the great return by arthur machen author of "the bowmen" published in london by the faith press, at the faith house, 22, buckingham street, strand, w.c. 1915 by the same author the bowmen the hill of dreams the house of souls [including "the great god pan" and "the three impostors"] hieroglyphics the chronicle of clemendy dr. stiggins to d.p.m. contents i. the rumour of the marvellous ii. odours of paradise iii. a secret in a secret place iv. the ringing of the bell v. the rose of fire vi. olwen's dream vii. the mass of the sangraal great return chapter i the rumour of the marvellous there are strange things lost and forgotten in obscure corners of the newspaper. i often think that the most extraordinary item of intelligence that i have read in print appeared a few years ago in the london press. it came from a well known and most respected news agency; i imagine it was in all the papers. it was astounding. the circumstances necessary--not to the understanding of this paragraph, for that is out of the question--but, we will say, to the understanding of the events which made it possible, are these. we had invaded thibet, and there had been trouble in the hierarchy of that country, and a personage known as the tashai lama had taken refuge with us in india. he went on pilgrimage from one buddhist shrine to another, and came at last to a holy mountain of buddhism, the name of which i have forgotten. and thus the morning paper. his holiness the tashai lama then ascended the mountain and was transfigured.--reuter. that was all. and from that day to this i have never heard a word of explanation or comment on this amazing statement. * * * * * there was no more, it seemed, to be said. "reuter," apparently, thought he had made his simple statement of the facts of the case, had thereby done his duty, and so it all ended. nobody, so far as i know, ever wrote to any paper asking what reuter meant by it, or what the tashai lama meant by it. i suppose the fact was that nobody cared two-pence about the matter; and so this strange event--if there were any such event--was exhibited to us for a moment, and the lantern show revolved to other spectacles. this is an extreme instance of the manner in which the marvellous is flashed out to us and then withdrawn behind its black veils and concealments; but i have known of other cases. now and again, at intervals of a few years, there appear in the newspapers strange stories of the strange doings of what are technically called _poltergeists_. some house, often a lonely farm, is suddenly subjected to an infernal bombardment. great stones crash through the windows, thunder down the chimneys, impelled by no visible hand. the plates and cups and saucers are whirled from the dresser into the middle of the kitchen, no one can say how or by what agency. upstairs the big bedstead and an old chest or two are heard bounding on the floor as if in a mad ballet. now and then such doings as these excite a whole neighbourhood; sometimes a london paper sends a man down to make an investigation. he writes half a column of description on the monday, a couple of paragraphs on the tuesday, and then returns to town. nothing has been explained, the matter vanishes away; and nobody cares. the tale trickles for a day or two through the press, and then instantly disappears, like an australian stream, into the bowels of darkness. it is possible, i suppose, that this singular incuriousness as to marvellous events and reports is not wholly unaccountable. it may be that the events in question are, as it were, psychic accidents and misadventures. they are not meant to happen, or, rather, to be manifested. they belong to the world on the other side of the dark curtain; and it is only by some queer mischance that a corner of that curtain is twitched aside for an instant. then--for an instant--we see; but the personages whom mr. kipling calls the lords of life and death take care that we do not see too much. our business is with things higher and things lower, with things different, anyhow; and on the whole we are not suffered to distract ourselves with that which does not really concern us. the transfiguration of the lama and the tricks of the _poltergeist_ are evidently no affairs of ours; we raise an uninterested eyebrow and pass on--to poetry or to statistics. * * * * * be it noted; i am not professing any fervent personal belief in the reports to which i have alluded. for all i know, the lama, in spite of reuter, was not transfigured, and the _poltergeist_, in spite of the late mr. andrew lang, may in reality be only mischievous polly, the servant girl at the farm. and to go farther: i do not know that i should be justified in putting either of these cases of the marvellous in line with a chance paragraph that caught my eye last summer; for this had not, on the face of it at all events, anything wildly out of the common. indeed, i dare say that i should not have read it, should not have seen it, if it had not contained the name of a place which i had once visited, which had then moved me in an odd manner that i could not understand. indeed, i am sure that this particular paragraph deserves to stand alone, for even if the _poltergeist_ be a real _poltergeist_, it merely reveals the psychic whimsicality of some region that is not our region. there were better things and more relevant things behind the few lines dealing with llantrisant, the little town by the sea in arfonshire. not on the surface, i must say, for the cutting i have preserved it--reads as follows:- llantrisant.--the season promises very favourably: temperature of the sea yesterday at noon, 65 deg. remarkable occurrences are supposed to have taken place during the recent revival. the lights have not been observed lately. "the crown." "the fisherman's rest." the style was odd certainly; knowing a little of newspapers. i could see that the figure called, i think, _tmesis_, or cutting, had been generously employed; the exuberances of the local correspondent had been pruned by a fleet street expert. and these poor men are often hurried; but what did those "lights" mean? what strange matters had the vehement blue pencil blotted out and brought to naught? that was my first thought, and then, thinking still of llantrisant and how i had first discovered it and found it strange, i read the paragraph again, and was saddened almost to see, as i thought, the obvious explanation. i had forgotten for the moment that it was war-time, that scares and rumours and terrors about traitorous signals and flashing lights were current everywhere by land and sea; someone, no doubt, had been watching innocent farmhouse windows and thoughtless fanlights of lodging houses; these were the "lights" that had not been observed lately. i found out afterwards that the llantrisant correspondent had no such treasonous lights in his mind, but something very different. still; what do we know? he may have been mistaken, "the great rose of fire" that came over the deep may have been the port light of a coasting-ship. did it shine at last from the old chapel on the headland? possibly; or possibly it was the doctor's lamp at sarnau, some miles away. i have had wonderful opportunities lately of analysing the marvels of lying, conscious and unconscious; and indeed almost incredible feats in this way can be performed. if i incline to the less likely explanation of the "lights" at llantrisant, it is merely because this explanation seems to me to be altogether congruous with the "remarkable occurrences" of the newspaper paragraph. after all, if rumour and gossip and hearsay are crazy things to be utterly neglected and laid aside: on the other hand, evidence is evidence, and when a couple of reputable surgeons assert, as they do assert in the case of olwen phillips, croeswen, llantrisant, that there has been a "kind of resurrection of the body," it is merely foolish to say that these things don't happen. the girl was a mass of tuberculosis, she was within a few hours of death; she is now full of life. and so, i do not believe that the rose of fire was merely a ship's light, magnified and transformed by dreaming welsh sailors. * * * * * but now i am going forward too fast. i have not dated the paragraph, so i cannot give the exact day of its appearance, but i think it was somewhere between the second and third week of june. i cut it out partly because it was about llantrisant, partly because of the "remarkable occurrences." i have an appetite for these matters, though i also have this misfortune, that i require evidence before i am ready to credit them, and i have a sort of lingering hope that some day i shall be able to elaborate some scheme or theory of such things. but in the meantime, as a temporary measure, i hold what i call the doctrine of the jig-saw puzzle. that is: this remarkable occurrence, and that, and the other may be, and usually are, of no significance. coincidence and chance and unsearchable causes will now and again make clouds that are undeniable fiery dragons, and potatoes that resemble eminent statesmen exactly and minutely in every feature, and rocks that are like eagles and lions. all this is nothing; it is when you get your set of odd shapes and find that they fit into one another, and at last that they are but parts of a large design; it is then that research grows interesting and indeed amazing, it is then that one queer form confirms the other, that the whole plan displayed justifies, corroborates, explains each separate piece. so, it was within a week or ten days after i had read the paragraph about llantrisant and had cut it out that i got a letter from a friend who was taking an early holiday in those regions. "you will be interested," he wrote, "to hear that they have taken to ritualistic practices at llantrisant. i went into the church the other day, and instead of smelling like a damp vault as usual, it was positively reeking with incense." i knew better than that. the old parson was a firm evangelical; he would rather have burnt sulphur in his church than incense any day. so i could not make out this report at all; and went down to arfon a few weeks later determined to investigate this and any other remarkable occurrence at llantrisant. chapter ii odours of paradise i went down to arfon in the very heat and bloom and fragrance of the wonderful summer that they were enjoying there. in london there was no such weather; it rather seemed as if the horror and fury of the war had mounted to the very skies and were there reigning. in the mornings the sun burnt down upon the city with a heat that scorched and consumed; but then clouds heavy and horrible would roll together from all quarters of the heavens, and early in the afternoon the air would darken, and a storm of thunder and lightning, and furious, hissing rain would fall upon the streets. indeed, the torment of the world was in the london weather. the city wore a terrible vesture; within our hearts was dread; without we were clothed in black clouds and angry fire. it is certain that i cannot show in any words the utter peace of that welsh coast to which i came; one sees, i think, in such a change a figure of the passage from the disquiets and the fears of earth to the peace of paradise. a land that seemed to be in a holy, happy dream, a sea that changed all the while from olivine to emerald, from emerald to sapphire, from sapphire to amethyst, that washed in white foam at the bases of the firm, grey rocks, and about the huge crimson bastions that hid the western bays and inlets of the waters; to this land i came, and to hollows that were purple and odorous with wild thyme, wonderful with many tiny, exquisite flowers. there was benediction in centaury, pardon in eye-bright, joy in lady's slipper; and so the weary eyes were refreshed, looking now at the little flowers and the happy bees about them, now on the magic mirror of the deep, changing from marvel to marvel with the passing of the great white clouds, with the brightening of the sun. and the ears, torn with jangle and racket and idle, empty noise, were soothed and comforted by the ineffable, unutterable, unceasing murmur, as the tides swam to and fro, uttering mighty, hollow voices in the caverns of the rocks. * * * * * for three or four days i rested in the sun and smelt the savour of the blossoms and of the salt water, and then, refreshed, i remembered that there was something queer about llantrisant that i might as well investigate. it was no great thing that i thought to find, for, it will be remembered, i had ruled out the apparent oddity of the reporter's-or commissioner's?--reference to lights, on the ground that he must have been referring to some local panic about signalling to the enemy; who had certainly torpedoed a ship or two off lundy in the bristol channel. all that i had to go upon was the reference to the "remarkable occurrences" at some revival, and then that letter of jackson's, which spoke of llantrisant church as "reeking" with incense, a wholly incredible and impossible state of things. why, old mr. evans, the rector, looked upon coloured stoles as the very robe of satan and his angels, as things dear to the heart of the pope of rome. but as to incense! as i have already familiarly observed, i knew better. but as a hard matter of fact, this may be worth noting: when i went over to llantrisant on monday, august 9th, i visited the church, and it was still fragrant and exquisite with the odour of rare gums that had fumed there. * * * * * now i happened to have a slight acquaintance with the rector. he was a most courteous and delightful old man, and on my last visit he had come across me in the churchyard, as i was admiring the very fine celtic cross that stands there. besides the beauty of the interlaced ornament there is an inscription in ogham on one of the edges, concerning which the learned dispute; it is altogether one of the more famous crosses of celtdom. mr. evans, i say, seeing me looking at the cross, came up and began to give me, the stranger, a resume--somewhat of a shaky and uncertain resume, i found afterwards--of the various debates and questions that had arisen as to the exact meaning of the inscription, and i was amused to detect an evident but underlying belief of his own: that the supposed ogham characters were, in fact, due to boys' mischief and weather and the passing of the ages. but then i happened to put a question as to the sort of stone of which the cross was made, and the rector brightened amazingly. he began to talk geology, and, i think, demonstrated that the cross or the material for it must have been brought to llantrisant from the south-west coast of ireland. this struck me as interesting, because it was curious evidence of the migrations of the celtic saints, whom the rector, i was delighted to find, looked upon as good protestants, though shaky on the subject of crosses; and so, with concessions on my part, we got on very well. thus, with all this to the good, i was emboldened to call upon him. i found him altered. not that he was aged; indeed, he was rather made young, with a singular brightening upon his face, and something of joy upon it that i had not seen before, that i have seen on very few faces of men. we talked of the war, of course, since that is not to be avoided; of the farming prospects of the county; of general things, till i ventured to remark that i had been in the church, and had been surprised, to find it perfumed with incense. "you have made some alterations in the service since i was here last? you use incense now?" the old man looked at me strangely, and hesitated. "no," he said, "there has been no change. i use no incense in the church. i should not venture to do so." "but," i was beginning, "the whole church is as if high mass had just been sung there, and--" he cut me short, and there was a certain grave solemnity in his manner that struck me almost with awe. "i know you are a railer," he said, and the phrase coming from this mild old gentleman astonished, me unutterably. "you are a railer and a bitter railer; i have read articles that you have written, and i know your contempt and your hatred for those you call protestants in your derision; though your grandfather, the vicar of caerleon-on-usk, called himself protestant and was proud of it, and your great-grand-uncle hezekiah, _ffeiriad coch yr castletown_--the red priest of castletown--was a great man with the methodists in his day, and the people flocked by their thousands when he administered the sacrament. i was born and brought up in glamorganshire, and old men have wept as they told me of the weeping and contrition that there was when the red priest broke the bread and raised the cup. but you are a railer, and see nothing but the outside and the show. you are not worthy of this mystery that has been done here." i went out from his presence rebuked indeed, and justly rebuked; but rather amazed. it is curiously true that the welsh are still one people, one family almost, in a manner that the english cannot understand, but i had never thought that this old clergyman would have known anything of my ancestry or their doings. and as for my articles and such-like, i knew that the country clergy sometimes read, but i had fancied my pronouncements sufficiently obscure, even in london, much more in arfon. but so it happened, and so i had no explanation from the rector of llantrisant of the strange circumstance, that his church was full of incense and odours of paradise. * * * * * i went up and down the ways of llantrisant wondering, and came to the harbour, which is a little place, with little quays where some small coasting trade still lingers. a brigantine was at anchor here, and very lazily in the sunshine they were loading it with anthracite; for it is one of the oddities of llantrisant that there is a small colliery in the heart of the wood on the hillside. i crossed a causeway which parts the outer harbour from the inner harbour, and settled down on a rocky beach hidden under a leafy hill. the tide was going out, and some children were playing on the wet sand, while two ladies--their mothers, i suppose--talked together as they sat comfortably on their rugs at a little distance from me. at first they talked of the war, and i made myself deaf, for of that talk one gets enough, and more than enough, in london. then there was a period of silence, and the conversation had passed to quite a different topic when i caught the thread of it again. i was sitting on the further side of a big rock, and i do not think that the two ladies had noticed my approach. however, though they spoke of strange things, they spoke of nothing which made it necessary for me to announce my presence. "and, after all," one of them was saying, "what is it all about? i can't make out what is come to the people." this speaker was a welshwoman; i recognised the clear, over-emphasised consonants, and a faint suggestion of an accent. her friend came from the midlands, and it turned out that they had only known each other for a few days. theirs was a friendship of the beach and of bathing; such friendships are common, at small seaside places. "there is certainly something odd about the people here. i have never been to llantrisant before, you know; indeed, this is the first time we've been in wales for our holidays, and knowing nothing about the ways of the people and not being accustomed to hear welsh spoken, i thought, perhaps, it must be my imagination. but you think there really is something a little queer?" "i can tell you this: that i have been in two minds whether i should not write to my husband and ask him to take me and the children away. you know where i am at mrs. morgan's, and the morgans' sitting-room is just the other side of the passage, and sometimes they leave the door open, so that i can hear what they say quite plainly. and you see i understand the welsh, though they don't know it. and i hear them saying the most alarming things!" "what sort of things? "well, indeed, it sounds like some kind of a religious service, but it's not church of england, i know that. old morgan begins it, and the wife and children answer. something like; 'blessed be god for the messengers of paradise.' 'blessed be his name for paradise in the meat and in the drink.' 'thanksgiving for the old offering.' 'thanksgiving for the appearance of the old altar,' 'praise for the joy of the ancient garden.' 'praise for the return of those that have been long absent.' and all that sort of thing. it is nothing but madness." "depend upon it," said the lady from the midlands, "there's no real harm in it. they're dissenters; some new sect, i dare say. you know some dissenters are very queer in their ways." "all that is like no dissenters that i have ever known in all my life whatever," replied the welsh lady somewhat vehemently, with a very distinct intonation of the land. "and have you heard them speak of the bright light that shone at midnight from the church?" chapter iii a secret in a secret place now here was i altogether at a loss and quite bewildered. the children broke into the conversation of the two ladies and cut it all short, just as the midnight lights from the church came on the field, and when the little girls and boys went back again to the sands whooping, the tide of talk had turned, and mrs. harland and mrs. williams were quite safe and at home with janey's measles, and a wonderful treatment for infantile earache, as exemplified in the case of trevor. there was no more to be got out of them, evidently, so i left the beach, crossed the harbour causeway, and drank beer at the "fishermen's rest" till it was time to climb up two miles of deep lane and catch the train for penvro, where i was staying. and i went up the lane, as i say, in a kind of amazement; and not so much, i think, because of evidences and hints of things strange to the senses, such as the savour of incense where no incense had smoked for three hundred and fifty years and more, or the story of bright light shining from the dark, closed church at dead of night, as because of that sentence of thanksgiving "for paradise in meat and in drink." for the sun went down and the evening fell as i climbed the long hill through the deep woods and the high meadows, and the scent of all the green things rose from the earth and from the heart of the wood, and at a turn of the lane far below was the misty glimmer of the still sea, and from far below its deep murmur sounded as it washed on the little hidden, enclosed bay where llantrisant stands. and i thought, if there be paradise in meat and in drink, so much the more is there paradise in the scent of the green leaves at evening and in the appearance of the sea and in the redness of the sky; and there came to me a certain vision of a real world about us all the while, of a language that was only secret because we would not take the trouble to listen to it and discern it. it was almost dark when i got to the station, and here were the few feeble oil lamps lit, glimmering in that lonely land, where the way is long from farm to farm. the train came on its way, and i got into it; and just as we moved from the station i noticed a group under one of those dim lamps. a woman and her child had got out, and they were being welcomed by a man who had been waiting for them. i had not noticed his face as i stood on the platform, but now i saw it as he pointed down the hill towards llantrisant, and i think i was almost frightened. he was a young man, a farmer's son, i would say, dressed in rough brown clothes, and as different from old mr. evans, the rector, as one man might be from another. but on his face, as i saw it in the lamplight, there was the like brightening that i had seen on the face of the rector. it was an illuminated face, glowing with an ineffable joy, and i thought it rather gave light to the platform lamp than received light from it. the woman and her child, i inferred, were strangers to the place, and had come to pay a visit to the young man's family. they had looked about them in bewilderment, half alarmed, before they saw him; and then his face was radiant in their sight, and it was easy to see that all their troubles were ended and over. a wayside station and a darkening country, and it was as if they were welcomed by shining, immortal gladness--even into paradise. * * * * * but though there seemed in a sense light all about my ways, i was myself still quite bewildered. i could see, indeed, that something strange had happened or was happening in the little town hidden under the hill, but there was so far no clue to the mystery, or rather, the clue had been offered to me, and i had not taken it, i had not even known that it was there; since we do not so much as see what we have determined, without judging, to be incredible, even though it be held up before our eyes. the dialogue that the welsh mrs. williams had reported to her english friend might have set me on the right way; but the right way was outside all my limits of possibility, outside the circle of my thought. the palã¦ontologist might see monstrous, significant marks in the slime of a river bank, but he would never draw the conclusions that his own peculiar science would seem to suggest to him; he would choose any explanation rather than the obvious, since the obvious would also be the outrageous--according to our established habit of thought, which we deem final. * * * * * the next day i took all these strange things with me for consideration to a certain place that i knew of not far from penvro. i was now in the early stages of the jig-saw process, or rather i had only a few pieces before me, and--to continue the figure my difficulty was this: that though the markings on each piece seemed to have design and significance, yet i could not make the wildest guess as to the nature of the whole picture, of which these were the parts. i had clearly seen that there was a great secret; i had seen that on the face of the young farmer on the platform of llantrisant station; and in my mind there was all the while the picture of him going down the dark, steep, winding lane that led to the town and the sea, going down through the heart of the wood, with light about him. but there was bewilderment in the thought of this, and in the endeavour to match it with the perfumed church and the scraps of talk that i had heard and the rumour of midnight brightness; and though penvro is by no means populous, i thought i would go to a certain solitary place called the old camp head, which looks towards cornwall and to the great deeps that roll beyond cornwall to the far ends of the world; a place where fragments of dreams--they seemed such then--might, perhaps, be gathered into the clearness of vision. it was some years since i had been to the head, and i had gone on that last time and on a former visit by the cliffs, a rough and difficult path. now i chose a landward way, which the county map seemed to justify, though doubtfully, as regarded the last part of the journey. so i went inland and climbed the hot summer by-roads, till i came at last to a lane which gradually turned turfy and grass-grown, and then on high ground, ceased to be. it left me at a gate in a hedge of old thorns; and across the field beyond there seemed to be some faint indications of a track. one would judge that sometimes men did pass by that way, but not often. it was high ground but not within sight of the sea. but the breath of the sea blew about the hedge of thorns, and came with a keen savour to the nostrils. the ground sloped gently from the gate and then rose again to a ridge, where a white farmhouse stood all alone. i passed by this farmhouse, threading an uncertain way, followed a hedgerow doubtfully; and saw suddenly before me the old camp, and beyond it the sapphire plain of waters and the mist where sea and sky met. steep from my feet the hill fell away, a land of gorse-blossom, red-gold and mellow, of glorious purple heather. it fell into a hollow that went down, shining with rich green bracken, to the glimmering sea; and before me and beyond the hollow rose a height of turf, bastioned at the summit with the awful, age-old walls of the old camp; green, rounded circumvallations, wall within wall, tremendous, with their myriad years upon them. * * * * * within these smoothed, green mounds, looking across the shining and changing of the waters in the happy sunlight, i took out the bread and cheese and beer that i had carried in a bag, and ate and drank, and lit my pipe, and set myself to think over the enigmas of llantrisant. and i had scarcely done so when, a good deal to my annoyance, a man came climbing up over the green ridges, and took up his stand close by, and stared out to sea. he nodded to me, and began with "fine weather for the harvest" in the approved manner, and so sat down and engaged me in a net of talk. he was of wales, it seemed, but from a different part of the country, and was staying for a few days with relations--at the white farmhouse which i had passed on my way. his tale of nothing flowed on to his pleasure and my pain, till he fell suddenly on llantrisant and its doings. i listened then with wonder, and here is his tale condensed. though it must be clearly understood that the man's evidence was only second-hand; he had heard it from his cousin, the farmer. so, to be brief, it appeared that there had been a long feud at llantrisant between a local solicitor, lewis prothero (we will say), and a farmer named james. there had been a quarrel about some trifle, which had grown more and more bitter as the two parties forgot the merits of the original dispute, and by some means or other, which i could not well understand, the lawyer had got the small freeholder "under his thumb." james, i think, had given a bill of sale in a bad season, and prothero had bought it up; and the end was that the farmer was turned out of the old house, and was lodging in a cottage. people said he would have to take a place on his own farm as a labourer; he went about in dreadful misery, piteous to see. it was thought by some that he might very well murder the lawyer, if he met him. they did meet, in the middle of the market-place at llantrisant one saturday in june. the farmer was a little black man, and he gave a shout of rage, and the people were rushing at him to keep him off prothero. "and then," said my informant, "i will tell you what happened. this lawyer, as they tell me, he is a great big brawny fellow, with a big jaw and a wide mouth, and a red face and red whiskers. and there he was in his black coat and his high hard hat, and all his money at his back, as you may say. and, indeed, he did fall down on his knees in the dust there in the street in front of philip james, and every one could see that terror was upon him. and he did beg philip james's pardon, and beg of him to have mercy, and he did implore him by god and man and the saints of paradise. and my cousin, john jenkins, penmawr, he do tell me that the tears were falling from lewis prothero's eyes like the rain. and he put his hand into his pocket and drew out the deed of pantyreos, philip james's old farm that was, and did give him the farm back and a hundred pounds for the stock that was on it, and two hundred pounds, all in notes of the bank, for amendment and consolation. "and then, from what they do tell me, all the people did go mad, crying and weeping and calling out all manner of things at the top of their voices. and at last nothing would do but they must all go up to the churchyard, and there philip james and lewis prothero they swear friendship to one another for a long age before the old cross, and everyone sings praises. and my cousin he do declare to me that there were men standing in that crowd that he did never see before in llantrisant in all his life, and his heart was shaken within him as if it had been in a whirl-wind." i had listened to all this in silence. i said then: "what does your cousin mean by that? men that he had never seen in llantrisant? what men?" "the people," he said very slowly, "call them the fishermen." and suddenly there came into my mind the "rich fisherman" who in the old legend guards the holy mystery of the graal. chapter iv the ringing of the bell so far i have not told the story of the things of llantrisant, but rather the story of how i stumbled upon them and among them, perplexed and wholly astray, seeking, but yet not knowing at all what i sought; bewildered now and again by circumstances which seemed to me wholly inexplicable; devoid, not so much of the key to the enigma, but of the key to the nature of the enigma. you cannot begin to solve a puzzle till you know what the puzzle is about. "yards divided by minutes," said the mathematical master to me long ago, "will give neither pigs, sheep, nor oxen." he was right; though his manner on this and on all other occasions was highly offensive. this is enough of the personal process, as i may call it; and here follows the story of what happened at llantrisant last summer, the story as i pieced it together at last. it all began, it appears, on a hot day, early in last june; so far as i can make out, on the first saturday in the month. there was a deaf old woman, a mrs. parry, who lived by herself in a lonely cottage a mile or so from the town. she came into the market-place early on the saturday morning in a state of some excitement, and as soon as she had taken up her usual place on the pavement by the churchyard, with her ducks and eggs and a few very early potatoes, she began to tell her neighbours about her having heard the sound of a great bell. the good women on each side smiled at one another behind mrs. parry's back, for one had to bawl into her ear before she could make out what one meant; and mrs. williams, penycoed, bent over and yelled: "what bell should that be, mrs. parry? there's no church near you up at penrhiw. do you hear what nonsense she talks?" said mrs. williams in a low voice to mrs. morgan. "as if she could hear any bell, whatever." "what makes you talk nonsense your self?" said mrs. parry, to the amazement of the two women. "i can hear a bell as well as you, mrs. williams, and as well as your whispers either." and there is the fact, which is not to be disputed; though the deductions from it may be open to endless disputations; this old woman who had been all but stone deaf for twenty years--the defect had always been in her family--could suddenly hear on this june morning as well as anybody else. and her two old friends stared at her, and it was some time before they had appeased her indignation, and induced her to talk about the bell. it had happened in the early morning, which was very misty. she had been gathering sage in her garden, high on a round hill looking over the sea. and there came in her ears a sort of throbbing and singing and trembling, "as if there were music coming out of the earth," and then something seemed to break in her head, and all the birds began to sing and make melody together, and the leaves of the poplars round the garden fluttered in the breeze that rose from the sea, and the cock crowed far off at twyn, and the dog barked down in kemeys valley. but above all these sounds, unheard for so many years, there thrilled the deep and chanting note of the bell, "like a bell and a man's voice singing at once." they stared again at her and at one another. "where did it sound from?" asked one. "it came sailing across the sea," answered mrs. parry quite composedly, "and i did hear it coming nearer and nearer to the land." "well, indeed," said mrs. morgan, "it was a ship's bell then, though i can't make out why they would be ringing like that." "it was not ringing on any ship, mrs. morgan," said mrs. parry. "then where do you think it was ringing?" "ym mharadwys," replied mrs. parry. now that means "in paradise," and the two others changed the conversation quickly. they thought that mrs. parry had got back her hearing suddenly--such things did happen now and then--and that the shock had made her "a bit queer." and this explanation would no doubt have stood its ground, if it had not been for other experiences. indeed, the local doctor who had treated mrs. parry for a dozen years, not for her deafness, which he took to be hopeless and beyond cure, but for a tiresome and recurrent winter cough, sent an account of the case to a colleague at bristol, suppressing, naturally enough, the reference to paradise. the bristol physician gave it as his opinion that the symptoms were absolutely what mighty have been expected. "you have here, in all probability," he wrote, "the sudden breaking down of an old obstruction in the aural passage, and i should quite expect this process to be accompanied by tinnitus of a pronounced and even violent character." * * * * * but for the other experiences? as the morning wore on and drew to noon, high market, and to the utmost brightness of that summer day, all the stalls and the streets were full of rumours and of awed faces. now from one lonely farm, now from another, men and women came and told the story of how they had listened in the early morning with thrilling hearts to the thrilling music of a bell that was like no bell ever heard before. and it seemed that many people in the town had been roused, they knew not how, from sleep; waking up, as one of them said, as if bells were ringing and the organ playing, and a choir of sweet voices singing all together: "there were such melodies and songs that my heart was full of joy." and a little past noon some fishermen who had been out all night returned, and brought a wonderful story into the town of what they had heard in the mist and one of them said he had seen something go by at a little distance from his boat. "it was all golden and bright," he said, "and there was glory about it." another fisherman declared "there was a song upon the water that was like heaven." and here i would say in parenthesis that on returning to town i sought out a very old friend of mine, a man who has devoted a lifetime to strange and esoteric studies. i thought that i had a tale that would interest him profoundly, but i found that he heard me with a good deal of indifference. and at this very point of the sailors' stories i remember saying: "now what do you make of that? don't you think it's extremely curious?" he replied: "i hardly think so. possibly the sailors were lying; possibly it happened as they say. well; that sort of thing has always been happening." i give my friend's opinion; i make no comment on it. let it be noted that there was something remarkable as to the manner in which the sound of the bell was heard--or supposed to be heard. there are, no doubt, mysteries in sound as in all else; indeed, i am informed that during one of the horrible outrages that have been perpetrated on london during this autumn there was an instance of a great block of workmen's dwellings in which the only person who heard the crash of a particular bomb falling was an old deaf woman, who had been fast asleep till the moment of the explosion. this is strange enough of a sound that was entirely in the natural (and horrible) order; and so it was at llantrisant, where the sound was either a collective auditory hallucination or a manifestation of what is conveniently, if inaccurately, called the supernatural order. for the thrill of the bell did not reach to all ears--or hearts. deaf mrs. parry heard it in her lonely cottage garden, high above the misty sea; but then, in a farm on the other or western side of llantrisant, a little child, scarcely three years old, was the only one out of a household of ten people who heard anything. he called out in stammering baby welsh something that sounded like "clychau fawr, clychau fawr"--the great bells, the great bells--and his mother wondered what he was talking about. of the crews of half a dozen trawlers that were swinging from side to side in the mist, not more than four men had any tale to tell. and so it was that for an hour or two the man who had heard nothing suspected his neighbour who had heard marvels of lying; and it was some time before the mass of evidence coming from all manner of diverse and remote quarters convinced the people that there was a true story here. a might suspect b, his neighbour, of making up a tale; but when c, from some place on the hills five miles away, and d, the fisherman on the waters, each had a like report, then it was clear that something had happened. * * * * * and even then, as they told me, the signs to be seen upon the people were stranger than the tales told by them and among them. it has struck me that many people in reading some of the phrases that i have reported, will dismiss them with laughter as very poor and fantastic inventions; fishermen, they will say, do not speak of "a song like heaven" or of "a glory about it." and i dare say this would be a just enough criticism if i were reporting english fishermen; but, odd though it may be, wales has not yet lost the last shreds of the grand manner. and let it be remembered also that in most cases such phrases are translated from another language, that is, from the welsh. so, they come trailing, let us say, fragments of the cloud of glory in their common speech; and so, on this saturday, they began to display, uneasily enough in many cases, their consciousness that the things that were reported were of their ancient right and former custom. the comparison is not quite fair; but conceive hardy's old durbeyfield suddenly waking from long slumber to find himself in a noble thirteenth-century hall, waited on by kneeling pages, smiled on by sweet ladies in silken cã´tehardies. so by evening time there had come to the old people the recollection of stories that their fathers had told them as they sat round the hearth of winter nights, fifty, sixty, seventy years; ago; stories of the wonderful bell of teilo sant, that had sailed across the glassy seas from syon, that was called a portion of paradise, "and the sound of its ringing was like the perpetual choir of the angels." such things were remembered by the old and told to the young that evening, in the streets of the town and in the deep lanes that climbed far hills. the sun went down to the mountain red with fire like a burnt offering, the sky turned violet, the sea was purple, as one told another of the wonder that had returned to the land after long ages. chapter v the rose of fire it was during the next nine days, counting from that saturday early in june the first saturday in june, as i believe--that llantrisant and all the regions about became possessed either by an extraordinary set of hallucinations or by a visitation of great marvels. this is not the place to strike the balance between the two possibilities. the evidence is, no doubt, readily available; the matter is open to systematic investigation. but this may be said: the ordinary man, in the ordinary passages of his life, accepts in the main the evidence of his senses, and is entirely right in doing so. he says that he sees a cow, that he sees a stone wall, and that the cow and the stone wall are "there." this is very well for all the practical purposes of life, but i believe that the metaphysicians are by no means so easily satisfied as to the reality of the stone wall and the cow. perhaps they might allow