ye not take this combat upon ye for my sake? For I am sure if your kinsman, Sir Lancelot, was here, he would not suffer this evil suspicion to lie against me. For he hath ever been my most faithful knight, but now am I without friend in this great pass.'

'Madam,' replied Sir Bors, 'what can I do? For if I take this charge upon me for your sake, men will say I was your aider in this crime that they charge upon you. And I see not how I may fight for you except by endangering my own life without saving yours. But I tell ye, madam, what I will do. I will hasten with all speed to the north, trusting in God to get news of Sir Lancelot, so that I may tell him and bring him here within the time appointed.'

'Ah, good Sir Bors,' cried the queen, and clasped his hands. 'Do ye do that, for I know that Sir Lancelot will never believe me guilty of so great a crime. And I will pray hourly that ye find him and bring him to me in time, so that my poor body be not unjustly given to the dreadful flames.'

Forthwith Sir Bors armed himself, and with two squires set forth instantly; and sent his men in different ways, so that among the three they should not fail to hear where, in the northern marches, a knight so famous as Sir Lancelot might be found.

No rest did the good Sir Bors give to himself, but swiftly did he ride hither and thither questioning all knights whom he met, and inquiring of every hermitage and abbey and at every harbourage. Finally, when eleven days had passed of the fifteen, he found Sir Lancelot lying wounded at a broken abbey, from which, in a fierce fight, he had but two days before thrust out a band of pagans, who would have murdered the nuns and robbed the church of its holy relics.

Full wroth was Sir Lancelot when, having lovingly greeted each other, Sir Bors told him all that had passed with the queen.

'The foul traitors!' he cried, and, getting fiercely from the pallet on which he lay, he strode up and down the chamber clenching his hands and gnashing his teeth. 'Do any dare to suspect her—do any think in cold blood to see that peerless lady bound to the stake, the flames devouring her noble person? That men should think such things, and move not a hand in noble wrath, shows how evil are the days in which we live!'

Then he rushed from the room, wounded as he was; and, full of a cold wrath, he ordered his arms to be brought and his horse to be saddled. And to the gentle persuasions of the nuns he said he must be gone, 'for he must stay a wrong that, if suffered, would sink the kingdom in unquenchable shame and ruin.'

Then with Sir Bors he rode southwards, full fiercely, and never resting to eat, but taking food as he rode. At night he would not doff his armour, but slept beside his horse; and seldom spoke, but was consumed as by a great fire of anger.

And on the fourteenth day they rode into London.

'Go beg the queen to see me,' he said to Sir Bors.

Sir Bors went, and Sir Lancelot strode unto an hostelry to wash from himself the stains of travel, and to don a fitting robe in which to appear before the queen.

Now it had befallen, while Sir Bors had been absent from the court seeking for Sir Lancelot, that Sir Mordred and Sir Agravaine had made a plot with each other against him and against Sir Lancelot. And they caused it to be noised in all the court that Sir Bors had gone to seek Sir Lancelot, and that Sir Bors was privy to the plots which Sir Lancelot and the queen had made to wrest the kingdom from King Arthur and to reign together in his stead. They said that Sir Bors had gone to warn Sir Lancelot that the time was ripe to strike.

Wherefore many knights were greatly displeased to hear this news, but some would not believe it, and said that Sir Bors had gone to tell Sir Lancelot of the jeopardy in which the queen's life was placed, and to ask him to do battle for her.

'But,' said some, 'if he do not find Sir Lancelot, it is his intention to do combat for the queen himself, and that is great wrong in Sir Bors, for he was with us at the feast, and none but she could have caused that poison.'

Daily the party which inclined to Sir Mordred and Sir Agravaine gained power, and some were for going to tell the king of the evil designs which Sir Lancelot and Sir Bors and the queen had against his person and the kingdom. But Sir Mordred said, 'No, the time is not yet ripe. Wait a while.'

The guard that was set about the queen's chamber was doubled, and all were knights that were well-willers to the plots of Sir Mordred and Sir Agravaine.

When, therefore, Sir Bors came and asked to see the queen, they let him go to her; but Sir Agravaine hid himself and listened to all that passed between Sir Bors and the queen. Then he went and told the others that Sir Lancelot was waiting to speak to the queen, and he counselled that they should let him come, and then when he came forth again, as he would be unarmed, they could fall upon him and capture him, and take him before the king and charge him with his treason and his plots.

And with the consent of Sir Mordred this was so agreed; and he advised that most of them should hide from before the door, so that Sir Lancelot should not think the guard was strong.

'For,' said Sir Mordred, 'if he sees there is no great watch kept, he may strive to free the queen, and when we take him it will be blacker against him.'

When, therefore, Sir Bors came forth from his audience with the queen, he found but one knight at the door, and that was Sir Petipace of Winchelsea, a young man. Sir Bors wondered why the guard of ten or twelve that had been there before was now gone, and he was uneasy in his mind.