that both objects are "there" in the sense that one's reflection is in a glass; there is an actuality, but is there a reality external to oneself? in any event, it is solidly agreed that, supposing a real existence, this much is certain--it is not in the least like our conception of it. the ant and the microscope will quickly convince us that we do not see things as they really are, even supposing that we see them at all. if we could "see" the real cow she would appear utterly incredible, as incredible as the things i am to relate. now, there is nothing that i know much more unconvincing than the stories of the red light on the sea. several sailors, men on small coasting ships, who were working up or down the channel on that saturday night, spoke of "seeing" the red light, and it must be said that there is a very tolerable agreement in their tales. all make the time as between midnight of the saturday and one o'clock on the sunday morning. two of those sailormen are precise as to the time of the apparition; they fix it by elaborate calculations of their own as occurring at 12.20 a.m. and the story? a red light, a burning spark seen far away in the darkness, taken at the first moment of seeing for a signal, and probably an enemy signal. then it approached at a tremendous speed, and one man said he took it to be the port light of some new kind of navy motor-boat which was developing a rate hitherto unheard of, a hundred or a hundred and fifty knots an hour. and then, in the third instant of the sight, it was clear that this was no earthly speed. at first a red spark in the farthest distance; then a rushing lamp; and then, as if in an incredible point of time, it swelled into a vast rose of fire that filled all the sea and all the sky and hid the stars and possessed the land. "i thought the end of the world had come," one of the sailors said. and then, an instant more, and it was gone from them, and four of them say that there was a red spark on chapel head, where the old grey chapel of st. teilo stands, high above the water, in a cleft of the limestone rocks. and thus the sailors; and thus their tales are incredible; but they are not incredible. i believe that men of the highest eminence in physical science have testified to the occurrence of phenomena every whit as marvellous, to things as absolutely opposed to all natural order, as we conceive it; and it may be said that nobody minds them. "that sort of thing has always been happening," as my friend remarked to me. but the men, whether or no the fire had ever been without them, there was no doubt that it was now within them, for it burned in their eyes. they were purged as if they had passed through the furnace of the sages, governed with wisdom that the alchemists know. they spoke without much difficulty of what they had seen, or had seemed to see, with their eyes, but hardly at all of what their hearts had known when for a moment the glory of the fiery rose had been about them. for some weeks afterwards they were still, as it were, amazed; almost, i would say, incredulous. if there had been nothing more than the splendid and fiery appearance, showing and vanishing, i do believe that they themselves would have discredited their own senses and denied the truth of their own tales. and one does not dare to say whether they would not have been right. men like sir william crookes and sir oliver lodge are certainly to be heard with respect, and they bear witness to all manner of apparent eversions of laws which we, or most of us, consider far more deeply founded than the ancient hills. they may be justified; but in our hearts we doubt. we cannot wholly believe in inner sincerity that the solid table did rise, without mechanical reason or cause, into the air, and so defy that which we name the "law of gravitation." i know what may be said on the other side; i know that there is no true question of "law" in the case; that the law of gravitation really means just this: that i have never seen a table rising without mechanical aid, or an apple, detached from the bough, soaring to the skies instead of falling to the ground. the so-called law is just the sum of common observation and nothing more; yet i say, in our hearts we do not believe that the tables rise; much less do we believe in the rose of fire that for a moment swallowed up the skies and seas and shores of the welsh coast last june. and the men who saw it would have invented fairy tales to account for it, i say again, if it had not been for that which was within them. they said, all of them, and it was certain now that they spoke the truth, that in the moment of the vision, every pain and ache and malady in their bodies had passed away. one man had been vilely drunk on venomous spirit, procured at "jobson's hole" down by the cardiff docks. he was horribly ill; he had crawled up from his bunk for a little fresh air; and in an instant his horrors and his deadly nausea had left him. another man was almost desperate with the raging hammering pain of an abscess on a tooth; he says that when the red flame came near he felt as if a dull, heavy blow had fallen on his jaw, and then the pain was quite gone; he could scarcely believe that there had been any pain there. and they all bear witness to an extraordinary exaltation of the senses. it is indescribable, this; for they cannot describe it. they are amazed, again; they do not in the least profess to know what happened; but there is no more possibility of shaking their evidence than there is a possibility of shaking the evidence of a man who says that water is wet and fire hot. "i felt a bit queer afterwards," said one of them, "and i steadied myself by the mast, and i can't tell how i felt as i touched it. i didn't know that touching a thing like a mast could be better than a big drink when you're thirsty, or a soft pillow when you're sleepy." i heard other instances of this state of things, as i must vaguely call it, since i do not know what else to call it. but i suppose we can all agree that to the man in average health, the average impact of the external world on his senses is a matter of indifference. the average impact; a harsh scream, the bursting of a motor tyre, any violent assault on the aural nerves will annoy him, and he may say "damn." then, on the other hand, the man who is not "fit" will easily be annoyed and irritated by someone pushing past him in a crowd, by the ringing of a bell, by the sharp closing of a book. but so far as i could judge from the talk of these sailors, the average impact of the external world had become to them a fountain of pleasure. their nerves were on edge, but an edge to receive exquisite sensuous impressions. the touch of the rough mast, for example; that was a joy far greater than is the joy of fine silk to some luxurious skins; they drank water and stared as if they had been _fins gourmets_ tasting an amazing wine; the creak and whine of their ship on its slow way were as exquisite as the rhythm and song of a bach fugue to an amateur of music. and then, within; these rough fellows have their quarrels and strifes and variances and envyings like the rest of us; but that was all over between them that had seen the rosy light; old enemies shook hands heartily, and roared with laughter as they confessed one to another what fools they had been. "i can't exactly say how it has happened or what has happened at all," said one, "but if you have all the world and the glory of it, how can you fight for fivepence?" * * * * * the church of llantrisant is a typical example of a welsh parish church, before the evil and horrible period of "restoration." this lower world is a palace of lies, and of all foolish lies there is none more insane than a certain vague fable about the mediã¦val freemasons, a fable which somehow imposed itself upon the cold intellect of hallam the historian. the story is, in brief, that throughout the gothic period, at any rate, the art and craft of church building were executed by wandering guilds of "freemasons," possessed of various secrets of building and adornment, which they employed wherever they went. if this nonsense were true, the gothic of cologne would be as the gothic of colne, and the gothic of arles like to the gothic of abingdon. it is so grotesquely untrue that almost every county, let alone every country, has its distinctive style in gothic architecture. arfon is in the west of wales; its churches have marks and features which distinguish them from the churches in the east of wales. the llantrisant church has that primitive division between nave and chancel which only very foolish people decline to recognise as equivalent to the oriental iconostasis and as the origin of the western rood-screen. a solid wall divided the church into two portions; in the centre was a narrow opening with a rounded arch, through which those who sat towards the middle of the church could see the small, red-carpeted altar and the three roughly shaped lancet windows above it. the "reading pew" was on the outer side of this wall of partition, and here the rector did his service, the choir being grouped in seats about him. on the inner side were the pews of certain privileged houses of the town and district. on the sunday morning the people were all in their accustomed places, not without a certain exultation in their eyes, not without a certain expectation of they knew not what. the bells stopped ringing, the rector, in his old-fashioned, ample surplice, entered the reading-desk, and gave out the hymn: "my god, and is thy table spread." and, as the singing began, all the people who were in the pews within the wall came out of them and streamed through the archway into the nave. they took what places they could find up and down the church, and the rest of the congregation looked at them in amazement. nobody knew what had happened. those whose seats were next to the aisle tried to peer into the chancel, to see what had happened or what was going on there. but somehow the light flamed so brightly from the windows above the altar, those being the only windows in the chancel, one small lancet in the south wall excepted, that no one could see anything at all. "it was as if a veil of gold adorned with jewels was hanging there," one man said; and indeed there are a few odds and scraps of old painted glass left in the eastern lancets. but there were few in the church who did not hear now and again voices speaking beyond the veil. chapter vi olwen's dream the well-to-do and dignified personages who left their pews in the chancel of llantrisant church and came hurrying into the nave could give no explanation of what they had done. they felt, they said, that they had to go, and to go quickly; they were driven out, as it were, by a secret, irresistible command. but all who were present in the church that morning were amazed, though all exulted in their hearts; for they, like the sailors who saw the rose of fire on the waters, were filled with a joy that was literally ineffable, since they could not utter it or interpret it to themselves. and they too, like the sailors, were transmuted, or the world was transmuted for them. they experienced what the doctors call a sense of _bien ãªtre_ but a _bien ãªtre_ raised, to the highest power. old men felt young again, eyes that had been growing dim now saw clearly, and saw a world that was like paradise, the same world, it is true, but a world rectified and glowing, as if an inner flame shone in all things, and behind all things. and the difficulty in recording this state is this, that it is so rare an experience that no set language to express it is in existence. a shadow of its raptures and ecstasies is found in the highest poetry; there are phrases in ancient books telling of the celtic saints that dimly hint at it; some of the old italian masters of painting had known it, for the light of it shines in their skies and about the battlements of their cities that are founded on magic hills. but these are but broken hints. it is not poetic to go to apothecaries' hall for similes. but for many years i kept by me an article from the _lancet_ or the _british medical journal_--i forget which--in which a doctor gave an account of certain experiments he had conducted with a drug called the mescal button, or anhelonium lewinii. he said that while under the influence of the drug he had but to shut his eyes, and immediately before him there would rise incredible gothic cathedrals, of such majesty and splendour and glory that no heart had ever conceived. they seemed to surge from the depths to the very heights of heaven, their spires swayed amongst the clouds and the stars, they were fretted with admirable imagery. and as he gazed, he would presently become aware that all the stones were living stones, that they were quickening and palpitating, and then that they were glowing jewels, say, emeralds, sapphires, rubies, opals, but of hues that the mortal eye had never seen. that description gives, i think, some faint notion of the nature of the transmuted world into which these people by the sea had entered, a world quickened and glorified and full of pleasures. joy and wonder were on all faces; but the deepest joy and the greatest wonder were on the face of the rector. for he had heard through the veil the greek word for "holy," three times repeated. and he, who had once been a horrified assistant at high mass in a foreign church, recognised the perfume of incense that filled the place from end to end. * * * * * it was on that sunday night that olwen phillips of croeswen dreamed her wonderful dream. she was a girl of sixteen, the daughter of small farming people, and for many months she had been doomed to certain death. consumption, which flourishes in that damp, warm climate, had laid hold of her; not only her lungs but her whole system was a mass of tuberculosis. as is common enough, she had enjoyed many fallacious brief recoveries in the early stages of the disease, but all hope had long been over, and now for the last few weeks she had seemed to rush vehemently to death. the doctor had come on the saturday morning, bringing with him a colleague. they had both agreed that the girl's case was in its last stages. "she cannot possibly last more than a day or two," said the local doctor to her mother. he came again on the sunday morning and found his patient perceptibly worse, and soon afterwards she sank into a heavy sleep, and her mother thought that she would never wake from it. the girl slept in an inner room communicating with the room occupied by her father and mother. the door between was kept open, so that mrs. phillips could hear her daughter if she called to her in the night. and olwen called to her mother that night, just as the dawn was breaking. it was no faint summons from a dying bed that came to the mother's ears, but a loud cry that rang through the house, a cry of great gladness. mrs. phillips started up from sleep in wild amazement, wondering what could have happened. and then she saw olwen, who had not been able to rise from her bed for many weeks past, standing in the doorway in the faint light of the growing day. the girl called to her mother: "mam! mam! it is all over. i am quite well again." mrs. phillips roused her husband, and they sat up in bed staring, not knowing on earth, as they said afterwards, what had been done with the world. here was their poor girl wasted to a shadow, lying on her death-bed, and the life sighing from her with every breath, and her voice, when she last uttered it, so weak that one had to put one's ear to her mouth. and here in a few hours she stood up before them; and even in that faint light they could see that she was changed almost beyond knowing. and, indeed, mrs. phillips said that for a moment or two she fancied that the germans must have come and killed them in their sleep, and so they were all dead together. but olwen called, out again, so the mother lit a candle and got up and went tottering across the room, and there was olwen all gay and plump again, smiling with shining eyes. her mother led her into her own room, and set down the candle there, and felt her daughter's flesh, and burst into prayers and tears of wonder and delight, and thanksgivings, and held the girl again to be sure that she was not deceived. and then olwen told her dream, though she thought it was not a dream. she said she woke up in the deep darkness, and she knew the life was fast going from her. she could not move so much as a finger, she tried to cry out, but no sound came from her lips. she felt that in another instant the whole world would fall from her--her heart was full of agony. and as the last breath was passing her lips, she heard a very faint, sweet sound, like the tinkling of a silver bell. it came from far away, from over by ty-newydd. she forgot her agony and listened, and even then, she says, she felt the swirl of the world as it came back to her. and the sound of the bell swelled and grew louder, and it thrilled all through her body, and the life was in it. and as the bell rang and trembled in her ears, a faint light touched the wall of her room and reddened, till the whole room was full of rosy fire. and then she saw standing before her bed three men in blood-coloured robes with shining faces. and one man held a golden bell in his hand. and the second man held up something shaped like the top of a table. it was like a great jewel, and it was of a blue colour, and there were rivers of silver and of gold running through it and flowing as quick streams flow, and there were pools in it as if violets had been poured out into water, and then it was green as the sea near the shore, and then it was the sky at night with all the stars shining, and then the sun and the moon came down and washed in it. and the third man held up high above this a cup that was like a rose on fire; "there was a great burning in it, and a dropping of blood in it, and a red cloud above it, and i saw a great secret. and i heard a voice that sang nine times, 'glory and praise to the conqueror of death, to the fountain of life immortal.' then the red light went from the wall, and it was all darkness, and the bell rang faint again by capel teilo, and then i got up and called to you." the doctor came on the monday morning with the death certificate in his pocket-book, and olwen ran out to meet him. i have quoted his phrase in the first chapter of this record: "a kind of resurrection of the body." he made a most careful examination of the girl; he has stated that he found that every trace of disease had disappeared. he left on the sunday morning a patient entering into the coma that precedes death, a body condemned utterly and ready for the grave. he met at the garden gate on the monday morning a young woman in whom life sprang up like a fountain, in whose body life laughed and rejoiced as if it had been a river flowing from an unending well. * * * * * now this is the place to ask one of those questions--there are many such--which cannot be answered. the question is as to the continuance of tradition; more especially as to the continuance of tradition among the welsh celts of today. on the one hand, such waves and storms have gone over them. the wave of the heathen saxons went over them, then the wave of latin mediã¦valism, then the waters of anglicanism; last of all the flood of their queer calvinistic methodism, half puritan, half pagan. it may well be asked whether any memory can possibly have survived such a series of deluges. i have said that the old people of llantrisant had their tales of the bell of teilo sant; but these were but vague and broken recollections. and then there is the name by which the "strangers" who were seen in the market-place were known; that is more precise. students of the graal legend know that the keeper of the graal in the romances is the "king fisherman," or the "rich fisherman"; students of celtic hagiology know that it was prophesied before the birth of dewi (or david) that he should be "a man of aquatic life," that another legend tells how a little child, destined to be a saint, was discovered on a stone in the river, how through his childhood a fish for his nourishment was found on that stone every day, while another saint, ilar, if i remember, was expressly known as "the fisherman." but has the memory of all this persisted in the church-going and chapel-going people of wales at the present day? it is difficult to say. there is the affair of the healing cup of nant eos, or tregaron healing cup, as it is also called. it is only a few years ago since it was shown to a wandering harper, who treated it lightly, and then spent a wretched night, as he said, and came back penitently and was left alone with the sacred vessel to pray over it, till "his mind was at rest." that was in 1887. then for my part--i only know modern wales on the surface, i am sorry to say--i remember three or four years ago speaking to my temporary landlord of certain relics of saint teilo, which are supposed to be in the keeping of a particular family in that country. the landlord is a very jovial, merry fellow, and i observed with some astonishment that his ordinary, easy manner was completely altered as he said, gravely, "that will be over there, up by the mountain," pointing vaguely to the north. and he changed the subject, as a freemason changes the subject. there the matter lies, and its appositeness to the story of llantrisant is this: that the dream of olwen phillips was, in fact, the vision of the holy graal. chapter vii the mass of the sangraal "_ffeiriadwyr melcisidec! ffeiriadwyr melcisidec!_" shouted the old calvinistic methodist deacon with the grey beard. "priesthood of melchizedek! priesthood of melchizedek!" and he went on: "the bell that is like _y glwys yr angel ym mharadwys_--the joy of the angels in paradise--is returned; the altar that is of a colour that no men can discern is returned, the cup that came from syon is returned, the ancient offering is restored, the three saints have come back to the church of the _tri sant_, the three holy fishermen are amongst us, and their net is full. _gogoniant, gogoniant_--glory, glory!" then another methodist began to recite in welsh a verse from wesley's hymn. god still respects thy sacrifice, its savour sweet doth always please; the offering smokes through earth and skies, diffusing life and joy and peace; to these thy lower courts it comes and fills them with divine perfumes. the whole church was full, as the old books tell, of the odour of the rarest spiceries. there were lights shining within the sanctuary, through the narrow archway. this was the beginning of the end of what befell at llantrisant. for it was the sunday after that night on which olwen phillips had been restored from death to life. there was not a single chapel of the dissenters open in the town that day. the methodists with their minister and their deacons and all the nonconformists had returned on this sunday morning to "the old hive." one would have said, a church of the middle ages, a church in ireland today. every seat--save those in the chancel --was full, all the aisles were full, the churchyard was full; everyone on his knees, and the old rector kneeling before the door into the holy place. yet they can say but very little of what was done beyond the veil. there was no attempt to perform the usual service; when the bells had stopped the old deacon raised his cry, and priest and people fell down on their knees as they thought they heard a choir within singing "alleluya, alleluya, alleluya." and as the bells in the tower ceased ringing, there sounded the thrill of the bell from syon, and the golden veil of sunlight fell across the door into the altar, and the heavenly voices began their melodies. a voice like a trumpet cried from within the brightness. _agyos, agyos, agyos._ and the people, as if an age-old memory stirred in them, replied: _agyos yr tã¢d, agyos yr mab, agyos yr yspryd glan. sant, sant, sant, drindod sant vendigeid. sanctus arglwydd dduw sabaoth, dominus deus._ there was a voice that cried and sang from within the altar; most of the people had heard some faint echo of it in the chapels; a voice rising and falling and soaring in awful modulations that rang like the trumpet of the last angel. the people beat upon their breasts, the tears were like rain of the mountains on their cheeks; those that were able fell down flat on their faces before the glory of the veil. they said afterwards that men of the hills, twenty miles away, heard that cry and that singing, roaring upon them on the wind, and they fell down on their faces, and cried, "the offering is accomplished," knowing nothing of what they said. there were a few who saw three come out of the door of the sanctuary, and stand for a moment on the pace before the door. these three were in dyed vesture, red as blood. one stood before two, looking to the west, and he rang the bell. and they say that all the birds of the wood, and all the waters of the sea, and all the leaves of the trees, and all the winds of the high rocks uttered their voices with the ringing of the bell. and the second and the third; they turned their faces one to another. the second held up the lost altar that they once called sapphirus, which was like the changing of the sea and of the sky, and like the immixture of gold and silver. and the third heaved up high over the altar a cup that was red with burning and the blood of the offering. and the old rector cried aloud then before the entrance: _bendigeid yr offeren yn oes oesoedd_--blessed be the offering unto the age of ages. and then the mass of the sangraal was ended, and then began the passing out of that land of the holy persons and holy things that had returned to it after the long years. it seemed, indeed, to many that the thrilling sound of the bell was in their ears for days, even for weeks after that sunday morning. but thenceforth neither bell nor altar nor cup was seen by anyone; not openly, that is, but only in dreams by day and by night. nor did the people see strangers again in the market of llantrisant, nor in the lonely places where certain persons oppressed by great affliction and sorrow had once or twice encountered them. * * * * * but that time of visitation will never be forgotten by the people. many things happened in the nine days that have not been set down in this record--or legend. some of them were trifling matters, though strange enough in other times. thus a man in the town who had a fierce dog that was always kept chained up found one day that the beast had become mild and gentle. and this is odder: edward davies, of lanafon, a farmer, was roused from sleep one night by a queer yelping and barking in his yard. he looked out of the window and saw his sheep-dog playing with a big fox; they were chasing each other by turns, rolling over and over one another, "cutting such capers as i did never see the like," as the astonished farmer put it. and some of the people said that during this season of wonder the corn shot up, and the grass thickened, and the fruit was multiplied on the trees in a very marvellous manner. more important, it seemed, was the case of williams, the grocer; though this may have been a purely natural deliverance. mr. williams was to marry his daughter mary to a smart young fellow from carmarthen, and he was in great distress over it. not over the marriage itself, but because things had been going very badly with him for some time, and he could not see his way to giving anything like the wedding entertainment that would be expected of him. the wedding was to be on the saturday--that was the day on which the lawyer, lewis prothero, and the farmer, philip james, were reconciled--and this john williams, without money or credit, could not think how shame would not be on him for the meagreness and poverty of the wedding feast. and then on the tuesday came a letter from his brother, david williams, australia, from whom he had not heard for fifteen years. and david, it seemed, had been making a great deal of money, and was a bachelor, and here was with his letter a paper good for a thousand pounds: "you may as well enjoy it now as wait till i am dead." this was enough, indeed, one might say; but hardly an hour after the letter had come the lady from the big house (plas mawr) drove up in all her grandeur, and went into the shop and said, "mr. williams, your daughter mary has always been a very good girl, and my husband and i feel that we must give her some little thing on her wedding, and we hope she'll be very happy." it was a gold watch worth fifteen pounds. and after lady watcyn, advances the old doctor with a dozen of port, forty years upon it, and a long sermon on how to decant it. and the old rector's old wife brings to the beautiful dark girl two yards of creamy lace, like an enchantment, for her wedding veil, and tells mary how she wore it for her own wedding fifty years ago; and the squire, sir watcyn, as if his wife had not been already with a fine gift, calls from his horse, and brings out williams and barks like a dog at him, "goin' to have a weddin', eh, williams? can't have a weddin' without champagne, y' know; wouldn't be legal, don't y' know. so look out for a couple of cases." so williams tells the story of the gifts; and certainly there was never so famous a wedding in llantrisant before. all this, of course, may have been altogether in the natural order; the "glow," as they call it, seems more difficult to explain. for they say that all through the nine days, and indeed after the time had ended, there never was a man weary or sick at heart in llantrisant, or in the country round it. for if a man felt that his work of the body or the mind was going to be too much for his strength, then there would come to him of a sudden a warm glow and a thrilling all over him and he felt as strong as a giant, and happier than he had ever been in his life before, so that lawyer and hedger each rejoiced in the task that was before him, as if it were sport and play. and much more wonderful than this or any other wonders was forgiveness, with love to follow it. there were meetings of old enemies in the market-place and in the street that made the people lift up their hands and declare that it was as if one walked the miraculous streets of syon. * * * * * but as to the "phenomena," the occurrences for which, in ordinary talk, we should reserve the word "miraculous"? well, what do we know? the question that i have already stated comes up again, as to the possible survival of old tradition in a kind of dormant, or torpid, semi-conscious state. in other words, did the people "see" and "hear" what they expected to see and hear? this point, or one similar to it, occurred in a debate between andrew lang and anatole france as to the visions of joan of arc. m. france stated that when joan saw st. michael, she saw the traditional archangel of the religious art of her day, but to the best of my belief andrew lang proved that the visionary figure joan described was not in the least like the fifteenth-century conception of st. michael. so, in the case of llantrisant, i have stated that there was a sort of tradition about the holy bell of teilo sant; and it is, of course, barely possible that some vague notion of the graal cup may have reached even welsh country folks through tennyson's idylls. but so far i see no reason to suppose that these people had ever heard of the portable altar (called sapphirus in william of malmesbury) or of its changing colours "that no man could discern." and then there are the other questions of the distinction between hallucination and vision, of the average duration of one and the other, and of the possibility of collective hallucination. if a number of people all see (or think they see) the same appearances, can this be merely hallucination? i believe there is a leading case on the matter, which concerns a number of people seeing the same appearance on a church wall in ireland; but there is, of course, this difficulty, that one may be hallucinated and communicate his impression to the others, telepathically. but at the last, what do we know? transcriber's note: this etext was produced from analog science fact & fiction july 1963. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed. a knyght ther was _but the knyght was a little less than perfect, and his horse did not have a metabolism, and his "castle" was much more mobile--timewise!--than it had any business being!_ by robert f. young _illustrated by leo summers_ _a knyght ther was, and that a worthy man, that fro the tyme that he first bigan to ryden out, he loved chivalrye, trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisye_ --the canterbury tales * * * * * i mallory, who among other things was a time-thief, re-materialized the time-space boat _yore_ in the eastern section of a secluded valley in ancient britain and typed castle, early sixth-century on the lumillusion panel. then he stepped over to the control-room telewindow and studied the three-dimensional screen. the hour was 8:00 p.m.; the season, summer; the year 542 a.d. darkness was on hand, but there was a full moon rising and he could see trees not far away--oaks and beeches, mostly. roving the eye of the camera, he saw more trees of the same species. the "castle of yore" was safely ensconced in a forest. satisfied, he turned away. if his calculations were correct, the castle of carbonek stood in the next valley to the south, and on a silver table in a chamber of the castle stood the object of his quest. _if_ his calculations were correct. mallory was not one to keep himself in suspense. stepping into the supply room, he stripped down to his undergarments and proceeded to get into the custom-built suit of armor which he had purchased expressly for the operation. fortunately, while duplication of early sixth-century design had been mandatory, there had been no need to duplicate early sixth-century materials, and sollerets, spurs, greaves, cuisses, breastplate, pauldrons, gorget, arm-coverings, gauntlets, helmet, and chain-mail vest had all been fashioned of light-weight alloys that lent ten times as much protection at ten times less poundage. the helmet was his particular pride and joy: in keeping with the period-piece after which it had been patterned, it looked like an upside-down metal wastepaper basket, but the one-way transparency of the special alloy that had gone into its construction gave him unrestricted vision, while two inbuilt audio-amplifiers performed a corresponding service for his hearing. the outer surface of each piece had been burnished to a high degree, and he found himself a dazzling sight indeed when he looked into the supply-room mirror. this effect was enhanced no end when he buckled on his chrome-plated scabbard and red-hilted sword and hung his snow-white shield around his neck. his polished spear, when he stood it beside him, was almost anticlimactic. it shouldn't have been. it was a good three and one-half inches in diameter at the base, and it was as tall as a young flagpole. as he stood there looking at his reflection, the red cross in the center of the shield took on the hue of freshly-shed blood. the period-piece expert who had designed the shield had insisted on the illusion, saying that it made for greater authenticity, and mallory hadn't argued with him. he was glad now that he hadn't. raising the visor of his helmet, he winked at himself and said, "i hereby christen ye 'sir galahad'." next, he bethought himself of his steed. armor clanking, he left the supply room and walked down the short passage to the rec-hall. the rec-hall occupied the entire forward section of the tsb and had been designed solely for the benefit of the time-tourists whom mallory regularly conducted on past-tours as a cover-up for the illegal activities which he pursued in between trips. in the present instance, however, the hall went quite well with the _yore's_ lumillusioned exterior, possessing, with its gallery-like mezzanine, its long snack table, and its imitation flagstone flooring, an early sixth-century aspect of its own--an aspect marred only slightly by the "anachronistic" telewindows inset at regular intervals along the walls. mallory's steed stood in a stall-like enclosure that was formed by the tourist-bar and one of the walls, and it was a splendid "beast" indeed--as splendid a one as the twenty-second century robotics industry was capable of creating. originally, mallory had planned on bringing a real horse with him, but as this would have necessitated his having to learn how to ride, he had decided against it. the decision had been a wise one: "easy money" looked more like a horse than most real horses did, could travel twice as fast, and was as easy to ride and to maneuver as a golp jetney. it was light-brown in color with a white diamond on its forehead, it was equipped with a secret croup-compartment and an inbuilt saddle, and its fetlock-length trappings were made of genuine synthisilk threaded with gold. it wore no armor--it did not need to: weapons manufactured during the age of chivalry could no more penetrate its "hide" than a tooth pick could. _come on, easy money_, mallory encephalopathed. _you and i have a little job to do._ the rohorse emitted several realistic whinnies, backed out of its "stall", trotted smartly over to his side, and nuzzled his right pauldron. mallory mounted--not gracefully, it is true, but at least without the aid of the winch he would have needed if his armor had been manufactured in the sixth century--and inserted the red pommel of his spear in the stirrup socket. then, activating the _yore's_ lock, he rode across the imaginary drawbridge that spanned the mirage-moat, and set forth into the forest. as the "portcullis" closed behind him, symbolically bringing phase one of operation sangraal to a close, he thought of jason perfidion. * * * * * standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall fireplace in the big balconied room, perfidion said, "mallory, you're wasting your time. worse, you're wasting mine." the room climaxed a vertical series of slightly less sumptuous chambers known collectively as the perfidion tower, and the perfidion tower stood with a score of balconied brothers on a blacktop island in the exact center of kansas' largest golp course. a short distance from the fraternal gathering stood yet another tower--the false tower into which mallory had lumillusioned his tsb upon his arrival. on the golp terrace, as the blacktop island was called, everyone and everything conformed--or else. the room itself was known to time-thieves as "perfidion's lair". and yet there was nothing about jason perfidion--nothing physical, that is--that suggested the predator. he was mallory's age--thirty-three--tall, dark of hair, and strikingly handsome. he looked like--and was--a highly successful businessman with a triplex on get-rich-quick street, and he gave the impression that he was as honest as the day was long. just the same, the predator was there, and if you were alert enough you could sometimes glimpse it peering out through the smoky windowpanes of his eyes. it wasn't peering out now, though. it was sleeping. however, it was due to wake up any second. "then you're not interested in fencing the holy grail?" mallory asked. annoyance intensified the slight swarthiness of perfidion's cheeks. "mallory, you know as well as i do that the grail never really existed, that it was nothing more than the mead-inspired daydream of a bunch of quixotic knights. so go and get your hair cut and forget about it." "but suppose it _did_ exist," mallory insisted. "suppose, tomorrow afternoon at this time, i were to come in here and set it down on this desk here? how much could you get for it?" perfidion laughed. "how much _couldn't_ i get for it! why, without even stopping to think i can name you a dozen collectors who'd give their right arm for it." "i'm not interested in right arms," mallory said. "i'm interested in dollars. how many kennedees could you get for it?" "a megamillion--maybe more. more than enough, certainly, to permit you to retire from time-lifting and to take up residence on get-rich-quick street. but it doesn't exist, and it never did, so get out of here, mallory, and stop squandering my valuable time." mallory withdrew a small stereophoto from his breast pocket and tossed it on the desk. "have a look at that first--then i'll go," he said. perfidion picked up the photo. "an ordinary enough yellow bowl," he began, and stopped. suddenly he gasped, and jabbed one of the many buttons that patterned his desktop. seconds later, a svelte blonde whom mallory had never seen before stepped out of the lift tube. like most general-purpose secretaries, she wore a maximum of makeup and a minimum of clothing, and moved in an aura of efficiency and sex. "get me my photo-projector, miss tyler," perfidion said. when she returned with it, he set it on his desk and inserted the stereophoto. instantly, a huge cube materialized in the center of the room. inside the cube there was a realistic image of a resplendent silver table, and upon the image of the table stood an equally realistic image of a resplendent golden bowl. perfidion gasped again. "unusual workmanship, wouldn't you say?" mallory said. perfidion turned toward the blonde. "you may go, miss tyler." she was staring at the contents of the cube and apparently did not hear him. "i said," he repeated, "that you may go, miss tyler." "oh. yes ... yes sir." * * * * * when the lift-tube door closed behind her, perfidion turned to mallory. for a fraction of a second the predator was visible behind the smoky windowpanes of his eyes; then, quickly, it ducked out of sight. "where was this taken, tom?" "it's a distance-shot," mallory said. "i took it through one of the windows of the church joseph of arimathea built in glastonbury." "but how did you know--" "that it was there? because it _had_ to be there. some time ago, while escorting a group of tourists around ancient britain, i happened to witness joseph of arimathea's landing--and happened to catch a glimpse of what he brought with him. i used to think that the grail was a pipe dream, too, but when i saw it with my own eyes, i knew that it couldn't have been. however, i knew i'd need evidence to convince you, so i jumped back to a later place-time and got a shot of it." "but why a shot, tom? why didn't you lift it then and there?" "you concede that it is the grail then?" "of course it's the grail--there's not the slightest question about it. why didn't you lift it?" "well, for one thing, i wanted to make sure that lifting it would be worth my while, and for another, glastonbury wasn't the logical place-time from which to lift it, because, assuming that the rest of the legend is also true, it was seen after that place-time. no time-thief ever bucked destiny yet and came out the winner, jason; i play my percentages." "i know you do, tom. you're one of the best time-lift men in the business, and the past police would be the first to admit it.... i daresay you've already pinpointed the key place-time?" mallory grinned, showing his white teeth. "i certainly have, but if you think i'm going to divulge it, you're sadly mistaken, jason. and stop looking at my hair--it won't tell you anything beyond the fact that i've been using hair-haste. shoulder-length hair was the rage in more eras than one." perfidion smiled warmly, and clapped mallory on the back. "i'm not trying to ferret out your secret, tom. i know better than that. lifting is your line, fencing mine. you bring me the grail, i'll sell it, take my cut, and everything will be fine. you know me, tom." "i sure do," mallory said, taking the stereophoto out of the projector and returning it to his breast pocket. perfidion snapped his fingers. "a happy thought just occurred to me! i've got a golp date with rowley of puriproducts, so why don't you join us, tom? you play a pretty good game, as i recall." mollified, mallory said, "i'll have to borrow a set of your jetsticks." "i'll get them for you on the way down. come on, tom." mallory accompanied him across the room. "keep mum about this to rowley now," perfidion said confidentially. "he's a potential customer, but we don't want to let the cat out of the bag yet, do we? or should i say 'the grail'." he took time out to grin at his little joke, then, "by the way, tom, i take it you're all set as regards costume, equipment and the like." "i've got the sweetest little suit of armor you ever laid eyes on," mallory said. "fine--no need for me to offer any advice in that respect then." perfidion opened the lift door. "after you, tom." they plummeted down the tube together. * * * * * it had been a good game of golp--from mallory's standpoint, anyway. he had trounced rowley roundly, and he would have inflicted similar ignominy upon perfidion had not the latter been called away in the middle of the game and been unable to return till it was nearly over. oh well, mallory thought, encephalo-guiding his rohorse through the ancient forest, there'll be other chances. aloud, he said, "step lively now, easy money, and let's get this caper over with so we can return to civilization and start feeling what it's like to be rich." in response to the encephalo-waves that had accompanied his words, easy money increased its pace, the infra-red rays of its eye units illumining its way. in places, light from the rising moon seeped through the foliage, but otherwise darkness was the rule. the air was cool and damp--the sea was not far distant--and the sound of frogs and insects was omnipresent and now and then there was the rustling sound of some small and fleeing forest creature. presently the ground began to rise, and not long afterward the trees thinned out temporarily and rohorse and rider emerged on the moonlit crest of the ridge that separated the two valleys. in the distance mallory made out the moon-gilt towers and turrets of a large castle, and knew it to be carbonek beyond a doubt. he sighed with relief. he was all set now--provided his masquerade went over. conversely, if it didn't go over he was finished: his sword and his spear were his only weapons, and his shield and his armor, his only protection. true, each article was superior in quality and durability to its corresponding article in the age of chivalry, but otherwise none of them was anything more than what it seemed. mallory might be a time-thief; but within the framework of his profession he believed in playing fair. in response to his encephalopathed directions, easy money picked its way down the slope of the ridge and re-entered the forest. not long afterward it stepped onto what was euphemistically referred to in that day and age as a "highway" but which in reality was little more than a wide, hoof-trampled lane. as mallory's entire plan of action was based on boldness, he spurned the shadows of the bordering oaks and beeches and encephalopathed the rohorse to keep to the center of the lane. he met no one, however, despite the earliness of the hour, nor had he really expected to. it was highly improbable that any freemen would be abroad after dark, and as for the knight-errants who happened to be in the neighborhood, it was highly improbable that any of them would be abroad after dark either. he grinned. to read _le morte d'arthur,_ you'd think that the chivalry boys had been in business twenty-four hours a day, slaying ogres, rescuing fair damosels, and searching for the sangraal; but not if you read between the lines. mallory had read "arthur" only cursorily, but he had had a hunch all along that in the majority of cases the quest for the sangraal had served as an out, and that the knights of the table round had spent more time wenching and wassailing than they had conducting their so-called dedicated search, and the hunch had played an important role in the shaping of his strategy. the highway turned this way and that, never pursuing a straight course unless such a logical procedure was unavoidable. once, he thought he heard hoofbeats up ahead, but he met no one, and not long afterward he saw the pale pile of carbonek looming above the trees to his left, and encephalo-guided easy money into the lane that led to the entrance. there was no moat, but the portcullis was an imposing one. flanking it on either side was a huge stone lion, and framing it were flaming torches in regularly-spaced niches. warders in hauberk and helmet looked down from the lofty wall, their halberds gleaming in the dancing torchlight. mallory swallowed: the moment of truth had arrived. he halted easy money and canted his white shield so that the red cross in its center would be visible from above. then he marshalled his smattering of old english. "i hight sir galahad of the table round," he called out in as bold a voice as he could muster. "i would rest my eyes upon the sangraal." * * * * * instantly, confusion reigned upon the wall as the warders vied with one another for the privilege of operating the cumbersome windlass that raised and lowered the portcullis, and presently, to the accompaniment of a chorus of creaks and groans and scrapings, the ponderous iron grating began to rise. mallory forced himself to wait until it had risen to a height befitting a knight of sir galahad's caliber, then he rode through the gateway and into the courtyard, congratulating himself on the effectiveness of his impersonation. "ye will come unto the chamber of the sangraal sixty paces down the corridor to thy left eftsoon ye enter the chief fortress, sir knight," one of the warders called down. "an ye had arrived a little while afore, ye had encountered sir launcelot du lake, the which did come unto the fortress and enter in, wherefrom he came out anon and departed." mallory would have wiped his forehead if his forehead had been accessible and if his hands had not been encased in metal gloves. fooling the warders was one thing, but passing himself off as sir galahad to the man who was sir galahad's father would have been quite another. he had learned from the pages of his near-namesake's "arthur" that sir launcelot had visited carbonek before sir galahad had, but the pages had not revealed whether the time-lapse had involved minutes, hours, or years, and for that matter, mallory wasn't altogether certain whether the second visit they described had been the real sir galahad's, which meant failure, or a romanticized version of his own, which meant success. his near-namesake was murky at best, and reading him you were never sure where anybody was, or when any given event was taking place. the courtyard was empty, and after crossing it, mallory dismounted, encephalopathed easy money to stay put, and climbed the series of stone steps that led to the castle proper. entering the building unchallenged, he found himself at the junction of three corridors. the main one stretched straight ahead and debouched into a large hall. the other two led off at right angles, one to the left and one to the right. boisterous laughter emanated from the hall, and he could see knights and other nobles sitting at a long banquet table. scattered among them were gentlewomen in rich silks, and hovering behind them were servants bearing large demijohns. he grinned. just as he had figured--king pelles was throwing a whingding. quickly, mallory turned down the left-hand corridor and started along it, counting his footsteps. rushes rustled beneath his feet, and the flickering light of wall-torches gave him a series of grotesque shadows. he saw no one: all the servants were in the banquet hall, pouring wine and mead. he laughed aloud. forty-eight paces sufficed to see him to the chamber door. it was a perfectly ordinary door. opening it, he thought at first that the room beyond was ordinary, too. then he saw the burning candles arranged along the walls, and beneath them, standing in the center of the floor, the table of silver. the table of the sangraal.... there was no sangraal on the table, however. there was no sangraal in the room, for that matter. there was a girl, though. she was huddled forlornly in a corner, and she was crying. ii mallory laid his spear aside, strode across the room, and raised the girl to her feet. "the sangraal," he said, forgetting in his agitation the few odds and ends of old english he had memorized. "where is it!" she raised startled eyes that were as round, and almost as large, as plums. her face was round, too, and faintly childlike. her hair was dark-brown, and done up in a strange and indeterminate coiffeur that was as charming as it was disconcerting. her ankle-length dress was white, and there was a bow on the bodice that matched the plum-blueness of her eyes. a few cosmetics, properly applied, would have turned her into an attractive woman, and even without them, she rated a second look. she stared at him for some time, then, "surely ye be an advision, sir," she said. "i ... i know ye not." mallory swung his shield around so that she could see the red cross. "now do you know me?" she gasped, and her eyes grew even rounder. "sir ... sir galahad! oh, fair knight, wherefore did ye not say?" mallory ignored the question. "the sangraal," he repeated. "where is it?" her tears had ceased temporarily; now they began again. "oh, fair sir!" she cried, "ye see tofore you, a damosel at mischief, the which was given guardianship of the holy vessel at her own request, and bewrayed her trust, a damosel--" "never mind all that," mallory said. "where's the sangraal?" "i wot not, fair sir." "but you must know if you were guarding it!" "i wot not whither it was taken." "but you must wot who took it." "wot i well, fair knight. sir launcelot, the which is thy father, bare it from the chamber." mallory was stunned. "but that's impossible! my fa--sir launcelot wouldn't steal the sangraal!" "well i wot, fair sir; yet steal it he did. came he unto the chamber and saith, i hight sir launcelot du lake of the table round, whereat i did see his armor to be none other; so then took he the vessel covered with the red samite and bare it with him from the chamber, whereat i--" "how long ago?" "but a little while afore eight of the clock. sithen i have wept. i know now no good knight, nor no good man. and i know from thy holy shield and from they good name that thou art a good knight, and i beseech ye therefore to help me, for ye be a shining knight indeed, wherefore ye ought not to fail no damosel which is in distress, and she besought you of help." mallory only half heard her. sir launcelot was too much with him. it was inconceivable that a knight of such noble principles would even consider touching the sangraal, to say nothing of making off with it. maybe, though, his principles hadn't been quite as noble as they had been made out to be. he had been queen guinevere's paramour, hadn't he? he had lain with the fair elaine, hadn't he? when you came right down to it, he could very well have been a scoundrel at heart all along--a scoundrel whose true nature had been toned down by writers like malory and poets like tennyson. all of which, while it strongly suggested that he was capable of stealing the sangraal, threw not the slightest light on his reason for having done so. mallory was right back where he had started from. he turned to the girl. "you said something about needing my help. what do you want me to do?" instantly, her tears stopped and she clasped her hands together and looked at him with worshipful eyes. "oh, fair sir, ye be most kind indeed! well i wot from thy shining armor that ye--" "knock it off," mallory said. "knock it off? i wot not what--" "never mind. just tell me what you want me to do." "ye must bear me from the castle, fair sir, or the king learns i have bewrayed my trust and wreaks his wrath upon me. and then ye must help me regain the holy cup and return it to this chamber." "we'll worry about getting the cup back after we're beyond the walls," mallory said, starting for the door. "come on--they're all in the banquet hall and as drunk as lords--they won't even see us go by." she hung back. "but the warders, fair sir--they be not enchafed. and king pelles, by my own wish, did forbid them to pass me." mallory stared at her. "by your own wish! well of all the crazy--" abruptly he dropped the subject. "all right then--how _do_ we get out of here?" "there lieth beneath the fortress and the forest a parlous passage wherein dwells the fiend, the which i have much discomfit of. but with ye aside me, fair knight, there is naught to fear." mallory had read enough malory to be able to take sixth-century fiends in his stride. "i'll have to take my horse along," he said. "is there room for it to pass?" "yea, fair sir. the tale saith that aforetime many knights did ride out beneath the fortress and the forest and did smite the saxons, saracens, and pagans, the which did compass the castle about, from behind, whereupon the battle was won." mallory stepped outside the chamber, the girl just behind him, and encephalopathed the necessary directions. after a moment, easy money came trotting down the corridor to his side. the girl gasped, and, to his astonishment, threw her arms around the rohorse's neck. "he is a noble steed indeed, fair sir," she said; "and worthy of a knight fitting to sit in the siege perilous." presently she stepped back, frowning. "he ... he is most cold, fair sir." "all horses of that breed are," mallory explained. "incidentally, his name is 'easy money'." "la! such a strange name." "not so strange." mallory raised his visor, making a mental note to see to it that any and all suits of armor he might buy in the future were air-conditioned. he got his spear. "let's be on our way, shall we?" "ye ... ye have blue eyes, fair sir." "never mind the color of my eyes--let's get out of here." she seemed to make up her mind about something. "an ye will follow me, sir knight," she said, and started down the corridor. * * * * * a ramp, the entrance of which was camouflaged by a rotating section of the inner castle wall, gave access to the subterranean passage. the passage itself, in the flickering light of the torch that the girl had brought along, appeared at first to be nothing more than a natural cave enlarged through the centuries by the stream that still flowed down its center. presently, however, mallory saw that in certain places the stone walls had been cut back in such a way that the space on either side of the stream never narrowed to a width of less than four feet. he saw other evidence of human handiwork too--dungeons. they were little more than shallow caves now, though, their iron gratings having rusted and fallen away. after proceeding half a hundred yards, he paused. "i don't know what we're walking for when we've got a perfectly good horse at our disposal," he told the girl. "come on, i'll help you into the saddle and i'll jump on behind." she shook her head. "no, fair knight, it is not fitting for a gentlewoman to ride tofore her champion. ye will mount, and i will ride behind." "suit yourself," mallory said. he climbed into the saddle with a clank and a clatter, and helped her up on easy money's croup. "by the way, you never did tell me your name." "i hight the damosel rowena." "pleased to meet you," mallory said. _giddy-ap, easy money_, he encephalopathed. they rode in silence for a little while, the light from rowena's torch dancing acappella rigadoons on bare walls and dripping ceilings, easy money's hoofbeats hardly audible above the purling of the stream. presently rowena said, "it were best that ye drew out thy sword, fair sir, for anon the fiend will beset us." "he hasn't beset us yet," mallory pointed out. "la! fair sir, he will." he saw no harm in humoring her, and did as she had suggested. "you mentioned something a while back about having been given guardianship of the sangraal at your own request," he said. "how did that come about?" "list, fair sir, and i will tell ye. but first i must tell ye of sir bors de ganis, of which sir lionel is brother. it happed one day that sir bors did ride into a forest in the kingdom of mennes unto the hour of midday, and there befell him a marvelous adventure. so he met at the departing of the two ways two knights that led lionel, his brother, all naked, bounden upon a strong hackney, and his hands bounden tofore his breast. and every each of them held in his hands thorns wherewith they went beating him so sore that the blood trailed down more than in an hundred places of his body, so that he was all blood tofore and behind, but he said never a word; as he which was great of heart he suffered all that ever they did to him as though he had felt none anguish. "anon sir bors dressed him to rescue him that was his brother; and so he looked upon the other side of him, and saw a knight which brought a fair gentlewoman, and would have set her in the thickest place of the forest for to have been the more surer out of the way from them that sought him. and she which was nothing assured cried with a high voice: 'saint mary succor your maid.' and anon she espied where sir bors came riding. and when she came nigh him she deemed him a knight of the round table, whereof she hoped to have some comfort; and then she conjured him: by the faith that he ought unto him in whose service thou art entered in, and for the faith ye owe unto the high order of knighthood, and for the noble king arthur's sake, that i suppose that made thee knight, that thou help me, and suffer me not to be shamed of this knight. when--" "just a minute," mallory interrupted, thoroughly bewildered and simultaneously afflicted with an irrational sense of _deja vu_. "this gentlewoman you speak of--would she by any chance be you?" "wit ye well, fair sir. when--" "but if she's you, why don't you use the first person singular instead of the third?" "i wot not what--" "why don't you use 'i' instead of 'she' when you refer to yourself directly?" "it would not be fitting, fair knight. when bors heard her say thus he had so much sorrow there he nyst not what to do. for if i let my brother be in adventure he must be slain, and that would i not for all the earth. and if i help not the maid she is shamed for ever, and also she shall lose her virginity the which she shall never get again. then lift he up his eyes and said weeping: fair sweet lord, whose liege man i am, keep lionel, my brother, that these knights slay him not, and for pity of you, and for mary's sake, i shall succor this maid. then dressed he him unto the knight the which had the gentlewoman, and then--" * * * * * "hist!" mallory whispered. "i heard something." for a moment the light flared wildly as though she had nearly dropped the torch. "wh ... whence came the sound, fair knight?" "from the other side of the stream." he peered into the vacillating shadows, but saw nothing but the darker shadows of one of the innumerable man-made caves. the sound he had heard had brought to mind the dull clang that metal makes when it collides with stone, and it had been so faint as to have been barely audible above the purling of the stream. thinking back, he was not altogether certain that he had heard it at all. "my imagination's getting the best of me, i guess," he said presently. "there's no one there." her warm breath penetrated the crevices of his gorget and fanned the back of his neck. "ye ... ye ween not that it could have been the fiend prowling?" "of course i ween not! relax, and finish your story. but get to the point, will you?" "an ... an it so please.... and then sir bors cried: sir knight, let your hand off that maiden, or ye be but dead. and then he set down the maiden, and was armed at all pieces save he lacked his spear. then he dressed his shield, and drew out his sword, and bors smote him so hard that it went through his shield and habergeon on the left shoulder. and through great strength he beat him down to the earth, and at the pulling out of bors' spear there he swooned. then came bors to the maid and said: how seemeth it to you of this knight ye be delivered at this time? now sir, said she, i pray you lead me there as this knight had me. so shall i do gladly: and took the horse of the wounded knight, and set the gentlewoman upon him, and so brought her as she desired. sir knight, said she, ye have better sped than ye weened, for an i had lost my maidenhead, five hundred men should have died for it. what knight was he that had you in the forest? by my faith, said she, he is my cousin. so wot i never with what engyn the fiend enchafed him, for yesterday he took me from my father privily; for i nor none of my father's men mistrusted him not, and if he had had my maidenhead he should have died for the sin, and his body shamed and dishonored for ever. thus as--" "_shhh!_" this time, mallory was certain that he had heard something. the sound had had much in common with the previous sound, except that it had suggested metal scraping against, rather than colliding with, stone. directly across the stream was another cave, this one shallow enough to permit the torchlight to penetrate its deeper shadows, and looking into those shadows, he caught a faint gleam of reflected light. rowena must have caught it, too, for he heard her gasp behind him. "it were best that i thanked ye now for thy great kindness, fair knight," she said, "for anon we be no longer on live." "nonsense!" mallory said. "if this fiend of yours is anywhere in the vicinity, he's probably more afraid of us than we are of him." the cave was behind them now. "per ... peradventure he hath already had meat," rowena said hopefully. "the tale saith that and the fiend be filled, he becomes aweary and besets not them the which do pass him by in peace." "i'll keep my sword handy, just in case he changes his mind," mallory said. "meanwhile, get on with your autobiography--only for pete's sake, cut it short, will you?" "an it please, fair sir. thus as the fair gentlewoman stood talking with sir bors there came twelve knights seeking after her, and anon she told them all how bors had delivered her; then they made great joy, and besought him to come to her father, a great lord, and he should be right welcome. truly, said bors, that may not be at this time, for i have a great adventure to do in this country. so he commended them unto god and departed. the fair gentlewoman did grieve mickle to see him leave, and she saith, sir knights, noble was the service that brave knight did render unto thy liege's daughter in the saving of her maidenhead the which she could never get again, for that be none other than his own brother the which he fauted. therefore, noble must be both his king and his cause, wherefore it be befitting that a gentlewoman of thy liege's daughter's nature leave the castle of her father betimes that she may render fitting service to her succor's cause and be worthy of his deed. thus spake this fair gentlewoman, whereat she did mount upon her palfrey and so departed her from thence and did ride as fast as her palfrey might bear her, whereupon after many days she came to the castle of carbonek and did seek out king pelles and did beseech him that she might be made guardian of the sangraal, whereat he did graciously consent to her request and did consent also that she be made prisoner in the fortress by her own wish. and now she was bewrayed her trust, fair sir, and the table of silver whereon the sangraal stood stands empty." * * * * * for some time after she finished talking, mallory was silent. was she trying to pull his leg? he wondered. or were the gentlewomen of her day and age really as high-minded and as feathered-brained as she would have him believe? he decided not to go into the matter for the moment. "tell me, rowena," he said, "if the sangraal is visible only to those who are worthy of it, as i have been led to believe, how are any of those wassailers whooping it up back there in that banquet hall going to know whether it's gone or not?" "it be ofttimes averred that all cannot see the holy cup, as ye say, fair knight. natheless, all that have come unto the chamber sithen my trust began, they did see it, and sir launcelot, the which is much with sin, he did see it--and did take it." "he's not going to get very far with it, though," mallory said. and then, "how long is the tunnel anyway?" "anon we shall see the stars, fair sir." she was right, and a few minutes later, after rounding a turn in the passage, they emerged upon the bank of a small river. the subterranean stream that had kept them company emerged, too, and joined its larger sister on the way to the sea. on either hand, cliffs rose up, and the susurrus of waves breaking on sand could be heard in the distance. mallory guided easy money upstream to where the cliffs dwindled down to thickly forested slopes. it took him but a moment to orientate himself, and presently rohorse and riders were headed in the direction of the highway. "now," said he, "if you'll tell me where you want to be dropped off, i'll see what i can do about getting the grail back." there was a brief silence. then, "an ... an ye wish, ye may leave me here." he halted easy money, dismounted, and lifted her down to the ground. he looked around, expecting to see a habitation of some sort. he saw nothing but trees. he faced the girl again. "don't you have any friends or relatives you can stay with?" an argent shaft of moonlight slanting down through the foliage illumined her face. "there be none nigh, fair sir, nor none nearer than an hundred miles. i shall abide your again coming here in the forest." mallory stared at her. she didn't look--or act either, for that matter--as though she knew enough to get in out of the rain. "abide here in the forest! why, you wouldn't last a week!" "but ye will return hither with the sangraal long afore that, whereupon we two together shall return the holy vessel to the chamber and i shall not be made to suffer the severing of my two hands." he was aghast. "they wouldn't dare cut off your hands!" "they dare much, fair knight. know ye naught of the customs of the land?" he was silent. what in the world was he going to do about her? she would probably wait here for him until she starved to death or, equally as distressing, until she was apprehended. abruptly he shrugged his shoulders--to the extent that his pauldrons permitted--and remounted the rohorse. why should it matter to him what became of her? he'd returned to the age of chivalry to steal the sangraal, not to play nursemaid to damosels in distress. "don't take any wooden nickels now," he said. two tiny stars appeared in the pale regions of her eyes and twinkled down her cheeks. "may the good lord speed ye upon thy quest, fair knight, and may he guard ye well." "oh, for pete's sake!" mallory said, and reaching down, pulled her up onto easy money's croup. "i have a castle not far from here. i'll drop you off, then i'll go after the sangraal." her breath was warm little wind seeping through the crevices of his gorget. "oh, fair sir, ye be the noblest of all the knights in all the land, and i shall serve thee faithfully for the rest of my days!" the rohorse whinnied. _giddy-ap, easy money_, mallory encephalopathed, and they started out. iii rowena fell for the _yore_ hook, line, and sinker. not even the modern interior gave her pause. those objects which happened to be beyond her ken--and there were many of them--she interpreted as "appointments befitting a noble knight," and as for the rooms themselves, she merely identified them with the rooms out of her own experience that they most closely resembled. thus the rec-hall became "the banquet hall," the supply room became "the kitchen," the control room became "the sorcerer's tower," the tourist compartments became "the sleeping tower," mallory's bedroom-office became "the lord's quarters," the lavatory became "the chapel," and the generator room became "the dungeon." only two things disconcerted her: the absence of servants and the fact that easy money was stabled in the banquet hall. mallory got around the first by telling her that he had given the servants a leave of absence, and she herself got around the second by declaring it to be no more than fitting for such a splendid steed to be accorded special treatment. certainly, mallory reflected, she was nothing if she was not co-operative. after showing her around he wasted no time in getting down to the business on hand, and stepping into the control room, he punched out the data necessary to take the _yore_ back to 7:15 p.m. of the same day, and to re-materialize it one half mile west of its present position, as an overlap was bound to occur. there was a barely noticeable tremor as the transition took place, and simultaneously the darkness showing on the control-room telewindow transmuted to dusk. turning away from the jump board, he saw rowena regarding him with large eyes from the doorway. "we're now back to a point in time that precedes the theft of the sangraal," he told her, "and we're relocated farther down the valley. but don't let it throw you. none other than merlin himself built the magic apparatus you see before you in this room, and you know yourself that once he makes up his mind to it, merlin can do anything." she blinked once, but evinced no other signs of surprise. "yea, fair sir," she said, "i am ware of the magic of merlin." "however," mallory went on, "magic such as this isn't something for a gentlewoman such as yourself to fool around with, so i must forbid you to enter this room during my absence from the castle. also, while we're on the subject, i must also forbid you to leave the castle during my absence. merlin would be upset no end if there were two damosels that hight rowena gallivanting around the countryside at the same time." she blinked again. "by my troth, fair sir," she said, "i would lever die than disobey thy two commands." and then, "have ye ate any meat late?" this time, mallory blinked, "meat?" "it is fitting that ye should eat meat afore ye ride out." "oh, you mean food. i'll eat when i get back. but there's no need for you to wait." he took her into the supply room and showed her where the vacuum tins were stored. "you open them like this," he explained, pulling one out and activating the desealer. "then, as soon as the contents cool off a little, you sit down to dinner." "but this be not meat," she objected. "maybe not, but it's a good substitute, and a lot better for you." a thought struck him, and he took her into the lavatory and showed her how to operate the hot and cold-water dispenser, ascribing the setup to more of merlin's magic. he debated on whether to explain the function and purpose of the adjacent shower, decided not to. there was a limit to all things, and an apparatus for washing one's whole body was simply too farfetched for anyone living in the sixth-century to take seriously. back in the rec-hall, he donned his helmet and gauntlets, reset the gauntlet timepiece, picked up his spear and encephalopathed easy money to his side. mounting, he set the spear in the stirrup socket. rowena gazed up at him, plum-blue eyes round with awe and admiration--and concern. "wit ye well, fair sir," she said, "that sir launcelot, the which is thy father, is a knight of many victories, and therefore ye must take care." mallory grinned. "dismay you not, fair damsel, i'll smite him from his steed before he can say 'queen guinevere'." he straightened his sword belt, activated the _yore's_ lock, and rode across the mirage-moat and entered the forest. the "portcullis" closed behind him. * * * * * dusk had become darkness by the time he reached the highway. approximately half an hour later he would reach the highway again. however, the seeming paradox did not disconcert him in the least: this was far from being the first time he had backtracked himself on a job. [illustration] as "before," he spurned the shadows of the bordering oaks and beeches and encephalopathed easy money to keep to the center of the lane. and, as "before," no one was abroad. probably king pelles' wassail was already in progress, or, if not, the goodly knights and gentlewomen were still at evensong. in any event, he reached the lane that led to the castle of carbonek without mishap. after entering the lane, he encephalopathed easy money into the concealment of the shadows of the bordering trees and settled back in the saddle to wait. rowena's placing the time of the theft at "a little while afore eight of the clock" had been a general estimate at best; hence he had allowed himself plenty of leeway and had arrived on the scene a little early. it was well that he had, for hardly a minute passed before he heard hoofbeats approaching from the south, and presently he saw a tall knight astride a resplendent steed turn into the lane. his armor gleamed in the moonlight and bespoke a quality and class that only a knight of sir launcelot's status would be able to afford. mallory watched him ride down the lane to the lion-flanked entrance and heard him announce himself as "sir launcelot". the portcullis was raised without delay, and the knight rode through the gateway and disappeared from view. mallory frowned in the darkness. something about the incident had failed to jibe. he thought back, but he could isolate nothing that, in retrospect anyway, seemed in the least incongruous. he tried again, with the same result, and at length he concluded that the note of discord had originated in his imagination. again, he settled back to wait. he wasn't particularly worried about the outcome of the forthcoming encounter--the superiority of the weapons and armor should be more than enough to see him through--but just the same he wished there was some way to avoid it. there wasn't, of course. sir launcelot's theft of the sangraal was already incorporated in fact, and, as a _fait accompli_, could not be obviated by a previous theft. all mallory could do was to make his move after the _fait acccompli_ in the hope that that was when he _had_ made his move. a time-thief didn't have nearly as much leeway as his seeming freedom of movement might lead the uninitiated to believe. about all he could do was to play along with destiny and await his opportunities. if destiny smiled, he succeeded; if destiny frowned, he did not. however, mallory was optimistic about his forthcoming bid for the grail, for if it wasn't in the books for him to wrest the cup from sir launcelot, the chances were he wouldn't have gotten as far as he had. he estimated that it would take the man five minutes to enter the castle, proceed to the chamber, seize the sangraal, return to the courtyard and come riding back to the portcullis. seven minutes proved to be nearer the mark. in response to a hail from within the wall, several of the warders bent to the windlass, whereupon the portcullis scraped and groaned aloft, and the tall knight came riding out just as the hands of mallory's timepiece registered 7:43 p.m. mallory let him pass, straining his eyes in vain for a glimpse of the sangraal. he waited till sir launcelot was half a hundred yards down the highway before he encephalopathed easy money to follow, and he waited till a bend in the road hid the castle of carbonek from view before encephalopathing the command to charge. at this point, sir launcelot became aware that he was no longer alone, and wheeled his steed around. without an instant's hesitation, he dressed his spear and launched a counter-charge. all mallory could think of was a twentieth-century steam locomotive bearing down upon him. he swallowed grimly, "aventred" his own spear, and upped easy money's pace. two could play at being locomotives. the approaching knight and steed loomed larger; the sound of hoofbeats crescendoed into staccato thunder. the spear pointing straight toward mallory's breastplate had something of the aspect of a jet-propelled flagpole. hurriedly, he got his shield into position. maybe the man would spot the red cross, realize its significance, and slow down. if he spotted it, he gave no sign, and only came the faster. mallory braced himself for the forthcoming impact. however, the impact never occurred. at the last moment his antagonist directed the spearpoint at mallory's helmet, did something that made it separate itself from the shaft to the accompaniment of a gout of incandescence and come streaking through the air like a little comet. mallory tried to dodge, but he would have been equally as successful if he had tried to dodge a real comet. there was a deafening _clang!_ in the region of his left audio-amplifier, and the whole left side of his face went numb. just before he blacked out he saw the oncoming knight veer his steed, wheel it around, and ride off. a peal of all-too-familiar laughter drifted back over the man's shoulder. * * * * * "now," said the rent-a-robogogue, "you will try again: 'a' is for 'atom', 'b' is for 'bomb', 'c' is for 'conform', 'd' is for 'dollar', 'e' is for 'economy', and 'f' is for 'fun'. what comes after 'f'?" the boy mallory squirmed in his abc chair. "i don't know what comes next and i don't care!" "i'll box your ears," the rent-a-robogogue threatened. "you wouldn't dare!" "yes i would--i'm a physical-chastisement model, you know. now, we'll try once more: 'a' is for 'atom', 'b' is for 'bomb', 'c' is for 'conform', 'd' is for 'dollar', 'e' is for 'economy', and 'f' is for 'fun'. what comes after 'f'?" "i told you that i didn't know and that i didn't care!" "i warned you," said the rent-a-robogogue. "ow!" the boy mallory cried. "ow!" the man mallory groaned, sitting up in the weeds beside the early sixth-century highway. all was silence around him, if you discounted the stridulations of insects and the _be-ke korak-korak-korak_ of frogs. a few yards away, easy money stood immobile in the moonlight. mallory raised his hand to his helmet and felt the sizable dent that the spearpoint had made. gingerly, he took the helmet off. who in the world would have dreamed that they had jet-rifles in this day and age! the absurdity of the thought snapped him back to full awareness. a moment later he remembered the peal of familiar laughter. perfidion! the man must have wanted the grail desperately to have come after it himself, which meant that it was probably worth much more than he had let on. but how had he known when and where to essay the lift? more specifically, how had he found out when and where to essay the lift on such short notice? mallory thought back. he was reasonably certain that he had made no slips of the tongue during his visit to the perfidion tower and during the ensuing game of golp, and he was equally certain that he had let fall no revealing references to the place-time he had so carefully pinpointed. where, then, had he gone astray? suddenly, way back in his mind, perfidion said, "by the way, tom, i take it you're all set as regards costume, equipment and the like." "i've got the sweetest little suit of armor you ever laid eyes on," mallory heard himself answer. he swore. so that was it! all perfidion had needed to do was to make the rounds of the costumers who specialized in armor, and to shell out a few kennedees to the one mallory had patronized last. then, in possession of the knowledge that mallory was embarking into the past as sir galahad, all perfidion had had to do was to consult one of the many experts he kept at his beck and call. the expert had undoubtedly told him where sir galahad was supposed to have found the grail before taking it to sarras, and, equally as important, approximately when the event was supposed to have taken place. further questions could not have failed to elicit the additional information that sir launcelot had come to the chamber of the sangraal before sir galahad had, and from this perfidion had undoubtedly deduced that sir launcelot could very well have been a time-thief in disguise, too, and that the man, having arrived on the scene first, could very well have been responsible for the grail's so-called return to heaven, despite what legend said to the contrary. certainly it had been a gamble worth taking, and obviously perfidion had taken it. and won the jackpot. but that didn't mean he was going to keep the jackpot. not by a long shot. mallory encephalopathed easy money to his side and pulled himself to his feet with the help of the left stirrup and hung his helmet on the pommel. then he picked up his spear and clambered into the saddle. "we're not beat yet, easy money," he said. _giddy-ap!_ easy money whinnied, stamped its feet, and started back toward the _yore_. a short while later they passed the lane that led to the castle of carbonek. presently mallory heard the _clip-clop_ of approaching hoofbeats, and not wanting to risk an encounter in his weakened condition, he encephalo-guided the rohorse off the highway and into the deep shadows of a big oak. there was something tantalizingly familiar about the horse and rider coming down the highway. small wonder: the "horse" was easy money and the rider was himself. he was on his way to the castle of carbonek to lift the holy grail. mallory gazed after his retreating figure disgustedly. "sucker!" he said. iv rowena nearly threw a fit when mallory rode into the rec-hall. "oh, fair knight, ye be sorely wounded indeed!" she cried, helping him down from his rohorse. "certes, an ye bleed so much ye may die!" mallory's head was throbbing, and he saw two damosels that hight rowena instead of only one. "i'll be all right after i lie down for a while," he said. "and don't worry about the bleeding--it's almost stopped." he took a step in the direction of his bedroom office, staggered and would have fallen if she hadn't caught his arm. her strength astonished him: for all the lightness of his armor, it still lent him an over-all weight of some two hundred and ten pounds; and yet the shoulder which she provided for him to lean on did not give once all the way to his bedside. she had his pauldrons, breastplate, and arm-coverings off in no time flat. his cuisses, greaves, and sollerets followed. the last he remembered was lying there in his under garments and his chain-mail vest with three faces swimming in the misted sea of his vision, each of them invested with the peculiar beauty that concern, and concern alone, can grant. "how is mammakin's little man now?" the rent-a-mammakin asked, applying soothing sedasalve to the boy mallory's swollen ear. "he hit me, mammakin," the boy mallory sobbed. "just because i wouldn't tell him that 'g' stands for 'geography'. i hate geography! i hate it, hate it, hate it!" "nasty old rent-a-robogogue! mammakin sent him away. he was an old model that got rented out by mistake. is mammakin's little man's ear all right now?" the boy mallory sat up. "i want my real--" he began. the man mallory sat up. "i want my real--" he began. "i have great joy of thy swift recovery, fair sir," rowena said. she was perched on the edge of his bed, applying a cool and soothing ointment to his ear. on the table by the bed lay a basin of water, and on her lap lay a pink tube. he grabbed the tube, looked at the label. _sedasalve_. he sighed with relief. "where did you find it?" he asked. "la! fair sir, when ye did seem no longer on live i did run both toward and forward in the castle seeking a magical salve whereby i might succor ye, whereupon i did come to a white box in the chapel wherein lay many magical tubes of diverse colors and natures whereof i did choose one and--" mallory was incredulous. "you chose a tube at random?" he demanded. "good lord, it might have contained a counteragent that could have killed me!" "the ... the letters thereon seemed of a magical nature, fair knight. and ... and the color was seemly." "well anyway it was the right one." he looked at her. could she read? he wondered. he was tempted to ask her, but refrained for fear of embarrassing her. "in that same white box," he said, "you will find a big bottle filled with round red pellets. would you get it for me?" when she returned with it, he took two of the pills, then he laid his head back on the pillow. "they'll restore the blood i lost," he explained, "but in order for them to do the job properly i've got to lie perfectly still for at least one hour." she sat down on the edge of the bed. "marry! the magic of merlin is marvelous, albeit not as marvelous as the magic of joseph of arimathea." "what did he do that was so marvelous?" the plum-blue eyes were fixed full upon his face. "ye wit naught of the tale of the white shield ye bear, fair sir? list, and i will tell ye: "it befell after the passion of our lord thirty-two year, that joseph of arimathea, the gentle knight, the which took down our lord off the holy cross, at that time departed from jerusalem with a great party of his kindred with him. and so he labored till that they came to a city that hight sarras. and at that same hour that joseph came to sarras there was a king that hight evelake, that had great war against the saracens, and in especially against one saracen, the which was king evelake's cousin, a rich king and a mighty, which marched nigh this land, and his name was called tolleme la feintes. so on a day these two met to do battle. then joseph, the son of joseph of arimathea, went to king evelake and told him he should be discomfit and slain, but if he left his belief of the old law and believed upon the new law. and then there he showed him the right belief of the holy trinity, to the which he agreed unto with all his heart; and there this shield was made for king evelake, in the name of him that died upon the cross. and then--" "hold it a minute," mallory said. "this shield you've finally got around to mentioning--is it the same one you set out to tell me about?" "wit ye well, fair sir. and then through king evelake's good belief he had the better of king tolleme. for when evelake was in the battle there was a cloth set afore the shield, and when he was in the greatest peril he left put away the cloth, and then his enemies saw a figure of a man on the cross, wherethrough they all were discomfit. and so it befell that a man of king evelake's was smitten his hand off, and bare that hand in his other hand; and joseph called that man unto him and bade him go with good devotion touch the cross. and as soon as that man had touched the cross with his hand it was as whole as ever it was tofore. then soon after there fell a great marvel, that the cross of the shield at one time vanished away that no man wist where it became. and then king evelake was baptized, and for the most part all the people of that city. so, soon after joseph would depart, and king evelake would go with him whether he would or nold. and so by fortune they came into this land, that at that time was called great britain: and there they found a great felon paynim, that put joseph into prison. and so--" "a great _what_?" mallory asked. in one sense the story was familiar to him, but what bothered him was the fact that it was familiar in another sense too--a sense he couldn't put his finger on. "a wicked unbeliever in our lord. and so by fortune tidings came unto a worthy man that hight mondrames, and he assembled all his people for the great renown he had heard of joseph; and so he came into the land of great britain and disinherited this felon paynim and consumed him; and therewith delivered joseph out of prison. and after that all the people were turned to the christian faith. "not long after that joseph was laid in his deadly bed. and when king evelake say that he made much sorrow, and said: for thy love i have left my country, and sith ye shall depart out of this world, leave me some token of yours that i may think on you. joseph said: that will i do full gladly; now bring me your shield that i took you when ye went into battle against king tolleme. then joseph bled at the nose, so that he might not by no means be staunched. and there upon that shield he made a cross of his own blood. now may ye see a remembrance that i love you, for ye shall never see this shield but ye shall think on me, and it shall be always as fresh as it is now. and never shall man bear this shield about his neck but he shall repent it, unto the time that galahad, the good knight, bare it; and the last of my lineage shall have it about his neck, that shall do many marvelous deeds. now, said king evelake, where shall i put this shield, that this worthy knight may have it? ye shall leave it there as nacien, the hermit, shall be put after his death; for thither shall that good knight come the fifteenth day after that he shall receive the order of knighthood: and so...." * * * * * when mallory awoke, rowena's head was resting on his chest, and she was breathing the soft and even breaths of untroubled sleep. her hair, viewed thus closely, was not as dark as he had at first believed it to be. it was brown, really, rather than dark-brown. and astonishingly lustrous. without thinking, he rested his hand lightly upon her head. she stirred then, and sat up, rubbing her plum-blue eyes. for a moment she stared at him uncomprehendingly, then, "prithee forgive me, fair sir," she said. mallory sat up, too. "forgive you for what? go open a couple of vacuum tins while i get into my armor--i'm going to bring this caper to a close." "thy ... thy strength has returned?" "i never felt better in my life." in the rec-hall he said, sitting down at the table before one of the two vacuum tins she had opened, "you never did ask me what happened." "ye will tell me of thy own will an ye wish me to know." mallory took a mouthful of simulsteak, chewed and swallowed. "your sir launcelot turned out to be a phony, and pulled a rabbit out of his helmet the nature of which i'd better not try to describe to you." eyes round as plums, she regarded him across the table. "a ... a phony, fair sir?" mallory nodded. "that's a sort of felon paynim who plays golp." "but with my own eyes i did see his armor, fair knight." "that's right--you saw his armor. but you didn't see him. a certain character by the name of perfidion was residing behind that hardware--not the good sir launcelot." "perfidion?" mallory grinned. "sir jason perfidion--a knight errant ye wit not of. but the tournament's not over yet, and this time _i've_ got the rabbit: he thinks i'm dead." "he ... he left ye for dead, fair sir?" "that he did, and if that little brain-buster of his had struck just one inch to the right, i'd have been just that." he shoved his empty vacuum tin away and stood up. "excuse me a minute--i've got to visit the sorcerer's tower again." in the control room, he took the _yore_ back to 7:20 p.m. of the same day and re-materialized it half a mile farther down the valley. turning, he saw that rowena had followed him and was watching him from the doorway. "whereabouts may i find oats that i may feed thy horse, fair knight?" she asked. "easy money doesn't eat. he--" mallory paused astonished as two of the largest tears he had ever seen coalesced in her eyes and went tumbling down her cheeks. "oh, it's not that he's sick," he rushed on. "it's just that horses like him don't require food to keep them going. why, easy money's guaranteed for ... he'll live another thirty years." the sun came up beyond the plum-blue horizons of her eyes. "it pleaseth me mickle to hear ye speak thus, fair knight. i ... i have great joy of him." back in the rec-hall, mallory pulled on his gauntlets, reset his timepiece, and donned his helmet. the left audio-amplifier was shot, but otherwise the piece was in good condition--aside from the dent, of course. he encephalopathed easy money to his side, hung his shield around his neck, and mounted. "hand me my spear, will you, rowena?" he asked. she did so. "ye be a most noble knight indeed, fair sir," she said, "for to set so little store by thine own life in the service of a damosel the which is undeserving of thy deeds. i ... i would lever that ye forsook the sangraal than that ye be fordone." her concern touched him, and he removed his helmet and leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. "keep the home fires burning," he said; then, setting his helmet back in place, he activated the lock, rode across the mirage-moat, and set forth into the forest once again. v this time when he reached the crest of the ridge that separated the two valleys, mallory took an azimuth on the towers of carbonek, encephalo-fed the direction to easy money, and programmed the "animal" to proceed in as straight a course as possible. in the east, the moon was just beginning to rise; in the west, traces of the sunset lingered blood-red just above the horizon. on the highway below, a knight sitting astride a brown rohorse and bearing a white shield with a red cross in the center was riding toward carbonek to challenge a twenty-second century "felon paynim" in imitation age-of-chivalry armor. in the valley mallory had just left behind him there were two castles named _yore_, and soon, a third would pop into existence and yet another mallory come riding out. mallory grinned. it was a little bit like playing chess. the forest which easy money presently entered was parklike in places, and sometimes the trees thinned out into wide, moonlit meadows. crossing one of the meadows, mallory saw the first star, and when at length easy money emerged on the highway, the heavens were decked out in typical midsummer panoply. the rohorse had followed its programming almost perfectly and had emerged at a point just south of the lane leading to the castle of carbonek. all mallory had to do was to encephalo-guide it farther down the highway to a point beyond the site of the forthcoming joust. while doing so, he kept well within the concealing shadows of the bordering oaks and beeches where the ground was soft and could give forth no telltale _clip-clop_ of hoofbeats. his circumspection proved wise--as in one sense, of course, it already had--and when the false sir launcelot came riding by on his way to the castle and the chamber of the sangraal, he was no more aware of mallory iii's presence by the roadside than he would presently be aware of mallory ii's presence in the shadows of the trees that bordered the lane. mallory iii grinned again and brought easy money to a halt just beyond the next bend. "wit ye well, sir jason, that thy hours be numbered," he said. he remained seated in the saddle, feeling pretty good about the world. in no time at all, if his one-man ambuscade came off, he would be on his way back to the _yore_, and thence to the twenty-second century and a haircut. selling the sangraal without the aid of a professional time-fence like perfidion would be difficult, of course, but it could be done, and once it was done, he, mallory, could take his place on get-rich-quick street with the best of them, and no questions would be asked. there was, to be sure, the problem of what to do about a certain damosel that hight rowena, but he would face that when he came to it. maybe he could drop her off a dozen years in the future in a region far enough removed from carbonek to ensure her safety. he would see. [illustration] at this point in his reflections he was jolted into alertness by the sound of approaching hoofbeats. a moment later he heard a second set of hoofbeats and knew that mallory ii had made his presence known. presently both sets crescendoed into staccato thunder as the two "knights" came pounding toward each other, and not long afterward there was a clank and a clatter as mallory ii went tumbling out of his saddle and into the roadside weeds. finally the single set of hoofbeats took over again, and mallory iii saw a horse and rider coming around the bend in the highway. he braced himself. before making his play, he waited till horse and rider were directly opposite him; then he encephalopathed easy money to charge. "sir launcelot" managed to get his shield up in time, but the maneuver did him no good. mallory's spearhead struck the shield dead center, and "sir launcelot" went sailing out of his saddle to land with an awesome clatter flat on his back on the highway. he did not get up. dismounting, mallory removed the man's helmet. it was perfidion all right. there was a large bruise on the side of his head and he was out cold, but he was still breathing. next, mallory looked for the sangraal. perfidion had concealed it somewhere, and apparently he had done the job well. since the armor could not have accommodated an object of that size, the hiding place had to be somewhere on the body of his horse. the horse was standing quietly beside easy money in the middle of the highway. it was jet-black and its fetlock-length trappings were blue, threaded with silver; otherwise, the two steeds were identical. mallory tumbled to the truth then, went over to where the black "horse" was standing, raised its trappings, found the tiny activator button, and depressed it. the croup-hood rose up, and there in the secret compartment, wrapped in red samite, lay the cause of the mounting absentee-rate in king arthur's court. always the skeptic, mallory raised a corner of the samite in order to make certain that he was not being cheated. instantly, a reflected ray of moonlight stabbed upward into his eyes, and for a moment he was blinded. exorcising the thought that sneaked into his mind, he closed the croup-hood, rearranged the trappings, and returned to perfidion's side. dragging the armor-encumbered man over to the black rohorse and slinging him over the saddle was no easy matter, but mallory managed; then he picked up perfidion's helmet and spear and set the former on the pommel and wedged the latter in one of the stirrups. finally he mounted easy money and, encephalopathing the black rohorse to follow, set out down the highway away from the castle of carbonek. make-believe castles could fool the hadbeens, but they couldn't fool a professional. he spotted the phony towers of perfidion's tsb rising above the trees before he had proceeded half a mile. after raising the "portcullis", he got the man down from the black rohorse, dragged him inside, and propped him against the rec-hall bar. then he got the man's helmet and spear and laid them beside him. after considerable reflection, he went into the control room, set the time-dial for june 10, 1964, the space-dial for a busy intersection in downtown los angeles, and punched out h-o-t-d-o-g s-t-a-n-d on the lumillusion panel. satisfied, he went into the generator room and short-circuited the automatic throw-out unit so that when rematerialization took place, the generator would burn up. finding a ball of heavy-duty twine, he returned to the control room, tied one end to the master switch, and began backing out of the tsb, unwinding the twine as he went. in the rec-hall, he paused, and grinned down at the still-unconscious perfidion. "it's a better break than you meant to give me, jason," he said. "and don't worry--once you explain to the authorities what you're doing in a suit of sixth-century armor and how you happened to open a giant hot-dog stand in the middle of a traffic-clogged crossroads, you'll be all right. as a matter of fact, with your knowledge of things to come, you'll probably wind up a richer man than you are now--if the smog doesn't get you first." he stepped through the lock, jerked the twine, and the "castle" vanished into thin air. remounting easy money and encephalopathing the black rohorse to follow, he started back toward the _yore_, taking a direct route through the forest. he was halfway to his destination and had just emerged into a wide meadow when he saw the knight with the white shield riding toward him in the bright moonlight. in the center of the shield there was a vivid blood-red cross. when the knight saw mallory, he brought his steed to a halt. moonlight glimmered eerily on his shield, turned his helmet to silver. his armor seemed to emit an unearthly light--a light that was at once terrifying and transcendent. the hilt of his sword was as blood-red as the cross on his shield; so was the pommel of his spear. here was righteousness incarnate. here in the form of an armored man on horseback was the quintessence of the age of chivalry--not the age of chivalry as exemplified by the vain and boasting nobles who had constituted nine-tenths of the knight-errantry profession and who had used the quest of the holy grail as an excuse to seek after mead and maidens, but the age of chivalry as it might have been if the ideal behind it had been shared by the many instead of by the few; the age of chivalry, in short, as it had come down to posterity through the pages of malory's _le morte d'arthur_. at length the knight spoke: "i hight sir galahad of the table round." reluctantly, mallory encephalopathed his two rohorses to halt, and said the only thing he had left to say: "i hight sir thomas of the castle _yore_." "by whose leave bear ye likenesses of the red arms and the white shield whereon shines the red cross the which was put there by joseph of arimathea whilst he lay dying in his deadly bed?" mallory did not answer. there was silence. then, "i would joust with ye," sir galahad said. there it was, laid right on the line. the challenge-the death sentence. nonsense! mallory told himself. he's nothing but a nineteen-year old kid. with your rohorse and your superior weapons you can unseat him in two seconds flat, and once he's down, that glorified junk pile he's wearing will glue him to the ground so fast he won't be able to lift a finger! aloud, he said, "have at me then!" instantly, sir galahad wheeled his horse around and rode to the far side of the meadow. there, he wheeled the horse around again and dressed his spear. moonlight danced a silvery saraband on his white shield, and the blood-red cross blurred and seemed to run. mallory dressed his own spear. immediately, sir galahad charged. _full speed ahead, easy money!_ mallory encephalopathed, and the rohorse took off like a rocket. all he had to do was to hang on tight, and the joust would be in the bag, he reassured himself. sir galahad's spear would break like a matchstick, while his own superior spear would penetrate sir galahad's shield as though the shield was made of tissue paper, as in a sense it really was when you compared the metal that constituted it to modern alloys. no matter how you looked at the situation, the kid was in for a big letdown. mallory almost felt sorry for him. the hoofbeats of horse and rohorse crescendoed; there was the resounding clang! of steel coming into violent contact with steel. mallory's spear struck sir galahad's shield dead center--and snapped in two. sir galahad's spear struck mallory's shield dead center--and mallory sailed over easy money's croup and crashed to the ground. he was stunned, both mentally and physically. staggering to his feet, he drew his sword and raised his shield. sir galahad had wheeled his horse around, and now he came riding back. several yards from mallory, he tossed his spear aside, dismounted as lightly as though he wore no armor at all, drew his sword, and advanced. mallory stepped forward, his confidence returning. his spear had been defective--that was it. but his sword and his shield weren't, and now that the kid had elected to give him a sporting chance, he would teach the young upstart a lesson that he would never forget. again, the two men came together. down came sir galahad's sixth century sword; up went mallory's twenty-second century shield. there was an ear-piercing _clang_, and the shield parted down the middle. aghast, mallory stepped back. sir galahad moved in, sword upraised again. mallory raised his own sword, caught the full force of the terrific down-rushing blow on the blade. his sword was cut cleanly in two, his left pauldron was cleanly cleaved, and a great numbness afflicted his left shoulder. he went down. he stayed down. sir galahad leaned over him, unbroken sword uplifted. the cross in the center of the snow-white shield was a bright and burning red. "ye must yield you as an overcome man, or else i may slay you." "i yield," mallory said. sir galahad sheathed his sword. "ye be not sorely wounded, and sithen i desire not neither of they two steeds, as belike they be as unworthy as they pieces, ye can return to thy castle unholpen." * * * * * mallory blacked out for a moment, and when he came to, the shining knight was gone. he lay there in the moonlight for some time, looking up at the stars. at length he fought his way to his feet and encephalopathed the two rohorses to his side. mounting easy money, he encephalopathed it to return to the westernmost "castle of yore" and encephalopathed the other rohorse to follow. he left his broken weapons where they lay. what had gone out of the world during the last sixteen hundred years that had left sophisticated twenty-second century steel inferior in quality to naã¯ve sixth-century wrought iron? what did sir galahad have that he, mallory, lacked? mallory shook his head. he did not know. the moonlit "towers" of the _yore_ had become visible through the trees before it occurred to him that before riding away the man just might have removed the sangraal from the black rohorse's croup. at first thought, such a possibility was too absurd to be entertained, but not on second thought. according to _le morte d'arthur_, the fellowship of sir galahad, sir percivale, and sir bors had taken both the table of silver and the sangraal to sarras where, some time later, the sangraal had been "borne up to heaven", never to be seen again. whether they had taken the table of silver did not concern mallory, but what did concern him was the fact that if they had taken the sangraal they could have done so only if it had fallen into sir galahad's hands this very night. tomorrow would be too late--now was too late, in fact--provided, of course, that mallory was destined to return with it to the twenty-second century. here, then, was the crossroads, the real moment of truth: was he destined to succeed, or wasn't he? hurriedly, he encephalopathed the two rohorses to halt, dismounted, and raised the black rohorse's trappings. he was dizzy from the loss of blood, but he did not let his dizziness dissuade him from his purpose, and he had the croup-hood raised in a matter of a few seconds. he held his breath when he looked within, expelled it with relief. the sangraal had not been disturbed. he lifted it out of the croup-compartment, straightened its red samite covering, and cradled it in his arms. too weak to remount easy money, he encephalopathed the two rohorses to follow and began walking toward the _yore_. rowena must have seen him coming on one of the telewindows, for she had the lock open when he arrived. her face went white when she looked at him, and when she saw the grail, her eyes grew even larger than plums. he went over and set it gently down on the rec-hall table, then he collapsed into a nearby chair. he had just enough presence of mind left to send her for the bottle of blood-restorer pills, and just enough strength left to swallow several of them when she brought it. then he boarded the phantom ship that had mysteriously appeared beside him and set sail upon the soundless sea of night. vi "no," said the rent-a-mammakin, "you cannot see her. she is displeased with your score in the get-rich-quick race." "i did my best," the boy mallory sobbed. "but when it came to stepping on all those faces, i just couldn't do it!" the rent-a-mammakin arranged its features into a severe frown and strengthened its grip on the boy mallory's arm. "you knew that they were only painted on the game floor to symbolize the competitive spirit," it said. "why couldn't you step on them?" the boy mallory made a final desperate effort to gain the bedroom door which his mother had just slammed and before which the rent-a-mammakin stood, then he sank defeated to the floor. "i don't know why--i just couldn't, that's all," he sobbed. he raised his voice. "but i _will_ step on them! i'll step on real faces too--just you wait and see. i'll be a bigger get-rich-quickman than my father ever dreamed of being. i'll show her!" "i'll show her," the man mallory murmured, "just you wait and see." he opened his eyes. save for himself, the bedroom-office was empty. "rowena?" no answer. he raised his voice. "rowena!" again, no answer. he frowned. the door to the bedroom-office was open, and the "castle" certainly wasn't so large that his voice couldn't carry from one end of it to the other. his shoulder throbbed faintly, but otherwise he was unaware of his wound. rowena had bound it neatly--it was said that age-of-chivalry gentlewomen were quite proficient in such matters--and apparently she had once again got hold of the right counteragent. he sat up and swung his feet to the floor. so far, so good. tentatively, he stood up. a wave of vertigo broke over him. after it passed, he was as good as new. the blood-restorer pills had done their work well. nevertheless, everything was not as it should be. something was very definitely wrong. "rowena!" he called again. still no answer. she had removed his armor and piled it neatly at the foot of the bed. he stared at the various pieces, trying desperately to think. something had awakened him--that was it. the slamming of a door ... or a lock. he look a deep breath. he smelled green things. dampness. a forest at eventide.... he knew then what was wrong. the lock of the _yore_ had been opened and had been left open long enough for the evening air to permeate the interior of the tsb; long enough, in other words, to have permitted someone to ride across the imaginary drawbridge that spanned the mirage-moat. afterward, the lock had slammed back into place of its own accord. he hurried into the rec-hall. easy money stood all alone behind the tourist-bar. the black rohorse was gone. his eyes leaped to the rec-hall table. the sangraal was gone, too. he groaned. the little idiot was taking it back! and after he had forbidden her to leave the "castle" too! well no, he hadn't forbidden her exactly: he had forbidden her to leave it _during his absence_. he walked over to the telewindow nearest the lock and scrutinized the screen. she was nowhere in sight, but night was on hand and the range of his vision, while considerably abetted by the light of the rising moon, was limited to the nearer trees. presently he frowned. was it still the same night, or had he been unconscious for almost twenty-four hours? it _couldn't_ be the same night--the position of the moon disproved that. and yet he could swear that he had been unconscious for no more than a few hours. * * * * * belatedly, he remembered his gauntlet timepiece, and returned to the bedroom-office. the timepiece registered 10:32. but that didn't make any sense either: the moon was still low in the sky. he knew then that there could be but one answer, and he headed for the control room posthaste. sure enough, the jump-board time-dial had been set for 8:00 p.m. of the same day. he looked at the space-dial. that had been set to re-materialize the _yore_ one half mile farther west. he wiped his forehead. good lord, she might have sent the tsb all the way back to the age of reptiles! even worse, she might have plunked it right down in the middle of wwiii! she hadn't, though. in point of fact, she had done exactly what she had set out to do--taken the _yore_ back to a point in time from which the sangraal could be returned to the castle of carbonek less than an hour after it had been stolen. suddenly he remembered how she had watched him from the doorway of the control room each time he had reset the time and space-dials. technologically speaking, she was little more than a child, but jump-boards were as uncomplicated as modern technology could make them, and a person needed to be but little more than a child to operate them. grimly, mallory returned to his bedroom-office and got into his armor; then, ignoring the throbbing of his reawakened wound, he mounted easy money and set out. he had no weapons, but it could not be helped. with a little luck, he would have need of none. he was about due for a little luck, if you asked him. he gambled that rowena would use the same route back to the chamber of the sangraal that they had used in leaving it--actually, she had no other choice--and he encephalo-guided easy money at a fast trot in the direction of the river in the hope of overtaking her before she reached the entrance to the subterranean passage. however, the hope did not materialize, and he saw no sign of her till he reached the entrance himself. strictly speaking, he saw no sign of her then either, but he did discern several dislodged stones that could have been thrown up by the black rohorse's hoofs. [illustration] entering the passage, he frowned. until that moment, the incongruity of a sixth-century damosel encephalo-guiding a twenty-second century rohorse had not struck him. after a moment, though, he had to admit that the incongruity was not as glaring as it had at first seemed. "encephalopathing" was merely a glorified term for "thinking," and rowena, shortly after mounting perfidion's steed, must have made the discovery that she had only to think where she wanted to go in order for the rohorse to take her there. he had not remembered to bring a light, nor did he need one. the infra-red rays of easy money's eye units were more than sufficient for the task on hand, and overtaking the girl would have been as easy as rolling off a log--if she hadn't been riding a rohorse, too. overtaking her wasn't of paramount importance anyway: he could confiscate the sangraal after she returned it just as easily as he could before. the odd part about the whole thing was that mallory never once thought of the inevitable overlap till he saw the flicker of torchlight up ahead. an instant later he heard the sound of a woman's voice, and instinctively he encephalo-guided easy money into a nearby shallow cave. * * * * * [illustration] the flickering light grew gradually brighter, and presently hoofbeats became audible. the woman's voice was loud and clear now, and mallory made out her words above the purling of the underground stream: "... and then he set down the maiden, and was armed at all pieces save he lacked his spear. then he dressed his shield, and drew out his sword, and bors smote him so hard that it went through his shield and habergeon on the left shoulder. and through great strength he beat him down to the earth, and at the pulling of bors' spear there he swooned. then came bors to the maid and said: how seemeth it to you of this knight ye be delivered at this time? now sir, said she, i pray you lead me there as this knight had me. so shall i do gladly: and took the horse of the wounded knight, and set the gentlewoman upon him, and so brought her as she desired. sir knight, said she, ye have better sped than ye weened, for an i had lost my maidenhead, five hundred men should have died for it. what knight was he that had you in the forest? by my faith, said she, he is my cousin. so wot i never with what engyn the fiend enchafed him, for yesterday he took me from my father privily: for i nor none of my father's men mistrusted him not, and if he had had my maidenhead he should have died for the sin, and his body shamed and dishonored for ever. thus as...." at this point, the truth behind the sense of _deja vu_ that mallory had experienced the first time he had heard the tale hit him so hard between the eyes that he jerked back his head. when he did so, his helmet came into contact with the cave wall and scraped against the stone. the rohorse and its two riders were directly across the stream now. "_shhh!_" mallory i whispered. rowena i gasped. "it were best that i thanked ye now for thy great kindness, fair knight," she said, "for anon we be no longer on live." "nonsense!" mallory i said. "if this fiend of yours is anywhere in the vicinity, he's probably more afraid of us than we are of him." "per ... peradventure he hath already had meat," rowena i said hopefully. "the tale saith that an the fiend be filled he becomes aweary and besets not them the which do pass him by in peace." "i'll keep my sword handy just in case he changes his mind," mallory i said. "meanwhile, get on with your autobiography--only for pete's sake, cut it short, will you?" "an it please, fair sir. thus as the fair gentlewoman stood talking with sir bors there came twelve knights seeking after her, and anon...." for a long while after the voices faded away, mallory iv could not move. hearing the story the second time and, more important, hearing it from the standpoint of an observer, he had been able to identify it for what it really was--an excerpt from _le morte d'arthur_. the joseph of arimathea bit had been an excerpt, too, he realized now, probably lifted word for word from the text. it was odd indeed that a sixth-century damosel who presumably couldn't read could be on such familiar terms with a book that would not be published for another nine hundred and forty-three years. but not so odd if she was a twenty-second century blonde in a sixth-century damosel's clothing. remembering perfidion's secretary, mallory felt sick. no, there was no noticeable resemblance between her and the damosel that hight rowena; but the removal of a girdle and a quarter of a pound of makeup, not to mention the application of a "lustre-rich" brown hair-dye and the insertion of a pair of plum-blue contact lenses, could very well have brought such a resemblance into being--and quite obviously had. the past police were noted for their impersonations, and most of them had eidetic memories. _come on, easy money_, mallory encephalopathed. _you and i have got a little score to settle._ * * * * * when he entered the chamber of the sangraal, rowena iv was arranging the red samite cover around the grail. she jumped when she saw him. "marry! fair sir, ye did startle me. methinketh ye be asleep in thy castle." "knock it off," mallory said. "the masquerade's over." she regarded him with round uncomprehending eyes. he got the impression that she had been crying. "the ... the masquerade, fair knight?" "that's right ... the masquerade. you're no more the damosel rowena than i'm the knight sir galahad." she lowered her eyes to his breastplate. "i ... i wot well ye be not sir galahad, fair sir. it ... it happed that aforetime i did see sir galahad with my own eyes, and when ye did unlace thy unberere and i did see thy face, i knew ye could not be him of which ye spake." abruptly she raised her head and looked at him defiantly. "but i knew from thy eyes that ye be most noble, fair sir, and therefore an ye did pretend to be him the which ye were not, ye did so for noble cause, and it were not for me to question." "i said knock it off," mallory said, but with considerable less conviction. "i'm onto you--don't you see? you're a time-fink." "a ... a time fink? i wot not what--" "an agent of the past police. one of those do-gooders who run around history replacing stolen goods and turning in hard-working people like myself. you gave yourself away when you lifted that sir bors bit straight out of _le morte d'arthur_ and--" "but i did say ye sooth, fair sir. sir bors did verily succor my maidenhead. i wot not how there can be two of ye and two of me and four hackneys when afore there were but two, and i wot not how by touching the magic board in thy castle in a certain fashion that i could make the hour earlier and i wot not how the magic steed i did bestride brought me hither--i wot not none of these matters, fair sir. i wot only that the magic of thy castle is marvelous indeed." for a while, mallory didn't say anything. he couldn't. in the plum-blue eyes fixed full upon his face, truth shone, and that same truth had invested her every word. the damosel rowena, despite all evidence to the contrary and despite the glaring paradox the admission gave rise to, was not a phony, never had been a phony, and never would be a phony. she was, as a matter of fact--with the exception of sir galahad--the only completely honest person he had known in all his life. "tell me," he said, at length, "weren't you afraid to come back through that passage alone? weren't you afraid the fiend would get you?" "la! fair sir--i had great fear. but it were not fitting that i bethought me of myself at such a time." she paused. then, "what might be thy true name, sir knight?" "mallory," mallory said. "thomas mallory." "i have great joy of thy acquaintance, sir thomas." mallory only half heard her. he was looking at the samite-covered sangraal. no more obstacles stood between him and his quest, and time was a-wasting. he started to take a step in the direction of the silver table. his foot did not leave the floor. * * * * * he was acutely aware of rowena's eyes. as a matter of fact, he could almost feel them upon his face. it wasn't that they were any different than they had been before: it was just that he was suddenly and painfully cognizant of the trust and the admiration that shone in them. despite himself, he had the feeling that he was standing in bright and blinding sunlight. again, he started to take a step in the direction of the silver table. again, his foot did not leave the floor. it wasn't so much the fact that she didn't believe he would take the sangraal that bothered him: it was the fact that she couldn't conceive of him taking it. she could be convinced that black was white, perhaps, and that white was black, and that fiends hung out in empty caves and castles; but she could never be convinced that a "knight" of the qualities she imputed to mallory could perform a dishonorable act. and there it was, laid right on the line. for all the good the grail was going to do mallory, it might just as well have been at the bottom of the mindanao deep. he sighed. his gamble hadn't paid off any more than perfidion's had. the real sir galahad was the one who had inherited the grail after all--not the false one. the false one grinned ruefully. "well," he told the damosel rowena, "it's been nice knowing you." he swallowed; for some reason his throat felt tight. "i ... i imagine you'll be all right now." to his amazement she broke into tears. "oh, sir thomas!" she cried. "in my great haste to return the sangraal to the chamber and to right the grievous wrong committed by the untrue knight sir jason, i did bewray my trust again. for when i espied ye and me and easy money in the passage i did suffer a great discomfit, and it so happed that when my steed did enter into a cave that the sangraal came free from my hands and ... and--" mallory was staring at her. "you _dropped_ it?" stepping over to the silver table, she lifted a corner of the red samite. the dent was not a deep one, but just the same you didn't have to look twice to see it. "i ... i nyst not what to do," she said. suddenly mallory remembered the first sound he had heard in the passage when he and rowena were leaving the castle of carbonek. "well how do you like that!" he said. he grinned. "i take it that this puts your hands in jeopardy all over again--right?" "yea, sir thomas, but i would lever die than beseech thee again to--" "which," mallory continued happily, "makes it out of the question for a knight such as myself to leave you behind." he took her arm. "come on," he said. "i don't know how i'm going to fit a sixth-century damosel into twenty-second century society, but believe me, i'm going to try!" "and ... and will ye take easy money to this land whereof ye speak, sir thomas?" "sir thomas" grinned. "wit ye well," he said, "and his buddy, too. come on." * * * * * in the _yore_, he tossed his helmet and gauntlets into a corner of the rec-hall and proceeded straight to the control room. there, with rowena standing at his elbow, he set the time-dial for june 21, 2178 and the space-dial for the kansas city time-tourist port. lord, it would be good to get home again and get a haircut! "here goes," he told rowena, and threw the switch. there was a faint tremor. "brace yourself, rowena," he said, and took her over to the control-room telewindow. [illustration] together, they gazed upon the screen. mallory gasped. the vista of spiral suburban dwellings which he had been expecting was not in the offing. in its stead was a green, tree-stippled countryside. in the distance, a castle was clearly discernible. he stared at it. it wasn't a sixth-century job like carbonek--it was much more modern. but it was still a castle. obviously, the jump-board had malfunctioned and thrown the _yore_ only a little ways into the future, the while leaving it in pretty much the same locale. he returned to the jump-board to find out. just as he reached it, its lights flickered and went out. the time and space-dials, however, remained illumined long enough for him to see when and where the tsb had re-materialized. the year was 1428 a.d.; the locale, warwickshire. mallory made tracks for the generator room. the generator was smoking, and the room reeked with the stench of shorted wires. he swore. perfidion! so that was why the man had broken with tradition and invited a common time-thief to a game of golp! if he had been anyone but perfidion he would have gimmicked the controls of the _yore_ so that mallory would have wound up directly in the fifteenth century sans sojourn in the sixth. but being perfidion, he had wanted mallory to know how completely he was being outsmarted. the chances were, though, that if the man had anticipated the near-coincidence of the two visits to the chamber of the sangraal he would have seen to it that mallory had never gotten a chance to use his sir galahad suit. returning to the control room, mallory saw that the lumillusion panel had been pre-programmed to materialize the _yore_ as a fifteenth-century english castle. apparently it had been in the books all along for him to become a fifteenth-century knight, just as it had been in the books all along for perfidion to become the proprietor of a misplaced hot-dog stand. mallory laughed. he had gotten the best of the bargain after all. at least there was no smog in the fifteenth century. who was he supposed to be? he wondered. had his name gone down in history by any chance? abruptly he gasped. was _he_ the sir thomas malory with estates in northampshire and warwickshire? was _he_ the sir thomas malory who had compiled and translated and written _le morte d'arthur_? almost nothing about the man's life was known, and probably the little that was known had been assumed. he _could_ have popped up from nowhere, made his fortune through foreknowledge, and been knighted. he _could_ have been a reformed time-thief stranded in the fifteenth century. but if he, mallory, was malory, how in the world was he going to get five hundred chapters of semi-historical data together and pass them off as _le morte d'arthur_? suddenly he understood everything. * * * * * going over to where rowena was still standing in front of the telewindow, he said, "i'll bet you know no end of stories about the doings of the knights of the table round." "la! sir thomas. ever i saw day of my life i have heard naught else in the court of my father." "tell me," mallory said, "how did this round table business begin? or, better yet, how did the grail business begin? we can take up the round table business later on." she thought for a moment. then, "list, fair sir, and i will say ye: at the vigil of pentecost, when all the fellowship of the round table were come unto camelot and there heard their service, and the tables were set ready to the meat, right so entered into the hall a full fair gentlewoman on horseback, that had ridden full fast, for her horse was all besweated. then she there alit, and came before the king and saluted him; and he said: damosel, god thee bless. sir, said she, for god's sake say me where sir launcelot is. yonder ye may see him, said the king. then she went unto launcelot and said: sir launcelot, i salute you on king pelles' behalf, and i require you to come on with me hereby into a forest. then sir launcelot asked her with whom she dwelled. i dwell, said she, with king pelles. what will ye with me? said launcelot. ye shall know, said she, when ye--" "that'll do for now," mallory interrupted. "we'll come back to it as soon as i get stocked up on paper and ink. scheherazade," he added. "scheherazade, sir thomas? i wot not--" he leaned down and kissed her. "there's no need for you to wot," he said. probably, he reflected, he would have to do a certain amount of research in order to record the happenings that had ensued his and rowena's departure, and undoubtedly said research would result ironically in the recording of the true visits of sirs galahad and launcelot to the chamber of the sangraal--the "time-slots" on which he and perfidion had gambled and lost their shirts. the main body of the work, however, had been deposited virtually on his lap, and its style and flavor had been arbitrarily determined. moreover, contrary to what history would later maintain, the job would not be done in prison, but right here in the "castle of yore" with rowena sitting--and dictating--beside him. as for the impossibility of giving a sixth-century damosel as his major source, that could be avoided--as in one sense it already had been--my making frequent allusions to imaginary french sources. and as for the main obstacle to the endeavor--his twenty-second century cynicism--that had been obviated during his encounter with sir galahad. the book wouldn't be published till 1485, but just the same, he was keen to get started on it. writing it should be fun. which reminded him: "i know we haven't known each other very long in one sense, rowena," he said, "but in another, we've known each other for almost nine hundred years. will you marry me?" she blinked once. then her plum-blue eyes showed how truly blue they could become and she threw her arms around his gorget. "wit ye well, sir thomas," said she, "that there is nothing in the world but i would lever do than be thy bride!" _thus did the prose epic known successively as "la mort d'arthur," the most ancient and famous history of the renowned prince arthur, king of britaine, as also, all the noble acts, and heroicke deeds of his valiant knights of the round table, and "le morte d'arthur" come to be recorded._ * * * * * the secret glory by arthur machen new york alfred a knopf mcmxxii copyright, 1922, by alfred a. knopf, inc. _published august, 1922_ _set up and printed by the vail-ballou co., binghamton, n. y._ _paper furnished by w. f. etherington & co., new york, n. y._ _bound by the h. wolff estate, new york, n. y._ manufactured in the united states of america to vincent starrett note _one of the schoolmasters in "the secret glory" has views on the subject of football similar to those entertained by a well-known schoolmaster whose biography appeared many years ago. that is the only link between the villain of invention and the good man of real life._ preface _some years ago i met my old master, sir frank benson--he was mr. f. r. benson then--and he asked me in his friendly way what i had been doing lately._ _"i am just finishing a book," i replied, "a book that everybody will hate."_ _"as usual," said the don quixote of our english stage--if i knew any nobler title to bestow upon him, i would, bestow it--"as usual; running your head against a stone wall!"_ _well, i don't know about "as usual"; there may be something to be said for the personal criticism or there may not; but it has struck me that sir frank's remark is a very good description of "the secret glory," the book i had in mind as i talked to him. it is emphatically the history of an unfortunate fellow who ran his head against stone walls from the beginning to the end. he could think nothing and do nothing after the common fashion of the world; even when he "went wrong," he did so in a highly unusual and eccentric manner. it will be for the reader to determine whether he were a saint who had lost his way in the centuries or merely an undeveloped lunatic; i hold no passionate view on either side. in every age, there are people great and small for whom the times are out of joint, for whom everything is, somehow, wrong and askew. consider hamlet; an amiable man and an intelligent man. but what a mess he made of it! fortunately, my hero--or idiot, which you will--was not called upon to intermeddle with affairs of state, and so only brought himself to grief: if it were grief; for the least chink of the door should be kept open, i am inclined to hold, for the other point of view. i have just been rereading kipling's "the miracle of purun bhagat," the tale of the brahmin prime minister of the native state in india, who saw all the world and the glory of it, in the west as well as in the east, and suddenly abjured all to become a hermit in the wood. was he mad, or was he supremely wise? it is just a matter of opinion._ _the origin and genesis of "the secret glory" were odd enough. once on a time, i read the life of a famous schoolmaster, one of the most notable schoolmasters of these later days. i believe he was an excellent man in every way; but, somehow, that "life" got on my nerves. i thought that the school songs--for which, amongst other things, this master was famous--were drivel; i thought his views about football, regarded, not as a good game, but as the discipline and guide of life, were rot, and poisonous rot at that. in a word, the "life" of this excellent man got my back up._ _very good. the year after, schoolmasters and football had ceased to engage my attention. i was deeply interested in a curious and minute investigation of the wonderful legend of the holy grail; or rather, in one aspect of that extraordinary complex. my researches led me to the connection of the grail legend with the vanished celtic church which held the field in britain in the fifth and sixth and seventh centuries; i undertook an extraordinary and fascinating journey into a misty and uncertain region of christian history. i must not say more here, lest--as nurse says to the troublesome and persistent child--i "begin all over again"; but, indeed, it was a voyage on perilous seas, a journey to faery lands forlorn--and i would declare, by the way, my conviction that if there had been no celtic church, keats could never have written those lines of tremendous evocation and incantation._ _again; very good. the year after, it came upon me to write a book. and i hit upon an original plan; or so i thought. i took my dislike of the good schoolmaster's "life," i took my knowledge of celtic mysteries--and combined my information._ _original, this plan! it was all thought of years before i was born. do you remember the critic of the "eatanswill gazette"? he had to review for that admirable journal a work on chinese metaphysics. mr. pott tells the story of the article._ _"he read up for the subject, at my desire, in the encyclopædia britannica ... he read for metaphysics under the letter m, and for china under the letter c, and combined his information!"_ the secret glory i a heavy cloud passed swiftly away before the wind that came with the night, and far in a clear sky the evening star shone with pure brightness, a gleaming world set high above the dark earth and the black shadows in the lane. in the ending of october a great storm had blown from the west, and it was through the bare boughs of a twisted oak that ambrose meyrick saw the silver light of the star. as the last faint flash died in the sky he leaned against a gate and gazed upward; and then his eyes fell on the dull and weary undulations of the land, the vast circle of dun ploughland and grey meadow bounded by a dim horizon, dreary as a prison wall. he remembered with a start how late it must be; he should have been back an hour before, and he was still in the open country, a mile away at least from the outskirts of lupton. he turned from the star and began to walk as quickly as he could along the lane through the puddles and the sticky clay, soaked with three weeks' heavy rain. he saw at last the faint lamps of the nearest streets where the shoemakers lived and he tramped hurriedly through this wretched quarter, past its penny shops, its raw public-house, its rawer chapel, with twelve foundation-stones on which are written the names of the twelve leading congregationalists of lupton, past the squalling children whose mothers were raiding and harrying them to bed. then came the free library, an admirable instance, as the _lupton mercury_ declared, of the adaptation of gothic to modern requirements. from a sort of tower of this building a great arm shot out and hung a round clock-face over the street, and meyrick experienced another shock when he saw that it was even later than he had feared. he had to get to the other side of the town, and it was past seven already! he began to run, wondering what his fate would be at his uncle's hands, and he went by "our grand old parish church" (completely "restored" in the early 'forties), past the remains of the market-cross, converted most successfully, according to local opinion, into a drinking fountain for dogs and cattle, dodging his way among the late shoppers and the early loafers who lounged to and fro along the high street. he shuddered as he rang the bell at the old grange. he tried to put a bold face on it when the servant opened the door, and he would have gone straight down the hall into the schoolroom, but the girl stopped him. "master said you're to go to the study at once, master meyrick, as soon as ever you come in." she was looking strangely at him, and the boy grew sick with dread. he was a "funk" through and through, and was frightened out of his wits about twelve times a day every day of his life. his uncle had said a few years before: "lupton will make a man of you," and lupton was doing its best. the face of the miserable wretch whitened and grew wet; there was a choking sensation in his throat, and he felt very cold. nelly foran, the maid, still looked at him with strange, eager eyes, then whispered suddenly: "you must go directly, master meyrick, master heard the bell, i know; but i'll make it up to you." ambrose understood nothing except the approach of doom. he drew a long breath and knocked at the study door, and entered on his uncle's command. it was an extremely comfortable room. the red curtains were drawn close, shutting out the dreary night, and there was a great fire of coal that bubbled unctuously and shot out great jets of flame--in the schoolroom they used coke. the carpet was soft to the feet, and the chairs promised softness to the body, and the walls were well furnished with books. there were thackeray, dickens, lord lytton, uniform in red morocco, gilt extra; the cambridge bible for students in many volumes, stanley's _life of arnold_, coplestone's _prælectiones academicæ_, commentaries, dictionaries, first editions of tennyson, school and college prizes in calf, and, of course, a great brigade of latin and greek classics. three of the wonderful and terrible pictures of piranesi hung in the room; these mr. horbury admired more for the subject-matter than for the treatment, in which he found, as he said, a certain lack of the _aurea mediocritas_--almost, indeed, a touch of morbidity. the gas was turned low, for the high usher was writing at his desk, and a shaded lamp cast a bright circle of light on a mass of papers. he turned round as ambrose meyrick came in. he had a high, bald forehead, and his fresh-coloured face was edged with reddish "mutton-chop" whiskers. there was a dangerous glint in his grey-green eyes, and his opening sentence was unpromising. "now, ambrose, you must understand quite definitely that this sort of thing is not going to be tolerated any longer." perhaps it would not have fared quite so badly with the unhappy lad if only his uncle had not lunched with the head. there was a concatenation accordingly, every link in which had helped to make ambrose meyrick's position hopeless. in the first place there was boiled mutton for luncheon, and this was a dish hateful to mr. horbury's palate. secondly, the wine was sherry. of this mr. horbury was very fond, but unfortunately the head's sherry, though making a specious appeal to the taste, was in reality far from good and teemed with those fiery and irritating spirits which make the liver to burn and rage. then chesson had practically found fault with his chief assistant's work. he had not, of course, told him in so many words that he was unable to teach; he had merely remarked: "i don't know whether you've noticed it, horbury, but it struck me the other day that there was a certain lack of grip about those fellows of yours in the fifth. some of them struck me as _muddlers_, if you know what i mean: there was a sort of _vagueness_, for example, about their construing in that chorus. have you remarked anything of the kind yourself?" and then, again, the head had gone on: "and, by the way, horbury, i don't quite know what to make of your nephew, meyrick. he was your wife's nephew, wasn't he? yes. well, i hardly know whether i can explain what i feel about the boy; but i can't help saying that there is something wrong about him. his work strikes me as good enough--in fact, quite above the form average--but, to use the musical term, he seems to be in the wrong key. of course, it may be my fancy; but the lad reminds me of those very objectionable persons who are said to have a joke up their sleeve. i doubt whether he is taking the lupton stamp; and when he gets up in the school i shall be afraid of his influence on the other boys." here, again, the master detected a note of blame; and by the time he reached the old grange he was in an evil humour. he hardly knew which he found the more offensive--chesson's dish or his discourse. he was a dainty man in his feeding, and the thought of the great fat gigot pouring out a thin red stream from the gaping wound dealt to it by the head mingled with his resentment of the indirect scolding which he considered that he had received, and on the fire just kindled every drop of that corrosive sherry was oil. he drank his tea in black silence, his rage growing fiercer for want of vent, and it is doubtful whether in his inmost heart he was altogether displeased when report was made at six o'clock that meyrick had not come in. he saw a prospect--more than a prospect--of satisfactory relief. some philosophers have affirmed that lunatic doctors (or mental specialists) grow in time to a certain resemblance to their patients, or, in more direct language, become half mad themselves. there seems a good deal to be said for the position; indeed, it is probably a more noxious madness to swear a man into perpetual imprisonment in the company of maniacs and imbeciles because he sings in his bath and will wear a purple dressing-gown at dinner than to fancy oneself emperor of china. however this may be, it is very certain that in many cases the schoolmaster is nothing more or less than a bloated schoolboy: the beasts are, radically, the same, but morbid conditions have increased the venom of the former's sting. indeed, it is not uncommon for well-wishers to the great public school system to praise their favourite masters in terms which admit, nay, glory in, this identity. read the memorial tributes to departed heads in a well-known and most respectable church paper. "to the last he was a big boy at heart," writes canon diver of his friend, that illiterate old sycophant who brought up the numbers of the school to such a pitch by means of his conciliator policy to jews, turks, heretics and infidels that there was nothing for it but to make him a bishop. "i always thought he seemed more at home in the playing fields than in the sixth-form room.... he had all the english boy's healthy horror of anything approaching pose or eccentricity.... he could be a severe disciplinarian when severity seemed necessary, but everybody in the school knew that a well-placed 'boundary,' a difficult catch or a goal well won or well averted would atone for all but the most serious offences." there are many other points of resemblance between the average master and the average boy: each, for example, is intensely cruel, and experiences a quite abnormal joy in the infliction of pain. the baser boy tortures those animals which are not _méchants_. tales have been told (they are hushed up by all true friends of the "system") of wonderful and exquisite orgies in lonely hollows of the moors, in obscure and hidden thickets: tales of a boy or two, a lizard or a toad, and the slow simmering heat of a bonfire. but these are the exceptional pleasures of the _virtuosi_; for the average lad there is plenty of fun to be got out of his feebler fellows, of whom there are generally a few even in the healthiest community. after all, the weakest must go to the wall, and if the bones of the weakest are ground in the process, that is their fault. when some miserable little wretch, after a year or two of prolonged and exquisite torture of body and mind, seeks the last escape of suicide, one knows how the old boys will come forward, how gallantly they will declare that the days at the "dear old school" were the happiest in their lives; how "the doctor" was their father and the sixth their nursing-mother; how the delights of the mahomedans' fabled paradise are but grey and weary sport compared with the joys of the happy fag, whose heart, as the inspired bard of harrow tells us, will thrill in future years at the thought of the hill. they write from all quarters, these brave old boys: from the hard-won deanery, result of many years of indefatigable attack on the fundamental doctrines of the christian faith; from the comfortable villa, the reward of commercial activity and acuteness on the stock exchange; from the courts and from the camps; from all the high seats of the successful; and common to them all is the convincing argument of praise. and we all agree, and say there is nothing like our great public schools, and perhaps the only dissentient voices are those of the father and mother who bury the body of a little child about whose neck is the black sign of the rope. but let them be comforted: the boy was no good at games, though his torments were not bad sport while he lasted. mr. horbury was an old luptonian; he was, in the words of canon diver, but "a big boy at heart," and so he gave orders that meyrick was to be sent in the study directly he came in, and he looked at the clock on the desk before him with satisfaction and yet with impatience. a hungry man may long for his delayed dinner almost with a sense of fury, and yet at the back of his mind he cannot help being consoled by the thought of how wonderfully he will enjoy the soup when it appears at last. when seven struck, mr. horbury moistened his lips slightly. he got up and felt cautiously behind one of the bookshelves. the object was there, and he sat down again. he listened; there were footfalls on the drive. ah! there was the expected ring. there was a brief interval, and then a knock. the fire was glowing with red flashes, and the wretched toad was secured. "now, ambrose, you must understand quite definitely that this sort of thing isn't going to be tolerated any longer. this is the third time during this term that you have been late for lockup. you know the rules: six o'clock at latest. it is now twenty minutes past seven. what excuse have you to make? what have you been doing with yourself? have you been in the fields?" "no, sir." "why not? you must have seen the resolution of the sixth on the notice-board of the high school? you know what it promised any boy who shirked rocker? 'a good sound thrashing with tuds before the first thirty.' i am afraid you will have a very bad time of it on monday, after graham has sent up your name to the room." there was a pause. mr. horbury looked quietly and lengthily at the boy, who stood white and sick before him. he was a rather sallow, ugly lad of fifteen. there was something of intelligence in his expression, and it was this glance that chesson, the headmaster, had resented. his heart beat against his breast, his breath came in gasps and the sweat of terror poured down his body. the master gazed at him, and at last spoke again. "but what have you been doing? where have you been all this time?" "if you please, sir, i walked over to selden abbey." "to selden abbey? why, it's at least six miles away! what on earth did you want to go to selden abbey for? are you fond of old stones?" "if you please, sir, i wanted to see the norman arches. there is a picture of them in _parker's glossary_." "oh, i see! you are a budding antiquarian, are you, ambrose, with an interest in norman arches--eh? i suppose we are to look forward to the time when your researches will have made lupton famous? perhaps you would like to lecture to the school on st. paul's cathedral? pray, what are your views as to the age of stonehenge?" the wit was heavy enough, but the speaker's position gave a bitter sting to his lash. mr. horbury saw that every cut had told, and, without prejudice to more immediate and acuter pleasures, he resolved that such biting satire must have a larger audience. indeed, it was a long time before ambrose meyrick heard the last of those wretched norman arches. the method was absurdly easy. "openings" presented themselves every day. for example, if the boy made a mistake in construing, the retort was obvious: "thank you, meyrick, for your most original ideas on the force of the aorist. perhaps if you studied your greek grammar a little more and your favourite _glossary of architecture_ a little less, it would be the better. write out 'aorist means indefinite' five hundred times." or, again, perhaps the classic orders were referred to. mr. horbury would begin to instruct the form as to the difference between ionic and doric. the form listened with poor imitation of interest. suddenly the master would break off: "i beg your pardon. i was forgetting that we have a great architectural authority amongst us. be so kind as to instruct us, meyrick. what does parker say? or perhaps you have excogitated some theories of your own? i know you have an original mind, from the extraordinary quantities of your last copy of verse. by the way, i must ask you to write out 'the _e_ in _venio_ is short' five hundred times. i am sorry to interfere with your more important architectural studies, but i am afraid there is no help for it." and so on; while the form howled with amusement. but mr. horbury kept these gems for future and public use. for the moment he had more exciting work on hand. he burst out suddenly: "the fact is, ambrose meyrick, you're a miserable little humbug! you haven't the honesty to say, fair and square, that you funked rocker and went loafing about the country, looking for any mischief you could lay your hands on. instead of that you make up this cock-and-bull story of selden abbey and norman arches--as if any boy in his senses ever knew or cared twopence about such things! i hope you haven't been spending the afternoon in some low public-house? there, don't speak! i don't want to hear any more lies. but, whatever you have been doing, you have broken the rules, and you must be taught that the rules have to be kept. stand still!" mr. horbury went to the bookshelf and drew out the object. he stood at a little distance behind meyrick and opened proceedings with a savage cut at his right arm, well above the elbow. then it was the turn of the left arm, and the master felt the cane bite so pleasantly into the flesh that he distributed some dozen cuts between the two arms. then he turned his attention to the lad's thighs and finished up in the orthodox manner, meyrick bending over a chair. the boy's whole body was one mass of burning, stinging torture; and, though he had not uttered a sound during the process, the tears were streaming down his cheeks. it was not the bodily anguish, though that was extreme enough, so much as a far-off recollection. he was quite a little boy, and his father, dead long since, was showing him the western doorway of a grey church on a high hill and carefully instructing him in the difference between "billetty" and "chevronny." "it's no good snivelling, you know, ambrose. i daresay you think me severe, but, though you won't believe me now, the day will come when you will thank me from your heart for what i have just done. let this day be a turning-point in your life. now go to your work." ii it was strange, but meyrick never came in the after days and thanked his uncle for that sharp dose of physical and mental pain. even when he was a man he dreamed of mr. horbury and woke up in a cold sweat, and then would fall asleep again with a great sigh of relief and gladness as he realised that he was no longer in the power of that "infernal old swine," "that filthy, canting, cruel brute," as he roughly called his old master. the fact was, as some old luptonians remarked, the two had never understood one another. with the majority of the boys the high usher passed for a popular master enough. he had been a distinguished athlete in his time, and up to his last days at the school was a football enthusiast. indeed, he organised a variety of the lupton game which met with immense popularity till the head was reluctantly compelled to stop it; some said because he always liked to drop bitter into horbury's cup when possible; others--and with more probability on their side--maintained that it was in consequence of a report received from the school doctor to the effect that this new species of football was rapidly setting up an old species of heart disease in the weaker players. however that might be, there could be no doubt as to horbury's intense and deep-rooted devotion to the school. his father had been a luptonian before him. he himself had gone from the school to the university, and within a year or two of taking his degree he had returned to lupton to serve it as a master. it was the general opinion in public school circles that the high usher had counted for as much as chesson, the headmaster, if not for more, in the immense advance in prestige and popularity that the school had made; and everybody thought that when chesson received the episcopal order horbury's succession was a certainty. unfortunately, however, there were wheels within wheels, and a total stranger was appointed, a man who knew nothing of the famous lupton traditions, who (it was whispered) had been heard to say that "this athletic business" was getting a bit overdone. mr. horbury's friends were furious, and horbury himself, it was supposed, was bitterly disappointed. he retreated to one of the few decent canonries which have survived the wave of agricultural depression; but those who knew him best doubted whether his ecclesiastical duties were an adequate consolation for the loss of that coveted headmastership of lupton. to quote the memoir which appeared in the _guardian_ soon after his death, over some well-known initials: "his friends were shocked when they saw him at the residence. he seemed no longer the same man, he had aged more in six months, as some of them expressed themselves, than in the dozen years before. the old joyous horbury, full of mirth, an apt master of word-play and logic-fence, was somehow 'dimmed,' to use the happy phrase of a former colleague, the dean of dorchester. old boys who remembered the sparkle of his wit, the zest which he threw into everything, making the most ordinary form-work better fun than the games at other schools, as one of them observed, missed something indefinable from the man whom they had loved so long and so well. one of them, who had perhaps penetrated as closely as any into the _arcana_ of horbury's friendship (a privilege which he will ever esteem as one of the greatest blessings of his life), tried to rouse him with an extravagant rumour which was then going the round of the popular press, to the effect that considerable modifications were about to be introduced into the compulsory system of games at x., one of the greatest of our great public schools. horbury flushed; the old light came into his eyes; his friend was reminded of the ancient war-horse who hears once more the inspiring notes of the trumpet. 'i can't believe it,' he said, and there was a tremor in his voice. 'they wouldn't dare. not even y. (the headmaster of x.) would do such a scoundrelly thing as that. i _won't_ believe it.' but the flush soon faded and his apathy returned. 'after all,' he said, 'i shouldn't wonder if it were so. our day is past, i suppose, and for all i know they may be construing the breviary and playing dominoes at x. in a few years' time.' "i am afraid that those last years at wareham were far from happy. he felt, i think, out of tune with his surroundings, and, _pace_ the readers of the _guardian_, i doubt whether he was ever quite at home in his stall. he confessed to one of his old associates that he doubted the wisdom of the whole cathedral system. 'what,' he said, in his old characteristic manner, 'would st. peter say if he could enter this building and see that gorgeous window in which he is represented with mitre, cope and keys?' and i do not think that he was ever quite reconciled to the daily recitation of the liturgy, accompanied as it is in such establishments by elaborate music and all the pomp of the surpliced choir. 'rome and water, rome and water!' he has been heard to mutter under his breath as the procession swept up the nave, and before he died i think that he had the satisfaction of feeling that many in high places were coming round to his views. "but to the very last he never forgot lupton. a year or two before he died he wrote the great school song, 'follow, follow, follow!' he was pleased, i know, when it appeared in the _luptonian_, and a famous old boy informs me that he will never forget horbury's delight when he was told that the song was already a great favourite in 'chantry.' to many of your readers the words will be familiar; but i cannot resist quoting the first verse: "i am getting old and grey and the hills seem far away, and i cannot hear the horn that once proclaimed the morn when we sallied forth upon the chase together; for the years are gone--alack!--when we hastened on the track, and the huntsman's whip went crack! as a signal to our pack riding in the sunshine and fair weather. and yet across the ground i seem to hear a sound, a sound that comes up floating from the hollow; and its note is very clear as it echoes in my ear, and the words are: 'lupton, follow, follow, follow!' _chorus._ "lupton, follow away! the darkness lies behind us, and before us is the day. follow, follow the sun, the whole world's to be won, so, lupton, follow, follow, follow, follow away! "an old pupil sang this verse to him on his death-bed, and i think, perhaps, that some at least of the readers of the _guardian_ will allow that george horbury died 'fortified,' in the truest sense, 'with the rites of the church'--the church of a great aspiration." such was the impression that mr. horbury had evidently made upon some of his oldest friends; but meyrick was, to the last, an infidel. he read the verses in the _guardian_ (he would never subscribe to the _luptonian_) and jeered savagely at the whole sentiment of the memoir, and at the poetry, too. "isn't it incredible?" he would say. "let's allow that the main purpose of the great public schools is to breed brave average boobies by means of rocker, sticker and mucker and the rest of it. still, they do acknowledge that they have a sort of _parergon_--the teaching of two great literatures, two literatures that have moulded the whole of western thought for more than two thousand years. and they pay an animal like this to teach these literatures--a swine that has not enough literature of any kind in him to save the soul of a louse! look at those verses! why, a decent fourth form boy would be ashamed to put his name to them!" he was foolish to talk in this fashion. people merely said that it was evident he was one of the failures of the great public school system; and the song was much admired in the right circles. a very well-turned _idem latine_ appeared in the _guardian_ shortly after the publication of the memoir, and the initials at the foot of the version were recognised as those of a literary dean. and on that autumn evening, far away in the 'seventies, meyrick, the boy, left mr. horbury's study in a white fury of grief and pain and rage. he would have murdered his master without the faintest compunction, nay, with huge delight. psychologically, his frame of mind was quite interesting, though he was only a schoolboy who had just had a sound thrashing for breaking rules. for the fact, of course, was that horbury, the irritating influence of the head's conversation and sherry apart, was by no means a bad fellow. he was for the moment savagely cruel, but then, most men are apt to be savagely cruel when they suffer from an inflamed liver and offensive superiors, more especially when there is an inferior, warranted defenceless, in their power. but, in the main, horbury was a very decent specimen of his class--english schoolmaster--and meyrick would never allow that. in all his reasoning about schools and schoolmasters there was a fatal flaw--he blamed both for not being what they never pretended to be. to use a figure that would have appealed to him, it was if one quarrelled with a plain, old-fashioned meeting-house because it was not in the least like lincoln cathedral. a chimney may not be a decorative object, but then it does not profess to be a spire or a pinnacle far in the spiritual city. but meyrick was always scolding meeting-houses because they were not cathedrals. he has been heard to rave for hours against useful, unpretentious chimney-pots because they bore no resemblance to celestial spires. somehow or other, possibly by inheritance, possibly by the influence of his father's companionship, he had unconsciously acquired a theory of life which bore no relation whatever to the facts of it. the theory was manifest in his later years; but it must have been stubbornly, if vaguely, present in him all through his boyhood. take, for instance, his comment on poor canon horbury's verses. he judged those, as we have seen, by the rules of the fine art of literature, and found them rubbish. yet any old luptonian would have told him that to hear the whole six hundred boys join in the chorus, "lupton, follow away!" was one of the great experiences of life; from which it appears that the song, whatever its demerits from a literary point of view, fully satisfied the purpose for which is was written. in other words, it was an excellent chimney, but meyrick still persisted in his easy and futile task of proving that it was not a bit like a spire. then, again, one finds a fallacy of still huger extent in that major premiss of his: that the great public schools purpose to themselves as a secondary and minor object the imparting of the spirit and beauty of the greek and latin literatures. now, it is very possible that at some distant period in the past this was an object, or even, perhaps, _the_ object of the institutions in question. the humanists, it may be conjectured, thought of school and university as places where latin and greek were to be learned, and to be learned with the object of enjoying the great thought and the great style of an antique world. one sees the spirit of this in rabelais, for example. the classics are a wonderful adventure; to learn to understand them is to be a spiritual columbus, a discoverer of new seas and unknown continents, a drinker of new-old wine in a new-old land. to the student of those days a mysterious drowned atlantis again rose splendid from the waves of the great deep. it was these things that meyrick (unconsciously, doubtless) expected to find in his school life; it was for the absence of these things that he continued to scold the system in his later years; wherein, like jim in _huckleberry finn_, he missed the point by a thousand miles. the latin and greek of modern instruction are, of course, most curious and interesting survivals; no longer taught with any view of enabling students to enjoy and understand either the thought or beauty of the originals; taught rather in such a manner as to nauseate the learner for the rest of his days with the very notion of these lessons. still, the study of the classics survives, a curious and elaborate ritual, from which all sense and spirit have departed. one has only to recollect the form master's lessons in the _odyssey_ or the _bacchæ_, and then to view modern free-masons celebrating the mystic death and resurrection of hiram abiff; the analogy is complete, for neither the master nor the masons have the remotest notion of what they are doing. both persevere in strange and mysterious actions from inveterate conservatism. meyrick was a lover of antiquity and a special lover of survivals, but he could never see that the round of greek syntax, and latin prose, of elegiacs and verbs in [greek: mi], with the mystery of the oratio obliqua and the optative, was one of the most strange and picturesque survivals of modern life. it is to be noted, by the way, that the very meaning of the word "scholar" has been radically changed. thus a well-known authority points out that "melancholy" burton had no "scholarship" in the real sense of the word; he merely used his vast knowledge of ancient and modern literature to make one of the most entertaining and curious books that the world possesses. true "scholarship," in the modern sense, is to be sought for not in the jacobean translators of the bible, but in the victorian revisers. the former made the greatest of english books out of their hebrew and greek originals; but the latter understood the force of the aorist. it is curious to reflect that "scholar" once meant a man of literary taste and knowledge. meyrick never mastered these distinctions, or, if he did so in later years, he never confessed to his enlightment, but went on railing at the meeting-house, which, he still maintained, _did_ pretend to be a cathedral. he has been heard to wonder why a certain dean, who had pointed out the vast improvements that had been effected by the revisers, did not employ a few young art students from kensington to correct the infamous drawing of the fourteenth-century glass in his cathedral. he was incorrigible; he was always incorrigible, and thus, in his boyhood, on the dark november evening, he meditated the murder of his good master and uncle--for at least a quarter of an hour. his father, he remembered, had always spoken of gothic architecture as the most wonderful and beautiful thing in the world: a thing to be studied and loved and reverenced. his father had never so much as mentioned rocker, much less had he preached it as the one way by which an english boy must be saved. hence, ambrose maintained inwardly that his visit to selden abbey was deserving of reward rather than punishment, and he resented bitterly, the savage injustice (as he thought it) of his caning. iii yet mr. horbury had been right in one matter, if not in all. that evening was a turning-point in meyrick's life. he had felt the utmost rage of the enemy, as it were, and he determined that he would be a funk no longer. he would not degenerate into the state of little phipps, who had been bullied and "rockered" and beaten into such a deplorable condition that he fainted dead away while the headmaster was operating on him for "systematic and deliberate lying." phipps not only fainted, but, being fundamentally sensible, as dr. johnson expressed it, showed a strong disinclination to return to consciousness and the precious balms of the "dear old head." chesson was rather frightened, and the school doctor, who had his living to get, said, somewhat dryly, that he thought the lad had better go home for a week or two. so phipps went home in a state which made his mother cry bitterly and his father wonder whether the public school system was not over-praised. but the old family doctor went about raging and swearing at the "scoundrels" who had reduced a child of twelve to a nervous wreck, with "neurasthenia cerebralis" well on its way. but dr. walford had got his education in some trumpery little academy, and did not understand or value the _ethos_ of the great public schools. now, ambrose meyrick had marked the career of wretched phipps with concern and pity. the miserable little creature had been brought by careful handling from masters and boys to such a pitch of neurotic perfection that it was only necessary to tap him smartly on the back or on the arm, and he would instantly burst into tears. whenever anyone asked him the simplest question he suspected a cruel trap of some sort, and lied and equivocated and shuffled with a pitiable lack of skill. though he was pitched by the heels into mucker about three times a week, that he might acquire the useful art of natation, he still seemed to grow dirtier and dirtier. his school books were torn to bits, his exercises made into darts; he had impositions for losing books and canings for not doing his work, and he lied and cried all the more. meyrick had never got to this depth. he was a sturdy boy, and phipps had always been a weakly little animal; but, as he walked from the study to the schoolroom after his thrashing, he felt that he had been in some danger of descending on that sad way. he finally resolved that he would never tread it, and so he walked past the baize-lined doors into the room where the other boys were at work on prep, with an air of unconcern which was not in the least assumed. mr. horbury was a man of considerable private means and did not care to be bothered with the troubles and responsibilities of a big house. but there was room and to spare in the old grange, so he took three boys besides his nephew. these three were waiting with a grin of anticipation, since the nature of meyrick's interview with "old horbury" was not dubious. but ambrose strolled in with a "hallo, you fellows!" and sat down in his place as if nothing had happened. this was intolerable. "i say, meyrick," began pelly, a beefy boy with a red face, "you _have_ been blubbing! feel like writing home about it? oh! i forgot. this is your home, isn't it? how many cuts? i didn't hear you howl." the boy took no notice. he was getting out his books as if no one had spoken. "can't you answer?" went on the beefy one. "how many cuts, you young sneak?" "go to hell!" the whole three stared aghast for a moment; they thought meyrick must have gone mad. only one, bates the observant, began to chuckle quietly to himself, for he did not like pelly. he who was always beefy became beefier; his eyes bulged out with fury. "i'll give it you," he said and made for ambrose, who was turning over the leaves of the latin dictionary. ambrose did not wait for the assault; he rose also and met pelly half-way with a furious blow, well planted on the nose. pelly took a back somersault and fell with a crash to the floor, where he lay for a moment half stunned. he rose staggering and looked about him with a pathetic, bewildered air; for, indeed, a great part of his little world had crumbled about his ears. he stood in the middle of the room, wondering what it meant, whether it was true indeed that meyrick was no longer of any use for a little quiet fun. a horrible and incredible transmutation had, apparently, been effected in the funk of old. pelly gazed wildly about him as he tried to staunch the blood that poured over his mouth. "foul blow!" ventured rawson, a lean lad who liked to twist the arms of very little boys till they shrieked for mercy. the full inwardness of the incident had not penetrated to his brain; he saw without believing, in the manner of the materialist who denies the marvellous even when it is before his eyes. "foul blow, young meyrick!" the quiet student had gone back to his place and was again handling his dictionary. it was a hard, compact volume, rebound in strong boards, and the edge of these boards caught the unfortunate rawson full across the eyes with extraordinary force. he put his face in his hands and blubbered quietly and dismally, rocking to and fro in his seat, hardly hearing the fluent stream of curses with which the quiet student inquired whether the blow he had just had was good enough for him. meyrick picked up his dictionary with a volley of remarks which would have done credit to an old-fashioned stage-manager at the last dress rehearsal before production. "hark at him," said pelly feebly, almost reverently. "hark at him." but poor rawson, rocking to and fro, his head between his hands, went on blubbering softly and spoke no word. meyrick had never been an unobservant lad; he had simply made a discovery that evening that in rome certain roman customs must be adopted. the wise bates went on doing his copy of latin verse, chuckling gently to himself. bates was a cynic. he despised all the customs and manners of the place most heartily and took the most curious care to observe them. he might have been the inventor and patentee of rocker, if one judged him by the fervour with which he played it. he entered his name for every possible event at the sports, and jumped the jumps and threw the hammer and ran the races as if his life depended on it. once mr. horbury had accidentally over-head bates saying something about "the honour of the house" which went to his heart. as for cricket, bates played as if his sole ambition was to become a first-class professional. and he chuckled as he did his latin verses, which he wrote (to the awe of other boys) "as if he were writing a letter"--that is, without making a rough copy. for bates had got the "hang" of the whole system from rocker to latin verse, and his copies were much admired. he grinned that evening, partly at the transmutation of meyrick and partly at the line he was jotting down: "_mira loquor, coelo resonans vox funditur alto._" in after life he jotted down a couple of novels which sold, as the journalists said, "like hot cakes." meyrick went to see him soon after the first novel had gone into its thirtieth thousand, and bates was reading "appreciations" and fingering a cheque and chuckling. "mira loquor, populo, resonans, _cheque_ funditur alto," he said. "i know what schoolmasters and boys and the public want, and i take care they get it--_sale espèce de sacrés cochons de n. de d._!" the rest of prep. went off quite quietly. pelly was slowly recovering from the shock that he had received and began to meditate revenge. meyrick had got him unawares, he reflected. it was merely an accident, and he resolved to challenge meyrick to fight and give him back the worst licking he had ever had in his life. he was beefy, but a bold fellow. rawson, who was really a cruel coward and a sneak, had made up his mind that he wanted no more, and from time to time cast meek and propitiatory glances in meyrick's direction. at half-past nine they all went into their dining-room for bread and cheese and beer. at a quarter to ten mr. horbury appeared in cap and gown and read a chapter from st. paul's epistle to the romans, with one or two singularly maundering and unhappy prayers. he stopped the boys as they were going up to their rooms. "what's this, pelly?" he said. "your nose is all swollen. it's been bleeding, too, i see. what have you been doing to yourself? and you, rawson, how do you account for your eyes being black? what's the meaning of all this?" "please, sir, there was a very stiff bully down at rocker this afternoon, and rawson and i got tokered badly." "were you in the bully, bates?" "no, sir; i've been outside since the beginning of the term. but all the fellows were playing up tremendously, and i saw rawson and pelly had been touched when we were changing." "ah! i see. i'm very glad to find the house plays up so well. as for you, bates, i hear you're the best outside for your age that we've ever had. good night." the three said "thank you, sir," as if their dearest wish had been gratified, and the master could have sworn that bates flushed with pleasure at his word of praise. but the fact was that bates had "suggested" the flush by a cunning arrangement of his features. the boys vanished and mr. horbury returned to his desk. he was editing a selection called "english literature for lower forms." he began to read from the slips that he had prepared: "_so all day long the noise of battle roll'd among the mountains by the winter sea; until king arthur's table, man by man, had fallen in lyonnesse----_" he stopped and set a figure by the last word, and then, on a blank slip, with a corresponding letter, he repeated the figure and wrote the note: lyonnesse--the sicilly isles. then he took a third slip and wrote the question: give the ancient name of the sicilly isles. these serious labours employed him till twelve o'clock. he put the materials of his book away as the clock struck, and solemnly mixed himself his nightly glass of whisky and soda--in the daytime he never touched spirits--and bit the one cigar which he smoked in the twenty-four hours. the stings of the head's sherry and of his conversation no longer burned within him; time and work and the bite of the cane in meyrick's flesh had soothed his soul, and he set himself to dream, leaning back in his arm-chair, watching the cheerful fire. he was thinking of what he would do when he succeeded to the headmastership. already there were rumours that chesson had refused the bishopric of st. dubric's in order that he might be free to accept dorchester, which, in the nature of things, must soon be vacant. horbury had no doubt that the headmastership would be his; he had influential friends who assured him that the trustees would not hesitate for an instant. then he would show the world what an english public school could be made. in five years, he calculated, he would double the numbers. he saw the coming importance of the modern side, and especially of science. personally, he detested "stinks," but he knew what an effect he would produce with a great laboratory fitted with the very best appliances and directed by a highly qualified master. then, again, an elaborate gymnasium must be built; there must be an engineer's shop, too, and a carpenter's as well. and people were beginning to complain that a public school education was of no use in the city. there must be a business master, an expert from the stock exchange who would see that this reproach was removed. then he considered that a large number of the boys belonged to the land-owning class. why should a country gentleman be at the mercy of his agent, forced for lack of technical knowledge to accept statements which he could not check? it was clear that the management of land and great estates must have its part in the scheme; and, again, the best-known of the crammers must be bought on his own terms, so that the boys who wished to get into the army or the civil service would be practically compelled to come to lupton. already he saw paragraphs in the _guardian_ and _the times_--in all the papers--paragraphs which mentioned the fact that ninety-five per cent of the successful candidates for the indian civil service had received their education at the foundation of "stout old martin rolle." meanwhile, in all this flood of novelty, the old traditions should be maintained with more vigour than ever. the classics should be taught as they never had been taught. every one of the masters on this side should be in the highest honours and, if possible, he would get famous men for the work--they should not merely be good, but also notorious scholars. gee, the famous explorer in crete, who had made an enormous mark in regions widely removed from the scholastic world by his wonderful book, _dædalus; or, the secret of the labyrinth_, must come to lupton at any price; and maynard, who had discovered some most important greek manuscripts in egypt, he must have a form, too. then there was rendell, who had done so well with his _thucydides_, and davies, author of _the olive of athene_, a daring but most brilliant book which promised to upset the whole established theory of mythology--he would have such a staff as no school had ever dreamed of. "we shall have no difficulty about paying them," thought horbury; "our numbers will go up by leaps and bounds, and the fees shall be five hundred pounds a year--and such terms will do us more good than anything." he went into minute detail. he must take expert advice as to the advisability of the school farming on its own account, and so supplying the boys with meat, milk, bread, butter and vegetables at first cost. he believed it could be done; he would get a scotch farmer from the lowlands and make him superintendent at a handsome salary and with a share in the profits. there would be the splendid advertisement of "the whole dietary of the school supplied from the school farms, under the supervision of mr. david anderson, formerly of haddanneuk, the largest tenancy in the duke of ayr's estates." the food would be better and cheaper, too; but there would be no luxury. the "spartan" card was always worth playing; one must strike the note of plain living in a luxurious age; there must be no losing of the old public school severity. on the other hand, the boy's hands should be free to go into their own pockets; there should be no restraint here. if a boy chose to bring in _dindonneau aux truffes_ or _pieds de mouton à la ste menehould_ to help out his tea, that was his look-out. why should not the school grant a concession to some big london firm, who would pay handsomely for the privilege of supplying the hungry lads with every kind of expensive dainty? the sum could be justly made a large one, as any competing shop could be promptly put out of bounds with reason or without it. on one side, _confiserie_; at the other counter, _charcuterie_; enormous prices could be charged to the wealthy boys of whom the school would be composed. yet, on the other hand, the distinguished visitor--judge, bishop, peer or what not--would lunch at the headmaster's house and eat the boys' dinner and go away saying it was quite the plainest and very many times the best meal he had ever tasted. there would be well-hung saddle of mutton, roasted and not baked; floury potatoes and cauliflower; apple pudding with real english cheese, with an excellent glass of the school beer, an honest and delicious beverage made of malt and hops in the well-found school brewery. horbury knew enough of modern eating and drinking to understand that such a meal would be a choice rarity to nine rich people out of ten; and yet it was "spartan," utterly devoid of luxury and ostentation. again, he passed from detail and minutiæ into great napoleonic regions. a thousand boys at £500 a year; that would be an income for the school of five hundred thousand pounds! the profits would be gigantic, immense. after paying large, even extravagant, prices to the staff, after all building expenses had been deducted, he hardly dared to think how vast a sum would accrue year by year to the trustees. the vision began to assume such magnificence that it became oppressive; it put on the splendours and delights of the hashish dream, which are too great and too piercing for mortal hearts to bear. and yet it was no mirage; there was not a step that could not be demonstrated, shown to be based on hard; matter-of-fact business considerations. he tried to keep back his growing excitement, to argue with himself that he was dealing in visions, but the facts were too obstinate. he saw that it would be his part to work the same miracle in the scholastic world as the great american storekeepers had operated in the world of retail trade. the principle was precisely the same: instead of a hundred small shops making comparatively modest and humdrum profits you had the vast emporium doing business on the gigantic scale with vastly diminished expenses and vastly increased rewards. here again was a hint. he had thought of america, and he knew that here was an inexhaustible gold mine, that no other scholastic prospector had even dreamed of. the rich american was notoriously hungry for everything that was english, from frock-coats to pedigrees. he had never thought of sending his son to an english public school because he considered the system hopelessly behind the times. but the new translated lupton would be to other public schools as a new york hotel of the latest fashion is to a village beer-shop. and yet the young millionaire would grow up in the company of the sons of the english gentlemen, imbibing the unique culture of english life, while at the same time he enjoyed all the advantages of modern ideas, modern science and modern business training. land was still comparatively cheap at lupton; the school must buy it quietly, indirectly, by degrees, and then pile after pile of vast buildings rose before his eyes. he saw the sons of the rich drawn from all the ends of the world to the great school, there to learn the secret of the anglo-saxons. chesson was mistaken in that idea of his, which he thought daring and original, of establishing a distinct jewish house where the food should be "kosher." the rich jew who desired to send his son to an english public school was, in nine cases out of ten, anxious to do so precisely because he wanted to sink his son's connection with jewry in oblivion. he had heard chesson talk of "our christian duty to the seed of israel" in this connection. the man was clearly a fool. no, the more jews the better, but no jewish house. and no puseyism either: broad, earnest religious teaching, with a leaning to moderate anglicanism, should be the faith of lupton. as to this chesson was, certainly, sound enough. he had always made a firm stand against ecclesiasticism in any form. horbury knew the average english parent of the wealthier classes thoroughly; he knew that, though he generally called himself a churchman, he was quite content to have his sons prepared for confirmation by a confessed agnostic. certainly this liberty must not be narrowed when lupton became cosmopolitan. "we will retain all the dignified associations which belong to the established church," he said to himself, "and at the same time we shall be utterly free from the taint of over-emphasising dogmatic teaching." he had a sudden brilliant idea. everybody in church circles was saying that the english bishops were terribly overworked, that it was impossible for the most strenuous men with the best intentions to supervise effectually the huge dioceses that had descended from the sparsely populated england of the middle ages. everywhere there was a demand for suffragans and more suffragans. in the last week's _guardian_ there were three letters on the subject, one from a clergyman in their own diocese. the bishop had been attacked by some rabid ritualistic person, who had pointed out that nine out of every ten parishes had not so much as seen the colour of his hood ever since his appointment ten years before. the archdeacon of melby had replied in a capital letter, scathing and yet humorous. horbury turned to the paper on the table beside his chair and looked up the letter. "in the first place," wrote the archdeacon, "your correspondent does not seem to have realised that the _ethoes_ of the diocese of melby is not identical with that of sacerdotalism. the sturdy folk of the midlands have not yet, i am thankful to say, forgotten the lessons of our great reformation. they have no wish to see a revival of the purely mechanical religion of the middle ages--of the system of a sacrificing priesthood and of sacraments efficacious _ex opere operato_. hence they do not regard the episcopate quite in the same light as your correspondent 'senex,' who, it seems to me, looks upon a bishop as a sort of christianised 'medicine-man,' endowed with certain mysterious thaumaturgic powers which have descended to him by an (imaginary) spiritual succession. this was not the view of hooker, nor, i venture to say, has it ever been the view of the really representative divines of the established church of england. "still," the archdeacon went on, "it must be admitted that the present diocese of melby is unwieldy and, it may be fairly said, unworkable." then there followed the humorous anecdote of sir boyle roche and the bird, and finally the archdeacon emitted the prayer that god in his own good time would put it into the hearts of our rulers in church and state to give their good bishop an episcopal curate. horbury got up from his chair and paced up and down the study; his excitement was so great that he could keep quiet no longer. his cigar had gone out long ago, and he had barely sipped the whisky and soda. his eyes glittered with excitement. circumstances seemed positively to be playing into his hands; the dice of the world were being loaded in his favour. he was like bel ami at his wedding. he almost began to believe in providence. for he was sure it could be managed. here was a general feeling that no one man could do the work of the diocese. there must be a suffragan, and lupton must give the new bishop his title. no other town was possible. dunham had certainly been a see in the eighth century, but it was now little more than a village and a village served by a miserable little branch line; whereas lupton was on the great main track of the midland system, with easy connections to every part of the country. the archdeacon, who was also a peer, would undoubtedly become the first bishop of lupton, and he should be the titular chaplain of the great school! "chaplain! the right reverend lord selwyn, lord bishop of lupton." horbury gasped; it was too magnificent, too splendid. he knew lord selwyn quite well and had no doubt as to his acceptance. he was a poor man, and there would be no difficulty whatever in establishing a _modus_. the archdeacon was just the man for the place. he was no pedantic theologian, but a broad, liberal-minded man of the world. horbury remembered, almost with ecstasy, that he had lectured all over the united states with immense success. the american press had been enthusiastic, and the first congregational church of chicago had implored selwyn to accept its call, preach what he liked and pocket an honorarium of twenty-five thousand dollars a year. and, on the other hand, what could the most orthodox desire safer than a chaplain who was not only a bishop, but a peer of the realm? wonderful! here were the three birds--liberalism, orthodoxy and reverence for the house of lords--caught safe and secure in this one net. the games? they should be maintained in all their glory, rather on an infinitely more splendid scale. cricket and sticker (the lupton hockey), rackets and fives, should be all encouraged; and more, lupton should be the only school to possess a tennis court. the noble _jeu de paume_, the game of kings, the most aristocratic of all sports, should have a worthy home at lupton. they would train champions; they would have both french and english markers skilled in the latest developments of the _chemin de fer_ service. "better than half a yard, i think," said horbury to himself; "they will have to do their best to beat that." but he placed most reliance on rocker. this was the lupton football, a variant as distinctive in its way as the eton wall game. people have thought that the name is a sort of portmanteau word, a combination of rugger and soccer; but in reality the title was derived from the field where the game used to be played in old days by the townsfolk. as in many other places, football at lupton had been originally an excuse for a faction-fight between two parishes in the town--st. michael's and st. paul's-in-the-fields. every year, on shrove tuesday, the townsfolk, young and old, had proceeded to the town field and had fought out their differences with considerable violence. the field was broken land: a deep, sluggish stream crossed one angle of it, and in the middle there were quarries and jagged limestone rocks. hence football was called in the town "playing rocks," for, indeed, it was considered an excellent point of play to hurl a man over the edge of the quarry on to the rocks beneath, and so late as 1830 a certain jonas simpson of st. michael's had had his spine broken in this way. however, as a boy from st. paul's was drowned in the wand the same day, the game was always reckoned a draw. it was from the peculiarities of this old english sport that the school had constructed its game. the town field had, of course, long been stolen from the townsfolk and built over; but the boys had, curiously enough, perpetuated the tradition of its peculiarities in a kind of football ritual. for, besides the two goals, one part of the field was marked by a line of low white posts: these indicated the course of a non-existent wand brook, and in the line of these posts it was lawful to catch an opponent by the throat and choke him till he turned black in the face--the best substitute for drowning that the revisers of the game could imagine. again: about the centre of the field two taller posts indicated the position of the quarries, and between these you might be hit or kicked full in the stomach without the smallest ground of complaint: the stroke being a milder version of the old fall on the rocks. there were many other like amenities in rocker; and horbury maintained it was by far the manliest variant of the game. for this pleasing sport he now designed a world-wide fame. rocker should be played wherever the english flag floated: east and west, north and south; from hong kong to british columbia; in canada and new zealand there should be the _temenoi_ of this great rite; and the traveller seeing the mystic enclosure--the two goals, the line of little posts marking "brooks" and the two poles indicating "quarries"--should know english soil as surely as by the union jack. the technical terms of rocker should become a part of the great anglo-saxon inheritance; the whole world should hear of "bully-downs" and "tokering," of "outsides" and "rammers." it would require working, but it was to be done: articles in the magazines and in the press; perhaps a story of school life, a new _tom brown_ must be written. the midlands and the north must be shown that there was money in it, and the rest would be easy. one thing troubled horbury. his mind was full of the new and splendid buildings that were to be erected, but he was aware that antiquity still counted for something, and unfortunately lupton could show very little that was really antique. forty years before, stanley, the first reforming headmaster, had pulled down the old high school. there were prints of it: it was a half-timbered, fifteenth-century building, with a wavering roof-line and an overhanging upper story; there were dim, leaded windows and a grey arched porch--an ugly old barn, stanley called it. scott was called in and built the present high school, a splendid hall in red brick: french thirteenth-century, with venetian detail; it was much admired. but horbury was sorry that the old school had been destroyed; he saw for the first time that it might have been made a valuable attraction. then again, dowsing, who succeeded stanley, had knocked the cloisters all to bits; there was only one side of the quadrangle left, and this had been boarded up and used as a gardeners' shed. horbury did not know what to say of the destruction of the cross that used to stand in the centre of the quad. no doubt dowsing was right in thinking it superstitious; still, it might have been left as a curiosity and shown to visitors, just as the instruments of bygone cruelty--the rack and the iron maid--are preserved and exhibited to wondering sightseers. there was no real danger of any superstitious adoration of the cross; it was, as a matter of fact, as harmless as the axe and block at the tower of london; dowsing had ruined what might have been an important asset in the exploitation of the school. still, perhaps the loss was not altogether irreparable. high school was gone and could not be recovered; but the cloisters might be restored and the cross, too. horbury knew that the monument in front of charing cross railway station was considered by many to be a genuine antique: why not get a good man to build them a cross? not like the old one, of course; that "fair roode with our deare ladie saint marie and saint john," and, below, the stories of the blissful saints and angels--that would never do. but a vague, gothic erection, with plenty of kings and queens, imaginary benefactors of the school, and a small cast-iron cross at the top: that could give no offence to anybody, and might pass with nine people out of ten as a genuine remnant of the middle ages. it could be made of soft stone and allowed to weather for a few years; then a coat of invisible anti-corrosive fluid would preserve carvings and imagery that would already appear venerable in decay. there was no need to make any precise statements: parents and the public might be allowed to draw their own conclusions. horbury was neglecting nothing. he was building up a great scheme in his mind, and to him it seemed that every detail was worth attending to, while at the same time he did not lose sight of the whole effect. he believed in finish: there must be no rough edges. it seemed to him that a school legend must be invented. the real history was not quite what he wanted, though it might work in with a more decorative account of lupton's origins. one might use the _textus receptus_ of martin rolle's foundation--the bequest of land _c._ 1430 to build and maintain a school where a hundred boys should be taught grammar, and ten poor scholars and six priests should pray for the founder's soul. this was well enough, but one might hint that martin rolle really refounded and re-endowed a school of saxon origin, probably established by king alfred himself in luppa's tun. then, again, who could show that shakespeare had not visited lupton? his famous schoolboy, "creeping like snail unwillingly to school," might very possibly have been observed by the poet as he strolled by the banks of the wand. many famous men might have received their education at lupton; it would not be difficult to make a plausible list of such. it must be done carefully and cautiously, with such phrases as "it has always been a tradition at lupton that sir walter raleigh received part of his education at the school"; or, again, "an earlier generation of luptonians remembered the initials 'w. s. s. on a.' cut deeply in the mantel of old high school, now, unfortunately, demolished." antiquarians would laugh? possibly; but who cared about antiquarians? for the average man "charing" was derived from "_chère reine_," and he loved to have it so, and horbury intended to appeal to the average man. though he was a schoolmaster he was no recluse, and he had marked the ways of the world from his quiet study in lupton; hence he understood the immense value of a grain of quackery in all schemes which are meant to appeal to mortals. it was a deadly mistake to suppose that anything which was all quackery would be a success--a permanent success, at all events; it was a deadlier mistake still to suppose that anything quite devoid of quackery could pay handsomely. the average english palate would shudder at the flavour of _aioli_, but it would be charmed by the insertion of that _petit point d'ail_ which turned mere goodness into triumph and laurelled perfection. and there was no need to mention the word "garlic" before the guests. lupton was not going to be all garlic: it was to be infinitely the best scholastic dish that had ever been served--the ingredients should be unsurpassed and unsurpassable. but--king alfred's foundation of a school at luppa's tun, and that "w. s. s. on a." cut deeply on the mantel of the vanished high school--these and legends like unto them, these would be the last touch, _le petit point d'ail_. it was a great scheme, wonderful and glorious; and the most amazing thing about it was that it was certain to be realised. there was not a flaw from start to finish. the trustees were certain to appoint him--he had that from a sure quarter--and it was but a question of a year or two, perhaps only of a month or two, before all this great and golden vision should be converted into hard and tangible fact. he drank off his glass of whisky and soda; it had become flat and brackish, but to him it was nectar, since it was flavoured with ecstasy. he frowned suddenly as he went upstairs to his room. an unpleasant recollection had intruded for a moment on his amazing fantasy; but he dismissed the thought as soon as it arose. that was all over, there could be no possibility of trouble from that direction; and so, his mind filled with images, he fell asleep and saw lupton as the centre of the whole world, like jerusalem in the ancient maps. a student of the deep things of mysticism has detected a curious element of comedy in the management of human concerns; and there certainly seems a touch of humour in the fact that on this very night, while horbury was building the splendid lupton of the future, the palace of his thought and his life was shattered for ever into bitter dust and nothingness. but so it was. the dread arrest had been solemnly recognised, and that wretched canonry at wareham was irrevocably pronounced for doom. fantastic were the elements of forces that had gone to the ordering of this great sentence: raw corn spirit in the guise of sherry, the impertinence (or what seemed such) of an elderly clergyman, a boiled leg of mutton, a troublesome and disobedient boy, and--another person. ii i he was standing in a wild, bare country. something about it seemed vaguely familiar: the land rose and fell in dull and weary undulations, in a vast circle of dun ploughland and grey meadow, bounded by a dim horizon without promise or hope, dreary as a prison wall. the infinite melancholy of an autumn evening brooded heavily over all the world, and the sky was hidden by livid clouds. it all brought back to him some far-off memory, and yet he knew that he gazed on that sad plain for the first time. there was a deep and heavy silence over all; a silence unbroken by so much as the fluttering of a leaf. the trees seemed of a strange shape, and strange were the stunted thorns dotted about the broken field in which he stood. a little path at his feet, bordered by the thorn bushes, wandered away to the left into the dim twilight; it had about it some indefinable air of mystery, as if it must lead one down into a mystic region where all earthly things are forgotten and lost for ever. he sat down beneath the bare, twisted boughs of a great tree and watched the dreary land grow darker and yet darker; he wondered, half-consciously, where he was and how he had come to that place, remembering, faintly, tales of like adventure. a man passed by a familiar wall one day, and opening a door before unnoticed, found himself in a new world of unsurmised and marvellous experiences. another man shot an arrow farther than any of his friends and became the husband of the fairy. yet--this was not fairyland; these were rather the sad fields and unhappy graves of the underworld than the abode of endless pleasures and undying delights. and yet in all that he saw there was the promise of great wonder. only one thing was clear to him. he knew that he was ambrose, that he had been driven from great and unspeakable joys into miserable exile and banishment. he had come from a far, far place by a hidden way, and darkness had closed about him, and bitter drink and deadly meat were given him, and all gladness was hidden from him. this was all he could remember; and now he was astray, he knew not how or why, in this wild, sad land, and the night descended dark upon him. suddenly there was, as it were, a cry far away in the shadowy silence, and the thorn bushes began to rustle before a shrilling wind that rose as the night came down. at this summons the heavy clouds broke up and dispersed, fleeting across the sky, and the pure heaven appeared with the last rose flush of the sunset dying from it, and there shone the silver light of the evening star. ambrose's heart was drawn up to this light as he gazed: he saw that the star grew greater and greater; it advanced towards him through the air; its beams pierced to his soul as if they were the sound of a silver trumpet. an ocean of white splendour flowed over him: he dwelt within the star. it was but for a moment; he was still sitting beneath the tree of the twisted branches. but the sky was now clear and filled with a great peace; the wind had fallen and a more happy light shone on the great plain. ambrose was thirsty, and then he saw that beside the tree there was a well, half hidden by the arching roots that rose above it. the water was still and shining, as though it were a mirror of black marble, and marking the brim was a great stone on which were cut the letters: "fons vitae immortalis." he rose and, bending over the well, put down his lips to drink, and his soul and body were filled as with a flood of joy. now he knew that all his days of exile he had borne with pain and grief a heavy, weary body. there had been dolours in every limb and achings in every bone; his feet had dragged upon the ground, slowly, wearily, as the feet of those who go in chains. but dim, broken spectres, miserable shapes and crooked images of the world had his eyes seen; for they were eyes bleared with sickness, darkened by the approach of death. now, indeed, he clearly beheld the shining vision of things immortal. he drank great draughts of the dark, glittering water, drinking, it seemed, the light of the reflected stars; and he was filled with life. every sinew, every muscle, every particle of the deadly flesh shuddered and quickened in the communion of that well-water. the nerves and veins rejoiced together; all his being leapt with gladness, and as one finger touched another, as he still bent over the well, a spasm of exquisite pleasure quivered and thrilled through his body. his heart throbbed with bliss that was unendurable; sense and intellect and soul and spirit were, as it were, sublimed into one white flame of delight. and all the while it was known to him that these were but the least of the least of the pleasures of the kingdom, but the overrunnings and base tricklings of the great supernal cup. he saw, without amazement, that, though the sun had set, the sky now began to flush and redden as if with the northern light. it was no longer the evening, no longer the time of the procession of the dusky night. the darkness doubtless had passed away in mortal hours while for an infinite moment he tasted immortal drink; and perhaps one drop of that water was endless life. but now it was the preparation for the day. he heard the words: "_dies venit, dies tua in qua reflorent omnia._" they were uttered within his heart, and he saw that all was being made ready for a great festival. over everything there was a hush of expectation; and as he gazed he knew that he was no longer in that weary land of dun ploughland and grey meadow, of the wild, bare trees and strange stunted thorn bushes. he was on a hillside, lying on the verge of a great wood; beneath, in the valley, a brook sang faintly under the leaves of the silvery willows; and beyond, far in the east, a vast wall of rounded mountain rose serene towards the sky. all about him was the green world of the leaves: odours of the summer night, deep in the mystic heart of the wood, odours of many flowers, and the cool breath rising from the singing stream mingled in his nostrils. the world whitened to the dawn, and then, as the light grew clear, the rose clouds blossomed in the sky and, answering, the earth seemed to glitter with rose-red sparks and glints of flame. all the east became as a garden of roses, red flowers of living light shone over the mountain, and as the beams of the sun lit up the circle of the earth a bird's song began from a tree within the wood. then were heard the modulations of a final and exultant ecstasy, the chant of liberation, a magistral _in exitu_; there was the melody of rejoicing trills, of unwearied, glad reiterations of choirs ever aspiring, prophesying the coming of the great feast, singing the eternal antiphon. as the song aspired into the heights, so there aspired suddenly before him the walls and pinnacles of a great church set upon a high hill. it was far off, and yet as though it were close at hand he saw all the delicate and wonderful imagery cut in its stones. the great door in the west was a miracle: every flower and leaf, every reed and fern, were clustered in the work of the capitals, and in the round arch above moulding within moulding showed all the beasts that god has made. he saw the rose-window, a maze of fretted tracery, the high lancets of the fair hall, the marvellous buttresses, set like angels about this holy house, whose pinnacles were as a place of many springing trees. and high above the vast, far-lifted vault of the roof rose up the spire, golden in the light. the bells were ringing for the feast; he heard from within the walls the roll and swell and triumph of the organ: _o pius o bonus o placidus sonus hymnus eorum._ he knew not how he had taken his place in this great procession, how, surrounded by ministrants in white, he too bore his part in endless litanies. he knew not through what strange land they passed in their fervent, admirable order, following their banners and their symbols that glanced on high before them. but that land stood ever, it seemed, in a clear, still air, crowned with golden sunlight; and so there were those who bore great torches of wax, strangely and beautifully adorned with golden and vermilion ornaments. the delicate flame of these tapers burned steadily in the still sunlight, and the glittering silver censers as they rose and fell tossed a pale cloud into the air. they delayed, now and again, by wayside shrines, giving thanks for unutterable compassions, and, advancing anew, the blessed company surged onward, moving to its unknown goal in the far blue mountains that rose beyond the plain. there were faces and shapes of awful beauty about him; he saw those in whose eyes were the undying lamps of heaven, about whose heads the golden hair was as an aureole; and there were they that above the girded vesture of white wore dyed garments, and as they advanced around their feet there was the likeness of dim flames. the great white array had vanished and he was alone. he was tracking a secret path that wound in and out through the thickets of a great forest. by solitary pools of still water, by great oaks, worlds of green leaves, by fountains and streams of water, by the bubbling, mossy sources of the brooks he followed this hidden way, now climbing and now descending, but still mounting upward, still passing, as he knew, farther and farther from all the habitations of men. through the green boughs now he saw the shining sea-water; he saw the land of the old saints, all the divisions of the land that men had given to them for god; he saw their churches, and it seemed as if he could hear, very faintly, the noise of the ringing of their holy bells. then, at last, when he had crossed the old road, and had gone by the lightning-struck land and the fisherman's well, he found, between the forest and the mountain, a very ancient and little chapel; and now he heard the bell of the saint ringing clearly and so sweetly that it was as it were the singing of the angels. within it was very dark and there was silence. he knelt and saw scarcely that the chapel was divided into two parts by a screen that rose up to the round roof. there was a glinting of shapes as if golden figures were painted on this screen, and through the joinings of its beams there streamed out thin needles of white splendour as if within there was a light greater than that of the sun at noonday. and the flesh began to tremble, for all the place was filled with the odours of paradise, and he heard the ringing of the holy bell and the voices of the choir that out-sang the fairy birds of rhiannon, crying and proclaiming: "_glory and praise to the conqueror of death: to the fountain of life unending._" nine times they sang this anthem, and then the whole place was filled with blinding light. for a door in the screen had been opened, and there came forth an old man, all in shining white, on whose head was a gold crown. before him went one who rang the bell; on each side there were young men with torches; and in his hands he bore the _mystery of mysteries_ wrapped about in veils of gold and of all colours, so that it might not be discerned; and so he passed before the screen, and the light of heaven burst forth from that which he held. then he entered in again by a door that was on the other side, and the holy things were hidden. and ambrose heard from within an awful voice and the words: _woe and great sorrow are on him, for he hath looked unworthily into the tremendous mysteries, and on the secret glory which is hidden from the holy angels._ ii "poetry is the only possible way of saying anything that is worth saying at all." this was an axiom that, in later years, ambrose meyrick's friends were forced to hear at frequent intervals. he would go on to say that he used the term poetry in its most liberal sense, including in it all mystic or symbolic prose, all painting and statuary that was worthy to be called art, all great architecture, and all true music. he meant, it is to be presumed, that the mysteries can only be conveyed by symbols; unfortunately, however, he did not always make it quite clear that this was the proposition that he intended to utter, and thus offence was sometimes given--as, for example, to the scientific gentleman who had been brought to meyrick's rooms and went away early, wondering audibly and sarcastically whether "your clever friend" wanted to metrify biology and set euclid to bach's organ fugues. however, the great axiom (as he called it) was the justification that he put forward in defence of the notes on which the previous section is based. "of course," he would say, "the symbolism is inadequate; but that is the defect of speech of any kind when you have once ventured beyond the multiplication table and the jargon of the stock exchange. inadequacy of expression is merely a minor part of the great tragedy of humanity. only an ass thinks that he has succeeded in uttering the perfect content of his thought without either excess or defect." "then, again," he might go on, "the symbolism would very likely be misleading to a great many people; but what is one to do? i believe many good people find turner mad and dickens tiresome. and if the great sometimes fail, what hope is there for the little? we cannot all be--well--popular novelists of the day." of course, the notes in question were made many years after the event they commemorate; they were the man's translation of all the wonderful and inexpressible emotions of the boy; and, as meyrick puts it, many "words" (or symbols) are used in them which were unknown to the lad of fifteen. "nevertheless," he said, "they are the best words that i can find." as has been said, the old grange was a large, roomy house; a space could easily have been found for half a dozen more boys if the high usher had cared to be bothered with them. as it was, it was a favour to be at horbury's, and there was usually some personal reason for admission. pelly, for example, was the son of an old friend; bates was a distant cousin; and rawson's father was the master of a small grammar school in the north with which certain ancestral horburys were somehow connected. the old grange was a fine large caroline house; it had a grave front of red brick, mellowed with age, tier upon tier of tall, narrow windows, flush with the walls, and a high-pitched, red-tiled roof. above the front door was a rich and curious wooden pent-house, deeply carven; and within there was plenty of excellent panelling, and some good mantelpieces, added, it would seem, somewhere about the adam period. horbury had seen its solid and comfortable merits and had bought the freehold years before at a great bargain. the school was increasing rapidly even in those days, and he knew that before long more houses would be required. if he left lupton he would be able to let the old grange easily--he might almost put it up for auction--and the rent would represent a return of fifty per cent on his investment. many of the rooms were large; of a size out of all proportion to the boys' needs, and at a very trifling expense partitions might be made and the nine or ten available rooms be subdivided into studies for twenty or even twenty-five boys. nature had gifted the high usher with a careful, provident mind in all things, both great and small; and it is but fair to add that on his leaving lupton for wareham he found his anticipations more than justified. to this day charles horbury, his nephew, a high government official, draws a comfortable income from his uncle's most prudent investment, and the house easily holds its twenty-five boys. rainy, who took the place from horbury, was an ingenious fellow and hit upon a capital plan for avoiding the expense of making new windows for some of the subdivided studies. after thoughtful consideration he caused the wooden partitions which were put up to stop short of the ceiling by four inches, and by this device the study with a window lighted the study that had none; and, as rainy explained to some of the parents, a diffused light was really better for the eyes than a direct one. in the old days, when ambrose meyrick was being made a man of, the four boys "rattled," as it were, in the big house. they were scattered about in odd corners, remote from each other, and it seemed from everybody else. meyrick's room was the most isolated of any, but it was also the most comfortable in winter, since it was over the kitchen, to the extreme left of the house. this part, which was hidden from the road by the boughs of a great cedar, was an after-thought, a georgian addition in grey brick, and rose only to two stories, and in the one furnished room out of the three or four over the kitchen and offices slept ambrose. he wished his days could be as quiet and retired as his nights. he loved the shadows that were about his bed even on the brightest mornings in summer; for the cedar boughs were dense, and ivy had been allowed to creep about the panes of the window; so the light entered dim and green, filtered through the dark boughs and the ivy tendrils. here, then, after the hour of ten each night, he dwelt secure. now and again mr. horbury would pay nocturnal surprise visits to see that all lights were out; but, happily, the stairs at the end of the passage, being old and badly fitted, gave out a succession of cracks like pistol shots if the softest foot was set on them. it was simple, therefore, on hearing the first of these reports, to extinguish the candle in the small secret lantern (held warily so that no gleam of light should appear from under the door) and to conceal the lantern under the bed-clothes. one wetted one's finger and pinched at the flame, so there was no smell of the expiring snuff, and the lantern slide was carefully drawn to guard against the possibility of suspicious grease-marks on the linen. it was perfect; and old horbury's visits, which were rare enough, had no terrors for ambrose. so that night, while the venom of the cane still rankled in his body, though it had ceased to disturb his mind, instead of going to bed at once, according to the regulations, he sat for a while on his box seeking a clue in a maze of odd fancies and conceits. he took off his clothes and wrapped his aching body in the rug from the bed, and presently, blowing out the official paraffin lamp, he lit his candle, ready at the first warning creak on the stairs to douse the glim and leap between the sheets. odd enough were his first cogitations. he was thinking how very sorry he was to have hit pelly that savage blow and to have endangered rawson's eyesight by the hard boards of the dictionary! this was eccentric, for he had endured from those two young apaches every extremity of unpleasantness for upwards of a couple of years. pelly was not by any means an evil lad: he was stupid and beefy within and without, and the great public school system was transmuting him, in the proper course and by the proper steps, into one of those brave average boobies whom meyrick used to rail against afterwards. pelly, in all probability (his fortunes have not been traced), went into the army and led the milder and more serious subalterns the devil's own life. in india he "lay doggo" with great success against some hill tribe armed with seventeenth-century muskets and rather barbarous knives; he seems to have been present at that "conference of the powers" described so brightly by mr. kipling. promoted to a captaincy, he fought with conspicuous bravery in south africa, winning the victoria cross for his rescue of a wounded private at the instant risk of his own life, and he finally led his troop into a snare set by an old farmer; a rabbit of average intelligence would have smelt and evaded it. for rawson one is sorry, but one cannot, in conscience, say much that is good, though he has been praised for his tact. he became domestic chaplain to the bishop of dorchester, whose daughter emily he married. but in those old days there was very little to choose between them, from meyrick's point of view. each had displayed a quite devilish ingenuity in the art of annoyance, in the whole cycle of jeers and sneers and "scores," as known to the schoolboy, and they were just proceeding to more active measures. meyrick had borne it all meekly; he had returned kindly and sometimes quaint answers to the unceasing stream of remarks that were meant to wound his feelings, to make him look a fool before any boys that happened to be about. he had only countered with a mild: "what do you do that for, pelly?" when the brave one smacked his head. "because i hate sneaks and funks," pelly had replied and meyrick said no more. rawson took a smaller size in victims when it was a question of physical torments; but he had invented a most offensive tale about meyrick and had told it all over the school, where it was universally believed. in a word, the two had done their utmost to reduce him to a state of utter misery; and now he was sorry that he had punched the nose of one and bombarded the other with a dictionary! the fact was that his forebearance had not been all cowardice; it is, indeed, doubtful whether he was in the real sense a coward at all. he went in fear, it is true, all his days, but what he feared was not the insult, but the intention, the malignancy of which the insult, or the blow, was the outward sign. the fear of a mad bull is quite distinct from the horror with which most people look upon a viper; it was the latter feeling which made meyrick's life a burden to him. and again there was a more curious shade of feeling; and that was the intense hatred that he felt to the mere thought of "scoring" off an antagonist, of beating down the enemy. he was a much sharper lad than either rawson or pelly; he could have retorted again and again with crushing effect, but he held his tongue, for all such victories were detestable to him. and this odd sentiment governed all his actions and feelings; he disliked "going up" in form, he disliked winning a game, not through any acquired virtue, but by inherent nature. poe would have understood meyrick's feelings; but then the author of _the imp of the perverse_ penetrated so deeply into the inmost secrets of humanity that anglo-saxon criticism has agreed in denouncing him as a wholly "inhuman" writer. with meyrick this mode of feeling had grown stronger by provocation; the more he was injured, the more he shrank from the thought of returning the injury. in a great measure the sentiment remained with him in later life. he would sally forth from his den in quest of fresh air on top of an omnibus and stroll peacefully back again rather than struggle for victory with the furious crowd. it was not so much that he disliked the physical contest: he was afraid of getting a seat! quite naturally, he said that people who "pushed," in the metaphorical sense, always reminded him of the hungry little pigs fighting for the largest share of the wash; but he seemed to think that, whereas this course of action was natural in the little pigs, it was profoundly unnatural in the little men. but in his early boyhood he had carried this secret doctrine of his to its utmost limits; he had assumed, as it were, the rôle of the coward and the funk; he had, without any conscious religious motive certainly, but in obedience to an inward command, endeavoured to play the part of a primitive christian, of a religious, in a great public school! _ama nesciri et pro nihilo æstimari._ the maxim was certainly in his heart, though he had never heard it; but perhaps if he had searched the whole world over he could not have found a more impossible field for its exercise than this seminary, where the broad, liberal principles of christianity were taught in a way that satisfied the press, the public and the parents. and he sat in his room and grieved over the fashion in which he had broken this discipline. still, something had to be done: he was compelled to stay in this place, and he did not wish to be reduced to the imbecility of wretched little phipps who had become at last more like a whimpering kitten with the mange than a human being. one had not the right to allow oneself to be made an idiot, so the principle had to be infringed--but externally only, never internally! of that he was firmly resolved; and he felt secure in his recollection that there had been no anger in his heart. he resented the presence of pelly and rawson, certainly, but in the manner with which some people resent the presence of a cat, a mouse, or a black-beetle, as disagreeable objects which can't help being disagreeable objects. but his bashing of pelly and his smashing of rawson, his remarks (gathered from careful observation by the banks of the lupton and birmingham canal); all this had been but the means to an end, the securing of peace and quiet for the future. he would not be murdered by this infernal public school system either, after the fashion of phipps--which was melancholy, or after the fashion of the rest--which was more melancholy still, since it is easier to recover from nervous breakdown than from suffusion of cant through the entire system, mental and spiritual. utterly from his heart he abjured and renounced all the horrible shibboleths of the school, its sham enthusiasm, its "ethos," its "tone," its "loyal co-operation--masters and boys working together for the good of the whole school"--all its ridiculous fetish conventions and absurd observances, the joint contrivances of young fools and old knaves. but his resistance should be secret and not open, for a while; there should be no more "bashing" than was absolutely necessary. and one thing he resolved upon--he would make all he could out of the place; he would work like a tiger and get all the latin and greek and french obtainable, in spite of the teaching and its imbecile pedantry. the school work must be done, so that trouble might be avoided, but here at night in his room he would really learn the languages they pottered over in form, wasting half their time in writing sham ciceronian prose which would have made cicero sick, and verse evil enough to cause virgil to vomit. then there was french, taught chiefly out of pompous eighteenth-century fooleries, with lists of irregular verbs to learn and babylonish nonsense about the past participle, and many other rotten formulas and rules, giving to the whole tongue the air of a tiresome puzzle which had been dug up out of a prehistoric grave. this was not the french that he wanted; still, he could write out irregular verbs by day and learn the language at night. he wondered whether unhappy french boys had to learn english out of the _rambler_, blair's _sermons_ and young's _night thoughts_. for he had some sort of smattering of english literature which a public school boy has no business to possess. so he went on with this mental tirade of his: one is not over-wise at fifteen. it is true enough, perhaps, that the french of the average english schoolboy is something fit to move only pity and terror; it may be true also that nobody except deans and schoolmasters seems to bring away even the formulas and sacred teachings (such as the optative mystery and the doctrine of dum) of the two great literatures. there is, doubtless, a good deal to be said on the subject of the public schoolman's knowledge of the history and literature of his own country; an infinite deal of comic stuff might be got out of his views and acquirements in the great science of theology--still let us say, _floreat_! meyrick turned from his review of the wisdom of his elders and instructors to more intimate concerns. there were a few cuts of that vigorous cane which still stung and hurt most abominably, for skill or fortune had guided mr. horbury's hand so that he had been enabled here and there to get home twice in the same place, and there was one particular weal on the left arm where the flesh, purple and discoloured, had swelled up and seemed on the point of bursting. it was no longer with rage, but with a kind of rapture, that he felt the pain and smarting; he looked upon the ugly marks of the high usher's evil humours as though they had been a robe of splendour. for he knew nothing of that bad sherry, nothing of the head's conversation; he knew that when pelly had come in quite as late it had only been a question of a hundred lines, and so he persisted in regarding himself as a martyr in the cause of those famous "norman arches," which was the cause of that dear dead enthusiast, his father, who loved gothic architecture and all other beautiful "unpractical" things with an undying passion. as soon as ambrose could walk he had begun his pilgrimages to hidden mystic shrines; his father had led him over the wild lands to places known perhaps only to himself, and there, by the ruined stones, by the smooth hillock, had told the tale of the old vanished time, the time of the "old saints." iii it was for this blessed and wonderful learning, he said to himself, that he had been beaten, that his body had been scored with red and purple stripes. he remembered his father's oft-repeated exclamation, "cythrawl sais!" he understood that the phrase damned not englishmen _qua_ englishmen, but anglo-saxonism--the power of the creed that builds manchester, that "does business," that invents popular dissent, representative government, adulteration, suburbs, and the public school system. it was, according to his father, the creed of "the prince of this world," the creed that made for comfort, success, a good balance at the bank, the praise of men, the sensible and tangible victory and achievement; and he bade his little boy, who heard everything and understood next to nothing, fly from it, hate it and fight against it as he would fight against the devil--"and," he would add, "it _is_ the only devil you are ever likely to come across." and the little ambrose had understood not much of all this, and if he had been asked--even at fifteen--what it all meant, he would probably have said that it was a great issue between norman mouldings and mr. horbury, an armageddon of selden abbey _versus_ rocker. indeed, it is doubtful whether old nicholas meyrick would have been very much clearer, for he forgot everything that might be said on the other side. he forgot that anglo-saxonism (save in the united states of america) makes generally for equal laws; that civil riot ("labour" movements, of course, excepted) is more a celtic than a saxon vice; that the penalty of burning alive is unknown amongst anglo-saxons, unless the provocation be extreme; that englishmen have substituted "indentured labour" for the old-world horrors of slavery; that english justice smites the guilty rich equally with the guilty poor; that men are no longer poisoned with swift and secret drugs, though somewhat unwholesome food may still be sold very occasionally. indeed, the old meyrick once told his rector that he considered a brothel a house of sanctity compared with a modern factory, and he was beginning to relate some interesting tales concerning the three gracious courtesans of the isle of britain when the rector fled in horror--he came from sydenham. and all this was a nice preparation for lupton. a wonderful joy, an ecstasy of bliss, swelled in ambrose's heart as he assured himself that he was a witness, though a mean one, for the old faith, for the faith of secret and beautiful and hidden mysteries as opposed to the faith of rocker and sticker and mucker, and "the thought of the school as an inspiring motive in life"--the text on which the head had preached the sunday before. he bared his arms and kissed the purple swollen flesh and prayed that it might ever be so, that in body and mind and spirit he might ever be beaten and reviled and made ridiculous for the sacred things, that he might ever be on the side of the despised and the unsuccessful, that his life might ever be in the shadow--in the shadow of the mysteries. he thought of the place in which he was, of the hideous school, the hideous town, the weary waves of the dun midland scenery bounded by the dim, hopeless horizon; and his soul revisited the faery hills and woods and valleys of the west. he remembered how, long ago, his father had roused him early from sleep in the hush and wonder of a summer morning. the whole world was still and windless; all the magic odours of the night rose from the earth, and as they crossed the lawn the silence was broken by the enchanted song of a bird rising from a thorn tree by the gate. a high white vapour veiled the sky, and they only knew that the sun had risen by the brightening of this veil, by the silvering of the woods and the meadows and the water in the rejoicing brook. they crossed the road, and crossed the brook in the field beneath, by the old foot-bridge tremulous with age, and began to climb the steep hillside that one could see from the windows, and, the ridge of the hill once surmounted, the little boy found himself in an unknown land: he looked into deep, silent valleys, watered by trickling streams; he saw still woods in that dreamlike morning air; he saw winding paths that climbed into yet remoter regions. his father led him onward till they came to a lonely height--they had walked scarcely two miles, but to ambrose it seemed a journey into another world--and showed him certain irregular markings in the turf. and nicholas meyrick murmured: "the cell of iltyd is by the seashore, the ninth wave washes its altar, there is a fair shrine in the land of morgan. "the cell of dewi is in the city of the legions, nine altars owe obedience to it, sovereign is the choir that sings about it. "the cell of cybi is the treasure of gwent, nine hills are its perpetual guardians, nine songs befit the memory of the saint." "see," he said, "there are the nine hills." he pointed them out to the boy, telling him the tale of the saint and his holy bell, which they said had sailed across the sea from syon and had entered the severn, and had entered the usk, and had entered the soar, and had entered the canthwr; and so one day the saint, as he walked beside the little brook that almost encompassed the hill in its winding course, saw the bell "that was made of metal that no man might comprehend," floating under the alders, and crying: "_sant, sant, sant, i sail from syon to cybi sant!_" "and so sweet was the sound of that bell," ambrose's father went on, "that they said it was as the joy of angels _ym mharadwys_, and that it must have come not from the earthly, but from the heavenly and glorious syon." and there they stood in the white morning, on the uneven ground that marked the place where once the saint rang to the sacrifice, where the quickening words were uttered after the order of the old mass of the britons. "and then came the yellow hag of pestilence, that destroyed the bodies of the cymri; then the red hag of rome, that caused their souls to stray; last is come the black hag of geneva, that sends body and soul quick to hell. no honour have the saints any more." then they turned home again, and all the way ambrose thought he heard the bell as it sailed the great deeps from syon, crying aloud: "sant, sant, sant!" and the sound seemed to echo from the glassy water of the little brook, as it swirled and rippled over the shining stones circling round those lonely hills. so they made strange pilgrimages over the beloved land, going farther and farther afield as the boy grew older. they visited deep wells in the heart of the woods, where a few broken stones, perhaps, were the last remains of the hermitage. "ffynnon ilar bysgootwr--the well of saint ilar the fisherman," nicholas meyrick would explain, and then would follow the story of ilar; how no man knew whence he came or who his parents were. he was found, a little child, on a stone in a river in armorica, by king alan, and rescued by him. and ever after they discovered on the stone in the river where the child had lain every day a great and shining fish lying, and on this fish ilar was nourished. and so he came with a great company of the saints to britain, and wandered over all the land. "so at last ilar sant came to this wood, which people now call st. hilary's wood because they have forgotten all about ilar. and he was weary with his wandering, and the day was very hot; so he stayed by this well and began to drink. and there on that great stone he saw the shining fish, and so he rested, and built an altar and a church of willow boughs, and offered the sacrifice not only for the quick and the dead, but for all the wild beasts of the woods and the streams. "and when this blessed ilar rang his holy bell and began to offer, there came not only the prince and his servants, but all the creatures of the wood. there, under the hazel boughs, you might see the hare, which flies so swiftly from men, come gently and fall down, weeping greatly on account of the passion of the son of mary. and, beside the hare, the weasel and the pole-cat would lament grievously in the manner of penitent sinners; and wolves and lambs together adored the saint's hierurgy; and men have beheld tears streaming from the eyes of venomous serpents when ilar agios uttered 'curiluson' with a loud voice--since the serpent is not ignorant that by its wickedness sorrow came to the whole world. and when, in the time of the holy ministry, it is necessary that frequent alleluyas should be chanted and vociferated, the saint wondered what should be done, for as yet none in that place was skilled in the art of song. then was a great miracle, since from all the boughs of the wood, from every bush and from every green tree, there resounded alleluyas in enchanting and prolonged harmony; never did the bishop of rome listen to so sweet a singing in his church as was heard in this wood. for the nightingale and thrush and blackbird and blackcap, and all their companions, are gathered together and sing praises to the lord, chanting distinct notes and yet concluding in a melody of most ravishing sweetness; such was the mass of the fisherman. nor was this all, for one day as the saint prayed beside the well he became aware that a bee circled round and round his head, uttering loud buzzing sounds, but not endeavouring to sting him. to be short; the bee went before ilar, and led him to a hollow tree not far off, and straightway a swarm of bees issued forth, leaving a vast store of wax behind them. this was their oblation to the most high, for from their wax ilar sant made goodly candles to burn at the offering; and from that time the bee is holy, because his wax makes light to shine upon the gifts." this was part of the story that ambrose's father read to him; and they went again to see the holy well. he looked at the few broken and uneven stones that were left to distinguish it from common wells; and there in the deep green wood, in the summer afternoon, under the woven boughs, he seemed to hear the strange sound of the saint's bell, to see the woodland creatures hurrying through the undergrowth that they might be present at the offering. the weasel beat his little breast for his sins; the big tears fell down the gentle face of the hare; the adders wept in the dust; and all the chorus of the birds sang: "alleluya, alleluya, alleluya!" once they drove a long way from the wern, going towards the west, till they came to the great mountain, as the people called it. after they had turned from the high road they went down a narrow lane, and this led them with many windings to a lower ridge of the mountain, where the horse and trap were put up at a solitary tavern. then they began to toil upward on foot, crossing many glistening and rejoicing streams that rushed out cold from the limestone rock, mounting up and up, through the wet land where the rare orchis grew amongst the rushes, through hazel brakes, through fields that grew wilder as they still went higher, and the great wind came down from the high dome above them. they turned, and all the shining land was unrolled before them; the white houses were bright in the sunlight, and there, far away, was the yellow sea and the two islands, and the coasts beyond. nicholas meyrick pointed out a tuft of trees on a hill a long way off and told his son that the wern was hidden beyond it; and then they began to climb once more, till they came at last to the line where the fields and hedges ended, and above there was only the wild mountain land. and on this verge stood an old farmhouse with strong walls, set into the rock, sheltered a little from the winds by a line of twisted beeches. the walls of the house were gleaming white, and by the porch there was a shrub covered with bright yellow flowers. mr. meyrick beat upon the oak door, painted black and studded with heavy nails. an old man, dressed like a farmer, opened it, and ambrose noticed that his father spoke to him with something of reverence in his voice, as if he were some very great person. they sat down in a long room, but dimly lighted by the thick greenish glass in the quarried window, and presently the old farmer set a great jug of beer before them. they both drank heartily enough, and mr. meyrick said: "aren't you about the last to brew your own beer, mr. cradock?" "iss; i be the last of all. they do all like the muck the brewer sends better than _cwrw dda_." "the whole world likes muck better than good drink, now." "you be right, sir. old days and old ways of our fathers, they be gone for ever. there was a blasted preacher down at the chapel a week or two ago, saying--so they do tell me--that they would all be damned to hell unless they took to ginger-beer directly. iss indeed now; and i heard that he should say that a man could do a better day's work on that rot-belly stuff than on good beer. wass you ever hear of such a liarr as that?" the old man was furious at the thought of these infamies and follies; his esses hissed through his teeth and his r's rolled out with fierce emphasis. mr. meyrick nodded his approval of this indignation. "we have what we deserve," he said. "false preachers, bad drink, the talk of fools all the day long--even on the mountain. what is it like, do you think, in london?" there fell a silence in the long, dark room. they could hear the sound of the wind in the beech trees, and ambrose saw how the boughs were tossed to and fro, and he thought of what it must be like in winter nights, here, high upon the great mountain, when the storms swept up from the sea, or descended from the wilds of the north; when the shafts of rain were like the onset of an army, and the winds screamed about the walls. "may we see it?" said mr. meyrick suddenly. "i did think you had come for that. there be very few now that remember." he went out, and returned carrying a bunch of keys. then he opened a door in the room and warned "the young master" to take care of the steps. ambrose, indeed, could scarcely see the way. his father led him down a short flight of uneven stone steps, and they were in a room which seemed at first quite dark, for the only light came from a narrow window high up in the wall, and across the glass there were heavy iron bars. cradock lit two tall candles of yellow wax that stood in brass candlesticks on a table; and, as the flame grew clear, ambrose saw that he was opening a sort of aumbry constructed in the thickness of the wall. the door was a great slab of solid oak, three or four inches thick--as one could see when it was opened--and from the dark place within the farmer took an iron box and set it carefully upon the floor, mr. meyrick helping him. they were strong men, but they staggered under the weight of the chest; the iron seemed as thick as the door of the cupboard from which it was taken, and the heavy, antique lock yielded, with a grating scream, to the key. inside it there was another box of some reddish metal, which, again, held a case of wood black with age; and from this, with reverent hands, the farmer drew out a veiled and splendid cup and set it on the table between the two candles. it was a bowl-like vessel of the most wonderful workmanship, standing on a short stem. all the hues of the world were mingled on it, all the jewels of the regions seemed to shine from it; and the stem and foot were encrusted with work in enamel, of strange and magical colours that shone and dimmed with alternating radiance, that glowed with red fires and pale glories, with the blue of the far sky, the green of the faery seas, and the argent gleam of the evening star. but before ambrose had gazed more than a moment he heard the old man say, in pure welsh, not in broken english, in a resonant and chanting voice: "let us fall down and adore the marvellous and venerable work of the lord god almighty." to which his father responded: "agyos, agyos, agyos. mighty and glorious is the lord god almighty, in all his works and wonderful operations. curiluson, curiluson, curiluson." they knelt down, cradock in the midst, before the cup, and ambrose and his father on either hand. the holy vessel gleamed before the boy's eyes, and he saw clearly its wonder and its beauty. all its surface was a marvel of the most delicate intertwining lines in gold and silver, in copper and in bronze, in all manner of metals and alloys; and these interlacing patterns in their brightness, in the strangeness of their imagery and ornament, seemed to enthral his eyes and capture them, as it were, in a maze of enchantment; and not only the eyes; for the very spirit was rapt and garnered into that far bright world whence the holy magic of the cup proceeded. among the precious stones which were set into the wonder was a great crystal, shining with the pure light of the moon; about the rim of it there was the appearance of faint and feathery clouds, but in the centre it was a white splendour; and as ambrose gazed he thought that from the heart of this jewel there streamed continually a shower of glittering stars, dazzling his eyes with their incessant motion and brightness. his body thrilled with a sudden ineffable rapture, his breath came and went in quick pantings; bliss possessed him utterly as the three crowned forms passed in their golden order. then the interwoven sorcery of the vessel became a ringing wood of golden, and bronze, and silver trees; from every side resounded the clear summons of the holy bells and the exultant song of the faery birds; he no longer heard the low-chanting voices of cradock and his father as they replied to one another in the forms of some antique liturgy. then he stood by a wild seashore; it was a dark night, and there was a shrilling wind that sang about the peaks of the sharp rock, answering to the deep voices of the heaving sea. a white moon, of fourteen days old, appeared for a moment in the rift between two vast black clouds, and the shaft of light showed all the savage desolation of the shore--cliffs that rose up into mountains, into crenellated heights that were incredible, whose bases were scourged by the torrents of hissing foam that were driven against them from the hollow-sounding sea. then, on the highest of those awful heights, ambrose became aware of walls and spires, of towers and battlements that must have touched the stars; and, in the midst of this great castle, there surged up the aspiring vault of a vast church, and all its windows were ablaze with a light so white and glorious that it was as if every pane were a diamond. and he heard the voices of a praising host, or the clamour of golden trumpets and the unceasing choir of the angels. and he knew that this place was the sovereign perpetual choir, cor-arbennic, into whose secret the deadly flesh may scarcely enter. but in the vision he lay breathless, on the floor before the gleaming wall of the sanctuary, while the shadows of the hierurgy were enacted; and it seemed to him that, for a moment of time, he saw in unendurable light the mystery of mysteries pass veiled before him, and the image of the slain and risen. for a brief while this dream was broken. he heard his father singing softly: "gogoniant y tâd ac y mab ac yr yspryd glân." and the old man answered: "agya trias eleeson ymas." then again his spirit was lost in the bright depths of the crystal, and he saw the ships of the saints, without oar or sail, afloat on the faery sea, seeking the glassy isle. all the whole company of the blessed saints of the isle of britain sailed on the adventure; dawn and sunset, night and morning, their illuminated faces never wavered; and ambrose thought that at last they saw bright shores in the dying light of a red sun, and there came to their nostrils the scent of the deep apple-garths in avalon, and odours of paradise. * * * * * when he finally returned to the presence of earthly things he was standing by his father; while cradock reverently wrapped the cup in the gleaming veils which covered it, saying as he did so, in welsh: "remain in peace, o holy and divine cup of the lord. henceforth i know not whether i shall return to thee or not; but may the lord vouchsafe me to see thee in the church of the firstborn which is in heaven, on the altar of the sacrifice which is from age unto ages." ambrose went up the steps and out into the sunshine on the mountain side with the bewilderment of strange dreams, as a coloured mist, about him. he saw the old white walls, the yellow blossoms by the porch; above, the wild, high mountain wall; and, below, all the dear land of gwent, happy in the summer air, all its woods and fields, its rolling hills and its salt verge, rich in a golden peace. beside him the cold water swelled from the earth and trickled from the grey rock, and high in the air an exultant lark was singing. the mountain breeze was full of life and gladness, and the rustling and tossing of the woods, the glint and glimmer of the leaves beneath, made one think that the trees, with every creature, were merry on that day. and in that dark cell beneath many locks, beneath wood and iron, concealed in golden, glittering veils, lay hidden that glorious and awful cup, glass of wonderful vision, portal and entrance of the spiritual place. his father explained to him something of that which he had seen. he told him that the vessel was the holy cup of teilo sant, which he was said to have received from the lord in the state of paradise, and that when teilo said mass, using that chalice, the choir of angels was present visibly; that it was a cup of wonders and mysteries, the bestower of visions and heavenly graces. "but whatever you do," he said, "do not speak to anyone of what you have seen to-day, because if you do the mystery will be laughed at and blasphemed. do you know that your uncle and aunt at lupton would say that we were all mad together? that is because they are fools, and in these days most people are fools, and malignant fools too, as you will find out for yourself before you are much older. so always remember that you must hide the secrets that you have seen; and if you do not do so you will be sorry." mr. meyrick told his son why old cradock was to be treated with respect--indeed, with reverence. "he is just what he looks," he said, "an old farmer with a small freehold up here on the mountain side; and, as you heard, his english is no better than that of any other farmer in this country. and, compared with cradock, the duke of norfolk is a man of yesterday. he is of the tribe of teilo the saint; he is the last, in direct descent, of the hereditary keepers of the holy cup; and his race has guarded that blessed relic for thirteen hundred years. remember, again, that to-day, on this mountain, you have seen great marvels which you must keep in silence." poor ambrose! he suffered afterwards for his forgetfulness of his father's injunction. soon after he went to lupton one of the boys was astonishing his friends with a brilliant account of the crown jewels, which he had viewed during the christmas holidays. everybody was deeply impressed, and young meyrick, anxious to be agreeable in his turn, began to tell about the wonderful cup that he had once seen in an old farmhouse. perhaps his manner was not convincing, for the boys shrieked with laughter over his description. a monitor who was passing asked to hear the joke, and, having been told the tale, clouted ambrose over the head for an infernal young liar. this was a good lesson, and it served ambrose in good stead when one of the masters having, somehow or other, heard the story, congratulated him in the most approved scholastic manner before the whole form on his wonderful imaginative gifts. "i see the budding novelist in you, meyrick," said this sly master. "besant and rice will be nowhere when you once begin. i suppose you are studying character just at present? let us down gently, won't you? [to the delighted form.] we must be careful, mustn't we, how we behave? 'a chiel's amang us takin' notes,'" etc. etc. but meyrick held his tongue. he did not tell his form master that he was a beast, a fool and a coward, since he had found out that the truth, like many precious things, must often be concealed from the profane. a late vengeance overtook that foolish master. long years after, he was dining at a popular london restaurant, and all through dinner he had delighted the ladies of his party by the artful mixture of brutal insolence and vulgar chaff with which he had treated one of the waiters, a humble-looking little italian. the master was in the highest spirits at the success of his persiflage; his voice rose louder and louder, and his offensiveness became almost supernaturally acute. and then he received a heavy earthen casserole, six quails, a few small onions and a quantity of savoury but boiling juices full in the face. the waiter was a neapolitan. the hours of the night passed on, as ambrose sat in his bedroom at the old grange, recalling many wonderful memories, dreaming his dreams of the mysteries, of the land of gwent and the land of vision, just as his uncle, but a few yards away in another room of the house, was at the same time rapt into the world of imagination, seeing the new lupton descending like a bride from the heaven of headmasters. but ambrose thought of the great mountain, of the secret valleys, of the sanctuaries and hallows of the saints, of the rich carven work of lonely churches hidden amongst the hills and woods. there came into his mind the fragment of an old poem which he loved: "in the darkness of old age let not my memory fail, let me not forget to celebrate the beloved land of gwent. if they imprison me in a deep place, in a house of pestilence, still shall i be free, when i remember the sunshine upon mynydd maen. there have i listened to the singing of the lark, my soul has ascended with the song of the little bird; the great white clouds were the ships of my spirit, sailing to the haven of the almighty. equally to be held in honour is the site of the great mountain, adorned with the gushing of many waters- sweet is the shade of its hazel thickets, there a treasure is preserved, which i will not celebrate, it is glorious, and deeply concealed. if teilo should return, if happiness were restored to the cymri, dewi and dyfrig should serve his mass; then a great marvel would be made visible. o blessed and miraculous work, then should my bliss be as the bliss of angels; i had rather behold this offering than kiss the twin lips of dark gwenllian. dear my land of gwent, _o quam dilecta tabernacula_! thy rivers are like precious golden streams of paradise, thy hills are as the mount syon- better a grave on twyn barlwm than a throne in the palace of the saxons at caer-ludd." and then, by the face of contrast, he thought of the first verse of the great school song, "rocker," one of the earliest of the many poems which his uncle had consecrated to the praise of the dear old school: "once on a time, in the books that bore me, i read that in olden days before me lupton town had a wonderful game, it was a game with a noble story (lupton town was then in its glory, kings and bishops had brought it fame). it was a game that you all must know, and 'rocker' they called it, long ago. _chorus._ "look out for 'brooks,' or you're sure to drown, look out for 'quarries,' or else you're down- that was the way 'rocker' to play- once on a day that was the way, once on a day, that was the way that they used to play in lupton town." thinking of the two songs, he put out his light and, wearied, fell into a deep sleep. iv the british schoolboy, considered in a genial light by those who have made him their special study, has not been found to be either observant or imaginative. or, rather, it would be well to say that his powers of observation, having been highly specialised within a certain limited tract of thought and experience (bounded mainly by cricket and football), are but faint without these bounds; while it is one of the chiefest works of the system to kill, destroy, smash and bring to nothing any powers of imagination he may have originally possessed. for if this were not done thoroughly, neither a conservative nor a liberal administration would be possible, the house of commons itself would cease to exist, the episcopus (var. anglicanus) would go the way of the great bustard; a "muddling through somehow" (which must have been _the_ brightest jewel in the british crown, wrung from king john by the barons) would become a lost art. and, since all these consequences would be clearly intolerable, the great public schools have perfected a very thorough system of destroying the imaginative toxin, and few cases of failure have been so far reported. still, there are facts which not even the densest dullards, the most complete boobies, can help seeing; and a good many of the boys found themselves wondering "what was the matter with meyrick" when they saw him at chapel on the sunday morning. the news of his astounding violences both of act and word on the night before had not yet circulated generally. bates was attending to that department, but hadn't had time to do much so far; and the replies of pelly and rawson to enquiries after black eyes and a potato-like nose were surly and misleading. afterwards, when the tale was told, when bates, having enlarged the incidents to folk-lore size, showed pelly lying in a pool of his own blood, rawson screaming as with the torments of the lost and meyrick rolling out oaths--all original and all terrible--for the space of a quarter of an hour, then indeed the school was satisfied; it was no wonder if meyrick did look a bit queer after the achievement of such an adventure. the funk of aforetime had found courage; the air of rapture was easily understood. it is probable that if, in the nature of things, it had been possible for an english schoolboy to meet st. francis of assisi, the boy would have concluded that the saint must have just made 200 not out in first-class cricket. but ambrose walked in a strange light; he had been admitted into worlds undreamed of, and from the first brightness of the sun, when he awoke in the morning in his room at the grange, it was the material world about him, the walls of stone and brick, the solid earth, the sky itself, and the people who talked and moved and seemed alive--these were things of vision, unsubstantial shapes, odd and broken illusions of the mind. at half-past seven old toby, the man-of-all-work at the old grange banged at his door and let his clean boots fall with a crash on the boards after the usual fashion. he awoke, sat up in bed, staring about him. but what was this? the four walls covered with a foolish speckled paper, pale blue and pale brown, the white ceiling, the bare boards with the strip of carpet by the bedside: he knew nothing of all this. he was not horrified, because he knew that it was all non-existent, some plastic fantasy that happened to be presented for the moment to his brain. even the big black wooden chest that held his books (_parker_, despised by horbury, among them) failed to appeal to him with any sense of reality; and the bird's-eye washstand and chest of drawers, the white water-jug with the blue band, were all frankly phantasmal. it reminded him of a trick he had sometimes played: one chose one's position carefully, shut an eye and, behold, a mean shed could be made to obscure the view of a mountain! so these walls and appurtenances made an illusory sort of intrusion into the true vision on which he gazed. that yellow washstand rising out of the shining wells of the undying, the speckled walls in the place of the great mysteries, a chest of drawers in the magic garden of roses--it had the air of a queer joke, and he laughed aloud to himself as he realized that he alone knew, that everybody else would say, "that is a white jug with a blue band," while he, and he only, saw the marvel and glory of the holy cup with its glowing metals, its interlacing myriad lines, its wonderful images, and its hues of the mountain and the stars, of the green wood and the faery sea where, in a sure haven, anchor the ships that are bound for avalon. for he had a certain faith that he had found the earthly presentation and sacrament of the eternal heavenly mystery. he smiled again, with the quaint smile of an angel in an old italian picture, as he realized more fully the strangeness of the whole position and the odd humours which would relieve to play a wonderful game of make-believe; the speckled walls, for instance, were not really there, but he was to behave just as if they were solid realities. he would presently rise and go through an odd pantomine of washing and dressing, putting on brilliant boots, and going down to various mumbo-jumbo ceremonies called breakfast, chapel and dinner, in the company of appearances to whom he would accord all the honours due to veritable beings. and this delicious phantasmagoria would go on and on day after day, he alone having the secret; and what a delight it would be to "play up" at rocker! it seemed to him that the solid-seeming earth, the dear old school and rocker itself had all been made to minister to the acuteness of his pleasure; they were the darkness that made the light visible, the matter through which form was manifested. for the moment he enclosed in the most secret place of his soul the true world into which he had been guided; and as he dressed he hummed the favourite school song, "never mind!" "if the umpire calls 'out' at your poor second over, if none of your hits ever turns out a 'rover,' if you fumble your fives and 'go rot' over sticker, if every hound is a little bit quicker; if you can't tackle rocker at all, not at all, and kick at the moon when you try for the ball, never mind, never mind, never mind--if you fall, dick falls before rising, tom's short ere he's tall, never mind! don't be one of the weakest who go to the wall: never mind!" ambrose could not understand how columbus could have blundered so grossly. somehow or other he should have contrived to rid himself of his crew; he should have returned alone, with a dismal tale of failure, and passed the rest of his days as that sad and sorry charlatan who had misled the world with his mad whimsies of a continent beyond the waters of the atlantic. if he had been given wisdom to do this, how great--how wonderful would his joys have been! they would have pointed at him as he paced the streets in his shabby cloak; the boys would have sung songs about him and his madness; the great people would have laughed contemptuously as he went by. and he would have seen in his heart all that vast far world of the west, the rich islands barred by roaring surf, a whole hemisphere of strange regions and strange people; he would have known that he alone possessed the secret of it. but, after all, ambrose knew that his was a greater joy even than this; for the world that he had discovered was not far across the seas, but within him. pelly stared straight before him in savage silence all through breakfast; he was convinced that mere hazard had guided that crushing blow, and he was meditating schemes of complete and exemplary vengeance. he noticed nothing strange about meyrick, nor would he have cared if he had seen the images of the fairies in his eyes. rawson, on the other hand, was full of genial civility and good fellowship; it was "old chap" and "old fellow" every other word. but he was far from unintelligent, and, as he slyly watched meyrick, he saw that there was something altogether unaccustomed and incomprehensible. unknown lights burned and shone in the eyes, reflections of one knew not what; the expression was altered in some queer way that he could not understand. meyrick had always been a rather ugly, dogged-looking fellow; his black hair and something that was not usual in the set of his features gave him an exotic, almost an oriental appearance; hence a story of rawson's to the effect that meyrick's mother was a nigger woman in poor circumstances and of indifferent morality had struck the school as plausible enough. but now the grimness of the rugged features seemed abolished; the face shone, as it were, with the light of a flame--but a flame of what fire? rawson, who would not have put his observations into such terms, drew his own conclusions readily enough and imparted them to pelly after chapel. "look here, old chap," he said, "did you notice young meyrick at breakfast?" pelly simply blasted meyrick and announced his intention of giving him the worst thrashing he had ever had at an early date. "don't you try it on," said rawson. "i had my eye on him all the time. he didn't see i was spotting him. he's cracked; he's dangerous. i shouldn't wonder if he were in a strait waistcoat in the county lunatic asylum in a week's time. my governor had a lot to do with lunatics, and he always says he can tell by the eyes. i'll swear meyrick is raging mad." "oh, rot!" said pelly. "what do you know about it?" "well, look out, old chap, and don't say i didn't give you the tip. of course, you know a maniac is stronger than three ordinary men? the only thing is to get them down and crack their ribs. but you want at least half a dozen men before you can do it." "oh, shut up!" so rawson said no more, remaining quite sure that he had diagnosed ambrose's symptoms correctly. he waited for the catastrophe with a dreadful joy, wondering whether meyrick would begin by cutting old horbury's throat with his own razor, or whether he would rather steal into pelly's room at night and tear him limb from limb, a feat which, as a madman, he could, of course, accomplish with perfect ease. as a matter of fact, neither of these events happened. pelly, a boy of the bulldog breed, smacked ambrose's face a day or two later before a huge crowd of boys, and received in return such a terrific blow under the left ear that a formal fight in the tom brown manner was out of the question. pelly reached the ground and stayed there in an unconscious state for some while; and the other boys determined that it would be as well to leave meyrick to himself. he might be cracked but he was undoubtedly a hard hitter. as for pelly, like the sensible fellow that he was, he simply concluded that meyrick was too good for him. he did not quite understand it; he dimly suspected the intrusion of some strange forces, but with such things he had nothing to do. it was a fair knock-out, and there was an end of it. bates had glanced up as ambrose came into the dining-room on the sunday morning. he saw the shining face, the rapturous eyes, and had silently wondered, recognising the presence of elements which transcended all his calculations. meanwhile the lupton sunday went on after its customary fashion. at eleven o'clock the chapel was full of boys. there were nearly six hundred of them there, the big ones in frock-coats, with high, pointed collars, which made them look like youthful gladstones. the younger boys wore broad, turn-down collars and had short, square jackets made somewhat in the basque fashion. young and old had their hair cut close to the scalp, and this gave them all a brisk but bullety appearance. the masters, in cassock, gown and hood, occupied the choir stalls. mr. horbury, the high usher, clothed in a flowing surplice, was taking morning prayer, and the head occupied a kind of throne by the altar. the chapel was not an inspiring building. it was the fourteenth century, certainly, but the fourteenth century translated by 1840, and, it is to be feared, sadly betrayed by the translators. the tracery of the windows was poor and shallow; the mouldings of the piers and arches faulty to a degree; the chancel was absurdly out of proportion, and the pitch-pine benches and stalls had a sticky look. there was a stained-glass window in memory of the old luptonians who fell in the crimea. one wondered what the woman of samaria by the well had to do either with lupton or the crimea. and the colouring was like that used in very common, cheap sweets. the service went with a rush. the prayers, versicles and responses, and psalms were said, the officiant and the congregation rather pressing than pausing--often, indeed, coming so swiftly to cues that two or three words at the end of one verse or two or three at the beginning of the next would be lost in a confused noise of contending voices. but _venite_ and _te deum_ and _benedictus_ were rattled off to frisky anglicans with great spirit; sometimes the organ tooted, sometimes it bleated gently, like a flock of sheep; now one might have sworn that the music of penny whistles stole on the ear, and again, as the organist coupled up the full organ, using suddenly all the battery of his stops, a gas explosion and a salvation army band seemed to strive against one another. a well-known nobleman who had been to chapel at lupton was heard to say, with reference to this experience: "i am no ritualist, heaven knows--but i confess i like a hearty service." but it was, above all, the sermon that has made the chapel a place of many memories. the old boys say--and one supposes that they are in earnest--that the tall, dignified figure of the doctor, standing high above them all, his scarlet hood making a brilliant splash of colour against the dingy, bilious paint of the pale green walls, has been an inspiration to them in all quarters of the globe, in all manner of difficulties and temptations. one man writes that in the midst of a complicated and dangerous deal on the stock exchange he remembered a sermon of dr. chesson's called in the printed volume, "fighting the good fight." "you have a phrase amongst you which i often hear," said the head. "that phrase is 'play the game,' and i wish to say that, though you know it not; though, it may be, the words are often spoken half in jest; still, they are but your modern, boyish rendering of the old, stirring message which i have just read to you. "fight the good fight.' 'play the game.' remember the words in the storm and struggle, the anxiety and stress that may be--nay, must be--before you--etc., etc., etc." "after the crisis was over," wrote the stock exchange man, "i was thankful that i _had_ remembered those words." "that voice sounding like a trumpet on the battle-field, bidding us all remember that success was the prize of effort and endurance----" so writes a well-known journalist. "i remembered what the doctor said to us once about 'running the race,'" says a young soldier, recounting a narrow escape from a fierce enemy, "so i stuck to my orders." ambrose, on that sunday morning, sat in his place, relishing acutely all the savours of the scene, consumed with inward mirth at the thought that this also professed to be a rite of religion. there was an aimless and flighty merriment about the chant to the _te deum_ that made it difficult for him to control his laughter; and when he joined in the hymn "pleasant are thy courts above," there was an odd choke in his voice that made the boy next to him shuffle uneasily. but the sermon! it will be found on page 125 of the _lupton sermons_. it dealt with the parable of the talents, and showed the boys in what the sin of the man who concealed his talent really consisted. "i daresay," said the head, "that many of the older amongst you have wondered what this man's sin really was. you may have read your greek testaments carefully, and then have tried to form in your minds some analogy to the circumstances of the parable--and it would not surprise me if you were to tell me that you had failed. "what manner of man was this? i can imagine your saying one to another. i shall not be astonished if you confess that, for you at least, the question seems unanswerable. "yes; unanswerable to you. for you are english boys, the sons of english gentlemen, to whom the atmosphere of casuistry, of concealment, of subtlety, is unknown; by whom such an atmosphere would be rejected with scorn. you come from homes where there is no shadow, no dark corner which must not be pried into. your relations and your friends are not of those who hide their gifts from the light of day. some of you, perhaps, have had the privilege of listening to the talk of one or other of the great statesmen who guide the doctrines of this vast empire. you will have observed, i am sure, that in the world of politics there is no vain simulation of modesty, no feigned reluctance to speak of worthy achievement. all of you are members of this great community, of which each one of us is so proud, which we think of as the great inspiration and motive force of our lives. here, you will say, there are no hidden talents, for the note of the english public school (thank god for it!) is openness, frankness, healthy emulation; each endeavouring to do his best for the good of all. in our studies and in our games each desires to excel to carry off the prize. we strive for a corruptible crown, thinking that this, after all, is the surest discipline for the crown that is incorruptible. if a man say that he loveth god whom he hath not seen, and love not his brother whom he hath seen! let your light _shine_ before men. be sure that we shall never win heaven by despising earth. "yet that man hid his talent in a napkin. what does the story mean? what message has it for us to-day? "i will tell you. "some years ago during our summer holidays i was on a walking tour in a mountainous district in the north of england. the sky was of a most brilliant blue, the sun poured, as it were, a gospel of gladness on the earth. towards the close of the day i was entering a peaceful and beautiful valley amongst the hills, when three sullen notes of a bell came down the breeze towards me. there was a pause. again the three strokes, and for a third time this dismal summons struck my ears. i walked on in the direction of the sound, wondering whence it came and what it signified; and soon i saw before me a great pile of buildings, surrounded by a gloomy and lofty wall. "it was a roman catholic monastery. the bell was ringing the angelus, as it is called. "i obtained admittance to this place and spoke to some of the unhappy monks. i should astonish you if i mentioned the names of some of the deluded men who had immured themselves in this prison-house. it is sufficient to say that among them were a soldier who had won distinction on the battle-field, an artist, a statesman and a physician of no mean repute. "now do you understand? ah! a day will come--you know, i think, what that day is called--when these poor men will have to answer the question: 'where is the talent that was given to you?' "'where was your sword in the hour of your country's danger?' "'where was your picture, your consecration of your art to the service of morality and humanity, when the doors of the great exhibition were thrown open?' "'where was your silver eloquence, your voice of persuasion, when the strife of party was at its fiercest?' "'where was your god-given skill in healing when one of royal blood lay fainting on the bed of dire--almost mortal--sickness?' "and the answer? 'i laid it up in a napkin.' and now, etc., etc." then the whole six hundred boys sang "o paradise! o paradise!" with a fervour and sincerity that were irresistible. the organ thundered till the bad glass shivered and rattled, and the service was over. v almost the last words that ambrose had heard after his wonderful awaking were odd enough, though at the time he took little note of them, since they were uttered amidst passionate embraces, amidst soft kisses on his poor beaten flesh. indeed, if these words recurred to him afterwards, they never made much impression on his mind, though to most people they would seem of more serious import than much else that was uttered that night! the sentences ran something like this: "the cruel, wicked brute! he shall be sorry all his days, and every blow shall be a grief to him. my dear! i promise you he shall pay for to-night ten times over. his heart shall ache for it till it stops beating." there cannot be much doubt that this promise was kept to the letter. no one knew how wicked rumours concerning mr. horbury got abroad in lupton, but from that very day the execution of the sentence began. in the evening the high usher, paying a visit to a friend in town, took a short cut through certain dark, ill-lighted streets, and was suddenly horrified to hear his name shrieked out, coupled with a most disgusting accusation. his heart sank down in his breast; his face, he knew, was bloodless; and then he rushed forward to the malpassage whence the voice seemed to proceed. there was nothing there. it was a horrid little alley, leading from one slum to another, between low walls and waste back-gardens, dismal and lampless. horbury ran at top speed to the end of it, but there was nothing to be done. a few women were gossiping at their doors, a couple of men slouched past on their way to the beer-shop at the corner--that was all. he asked one of the women if she had seen anybody running, and she said no, civilly enough--and yet he fancied that she had leered at him. he turned and went back home. he was not in the mood for paying visits. it was some time before he could compose his mind by assuring himself that the incident, though unpleasant, was not of the slightest significance. but from that day the nets were about his feet, and his fate was sealed. personally, he was subjected to no further annoyance, and soon forgot that unpleasant experience in the back-street. but it seems certain that from that sunday onwards a cloud of calumny overshadowed the high usher in all his ways. no one said anything definite, but everyone appeared to be conscious of something unpleasant when horbury's name was mentioned. people looked oddly at one another, and the subject was changed. one of the young masters, speaking to a colleague, did indeed allude casually to horbury as xanthias phoceus. the other master, a middle-aged man, raised his eyebrows and shook his head without speaking. it is understood that these muttered slanders were various in their nature; but, as has been said, everything was indefinite, intangible as contagion--and as deadly to the master's worldly health. that horrible accusation which had been screamed out of the alley was credited by some; others agreed with the young master; while a few had a terrible story of an idiot girl in a remote derbyshire village. and the persistence of all these fables was strange. it was four years before henry vibart chesson, d. d., ascended the throne of st. guthmund at dorchester; and all through those four years the fountain of evil innuendo rose without ceasing. it is doubtful how far belief in the truth of these scandals was firm and settled, or how far they were in the main uttered and circulated by ill-natured people who disliked horbury, but did not in their hearts believe him guilty of worse sins than pompousness and arrogance. the latter is the more probable opinion. of course, the deliberations of the trustees were absolutely secret, and the report that the chairman, the marquis of dunham, said something about cæsar's wife is a report and nothing more. it is evident that the london press was absolutely in the dark as to the existence of this strange conspiracy of vengeance, since two of the chief dailies took the appointment of the high usher to the headmastership as a foregone conclusion, prophesying, indeed, a rule of phenomenal success. and then millward, a winchester man, understood to be rather unsound on some scholastic matters--"not _quite_ the right man"; "just a _little_ bit of a jesuit"--received the appointment, and people did begin to say that there must be a screw loose somewhere. and horbury was overwhelmed, and began to die. the odd thing was that, save on that sunday night, he never saw the enemy; he never suspected that there was an enemy; and as for the incident of the alley, after a little consideration he treated it with contempt. it was only some drunken beast in the town who knew him by sight and wished to be offensive, in the usual fashion of drunken beasts. and there was nothing else. lupton society was much too careful to allow its suspicions to be known. a libel action meant, anyhow, a hideous scandal and might have no pleasant results for the libellers. besides, no one wanted to offend horbury, who was suspected of possessing a revengeful temper; and it had not dawned on the lupton mind that the rumours they themselves were circulating would eventually ruin the high usher's chances of the headmastership. each gossip heard, as it were, only his own mutter at the moment. he did not realize that when a great many people are muttering all at once an ugly noise of considerable volume is being produced. it is true that a few of the masters were somewhat cold in their manner. they lacked the social gift of dissimulation, and could not help showing their want of cordiality. but horbury, who noticed this, put it down to envy and disaffection, and resolved that the large powers given him by the trustees should not be in vain so far as the masters in question were concerned. indeed, c. l. wood, who was afterwards headmaster of marcester and died in egypt a few years ago, had a curious story which in part relates to the masters in question, and perhaps throws some light on the extraordinary tale of horbury's ruin. wood was an old luptonian. he was a mighty athlete in his time, and his records for the long jump and throwing the cricket ball have not been beaten at lupton to this day. he had been one of the first boarders taken at the old grange. the early relations between horbury and himself had been continued in later life, and wood was staying with his former master at the time when the trustee's decision was announced. it is supposed, indeed, that horbury had offered him a kind of unofficial, but still important, position in the new model; in fact, wood confessed over his port that the idea was that he should be a kind of "intelligence department" to the head. he did not seem very clear as to the exact scope of his proposed duties. we may certainly infer, however, that they would have been of a very confidential nature, for wood had jotted down his recollections of that fatal morning somewhat as follows: "i never saw horbury in better spirits. indeed, i remember thinking that he was younger than ever--younger than he was in the old days when he was a junior master and i was in the third. of course, he was always energetic; one could not disassociate the two notions of horbury and energy, and i used to make him laugh by threatening to include the two terms in the new edition of my little book, _latin and english synonyms_. it did not matter whether he were taking the fifth, or editing classics for his boys, or playing rocker--one could not help rejoicing in the vivid and ebullient energy of the man. and perhaps this is one reason why shirkers and loafers dreaded him, as they certainly did. "but during those last few days at lupton his vitality had struck me as quite superhuman. as all the world knows, his succession to the headmastership was regarded by everyone as assured, and he was, naturally and properly, full of the great task which he believed was before him. this is not the place to argue the merits or demerits of the scheme which had been maturing for many years in his brain. "a few persons who, i cannot but think, have received very imperfect information on the subject, have denounced horbury's views of the modern public school as revolutionary. revolutionary they certainly were, as an express engine is revolutionary compared to an ox-waggon. but those who think of the late canon horbury as indifferent to the good side of public school traditions knew little of the real man. however, were his plans good or bad, they were certainly of vast scope, and on the first night of my visit he made me sit up with him till two o'clock while he expounded his ideas, some of which, as he was good enough to say, he trusted to me to carry out. he showed me the piles of ms. he had accumulated: hundreds of pages relating to the multiple departments of the great organisation which he was to direct, or rather to create; sheets of serried figures, sheaves of estimates which he had caused to be made out in readiness for immediate action. "nothing was neglected. i remember seeing a note on the desirability of compiling a 'lupton hymn book' for use in the chapel, and another on the question of forming a botanical garden, so that the school botany might be learned from 'the green life,' as he beautifully expressed it, not from dry letterpress and indifferent woodcuts. then, i think, on a corner of the 'botany leaf' was a jotting--a mere hasty scrawl, waiting development and consideration: 'should we teach hindustani? write to tucker _re_ the moulvie ahmed khan.' "i despair of giving the reader any conception of the range and minuteness of these wonderful memoranda. i remember saying to horbury that he seemed to be able to use the microscope and the telescope at the same time. he laughed joyously, and told me to wait till he was really at work. 'you will have your share, i promise you,' he added. his high spirits were extraordinary and infectious. he was an excellent _raconteur_, and now and again, amidst his talk of the new lupton which he was about to translate from the idea into substance, he told some wonderful stories which i have not the heart to set down here. _tu ne quæsieris._ i have often thought of those lines when i remember horbury's intense happiness, the nervous energy which made the delay of a day or two seem almost intolerable. his brain and his fingers tingled, as it were, to set about the great work before him. he reminded me of a mighty host, awaiting but the glance of their general to rush forward with irresistible force. "there was not a trace of misgiving. indeed, i should have been utterly astonished if i had seen anything of the kind. he told me, indeed, that for some time past he had suspected the existence of a sort of cabal or clique against him. 'a. and x., b. and y., m. and n., and, i think, z., are in it,' he said, naming several of the masters. 'they are jealous, i suppose, and want to make things as difficult as they can. they are all cowards, though, and i don't believe one of them--except, perhaps, m.--would fail in obedience, or rather in subservience, when it comes to the point. but i am going to make short work of the lot.' and he told me his intention of ridding the school of these disaffected elements. 'the trustees will back me up, i know,' he added, 'but we must try to avoid all unnecessary friction'; and he explained to me a plan he had thought of for eliminating the masters in question. 'it won't do to have half-hearted officers on our ship,' was the way in which he put it, and i cordially agreed with him. "possibly he may have underrated the force of the opposition which he treated so lightly; possibly he altogether misjudged the situation. he certainly regarded the appointment as already made, and this, of course, was, or appeared to be, the conviction of all who knew anything of lupton and horbury. "i shall never forget the day on which the news came. horbury made a hearty breakfast, opening letters, jotting down notes, talking of his plans as the meal proceeded. i left him for a while. i was myself a good deal excited, and i strolled up and down the beautiful garden at the old grange, wondering whether i should be able to satisfy such a chief who, the soul of energy himself, would naturally expect a like quality in his subordinates. i rejoined him in the course of an hour in the study, where he was as busy as ever--'snowed up,' as he expressed it, in a vast pile of papers and correspondence. "he nodded genially and pointed to a chair, and a few minutes later a servant came in with a letter. she had just found it in the hall, she explained. i had taken a book and was reading. i noticed nothing till what i can only call a groan of intense anguish made me look up in amazement--indeed, in horror--and i was shocked to see my old friend, his face a ghastly white, his eyes staring into vacancy, and his expression one of the most terrible--_the_ most terrible--that i have ever witnessed. i cannot describe that look. there was an agony of grief and despair, a glance of the wildest amazement, terror, as of an impending awful death, and with these the fiercest and most burning anger that i have ever seen on any human face. he held a letter clenched in his hand. i was afraid to speak or move. "it was fully five minutes before he regained his self-control, and he did this with an effort which was in itself dreadful to contemplate--so severe was the struggle. he explained to me in a voice which faltered and trembled with the shock that he had received, that he had had very bad news--that a large sum of money which was absolutely necessary to the carrying out of his projects had been embezzled by some unscrupulous person, that he did not know what he should do. he fell back into his chair; in a few minutes he had become an old man. "he did not seem upset, or even astonished, when, later in the day, a telegram announced that he had failed in the aim of his life--that a stranger was to bear rule in his beloved lupton. he murmured something to the effect that it was no matter now. he never held up his head again." this note is an extract from _george horbury: a memoir_. it was written by dr. wood for the use of a few friends and privately printed in a small edition of a hundred and fifty copies. the author felt, as he explains in his brief _foreword_, that by restricting the sale to those who either knew horbury or were especially interested in his work, he was enabled to dwell somewhat intimately on matters which could hardly have been treated in a book meant for the general public. the extract that has been made from this book is interesting on two points. it shows that horbury was quite unaware of what had been going on for four years before chesson's resignation and that he had entirely misinterpreted the few and faint omens which had been offered him. he was preparing to break a sulky sentinel or two when all the ground of his fortalice was a very network of loaded mines! the other point is still more curious. it will be seen from wood's story that the terrific effect that he describes was produced by a letter, received some hours before the news of the trustees' decision arrived by telegram. "later in the day" is the phrase in the memoir; as a matter of fact, the final deliberation of the lupton trustees, held at marshall's hotel in albemarle street, began at eleven-thirty and was not over till one-forty-five. it is not likely that the result could have reached the old grange before two-fifteen; whereas the letter found in the hall must have been read by horbury before ten o'clock. the invariable breakfast hour at the old grange was eight o'clock. c. l. wood says: "i rejoined him in the course of an hour," and the letter was brought in "a few minutes later." afterwards, when the fatal telegram arrived, the memoir notes that the unfortunate man was not "even astonished." it seems to follow almost necessarily from these facts that horbury learnt the story of his ruin from the letter, for it has been ascertained that the high usher's account of the contents of the letter was false from beginning to end. horbury's most excellent and sagacious investments were all in the impeccable hands of "witham's" (messrs. witham, venables, davenport and witham), of raymond buildings, gray's inn, who do not include embezzlement in their theory and practice of the law; and, as a matter of fact, the nephew, charles horbury, came into a very handsome fortune on the death of his uncle--eighty thousand pounds in personality, with the old grange and some valuable ground rents in the new part of lupton. it is as certain as anything can be that george horbury never lost a penny by embezzlement or, indeed, in any other way. one may surmise, then, the real contents of that terrible letter. in general, that is, for it is impossible to conjecture whether the writer told the whole story; one does not know, for example, whether meyrick's name was mentioned or not: whether there was anything which carried the reader's mind to that dark evening in november when he beat the white-faced boy with such savage cruelty. but from dr. wood's description of the wretched man's appearance one understands how utterly unexpected was the crushing blow that had fallen upon him. it was a lightning flash from the sky at its bluest, and before that sudden and awful blast his whole life fell into deadly and evil ruin. "he never held up his head again." he never lived again, one may say, unless a ceaseless wheel of anguish and anger and bitter and unavailing and furious regret can be called life. it was not a man, but a shell, full of gall and fire, that went to wareham; but probably he was not the first of the klippoth to be made a canon. as we have no means of knowing exactly what or how much that letter told him, one is not in a position to say whether he recognised the singularity--one might almost say, the eccentricity--with which his punishment was stage-managed. _nec deus intersit_ certainly; but a principle may be pushed too far, and a critic might point out that, putting avenging deities in their machines on one side, it was rather going to the other extreme to bring about the great catastrophe by means of bad sherry, a trying headmaster, boiled mutton, a troublesome schoolboy and a servant-maid. yet these were the agents employed; and it seems that we are forced to the conclusion that we do not altogether understand the management of the universe. the conclusion is a dangerous one, since we may be led by it, unless great care is exercised, into the worst errors of the dark ages. there is the question, of course, of the truthfulness or falsity of the various slanders which had such a tremendous effect. the worst of them were lies--there can be little doubt of that--and for the rest, it may be hinted that the allusion of the young master to xanthias phoceus was not very far wide of the mark. mrs. horbury had been dead some years, and it is to be feared that there had been passages between the high usher and nelly foran which public opinion would have condemned. it would be difficult to tell the whole story, but the girl's fury of revenge makes one apt to believe that she was exacting payment not only for ambrose's wrongs, but for some grievous injury done to herself. but before all these things could be brought to their ending, ambrose meyrick had to live in wonders and delights, to be initiated in many mysteries, to discover the meaning of that voice which seemed to speak within him, denouncing him because he had pried unworthily into the secret which is hidden from the holy angels. iii i one of ambrose meyrick's favourite books was a railway timetable. he spent many hours in studying these intricate pages of figures, noting times of arrival and departure on a piece of paper, and following the turnings and intersections of certain lines on the map. in this way he had at last arrived at the best and quickest route to his native country, which he had not seen for five years. his father had died when he was ten years old. this result once obtained, the seven-thirty to birmingham got him in at nine-thirty-five; the ten-twenty for the west was a capital train, and he would see the great dome of mynydd mawr before one o'clock. his fancy led him often to a bridge which crossed the railway about a mile out of lupton. east and west the metals stretched in a straight line, defying, it seemed, the wisdom of euclid. he turned from the east and gazed westward, and when a red train went by in the right direction he would lean over the bridge and watch till the last flying carriage had vanished into the distance. he imagined himself in that train and thought of the joy of it, if the time ever came--for it seemed long--the joy in every revolution of the wheels, in every whistle of the engine; in the rush and in the rhythm of this swift flight from that horrible school and that horrible place. year after year went by and he had not revisited the old land of his father. he was left alone in the great empty house in charge of the servants during the holidays--except one summer when mr. horbury despatched him to a cousin of his who lived at yarmouth. the second year after his father's death there was a summer of dreadful heat. day after day the sky was a glare of fire, and in these abhorred midlands, far from the breath of the sea and the mountain breeze, the ground baked and cracked and stank to heaven. a dun smoke rose from the earth with the faint, sickening stench of a brick-field, and the hedgerows swooned in the heat and in the dust. ambrose's body and soul were athirst with the desire of the hills and the woods; his heart cried out within him for the waterpools in the shadow of the forest; and in his ears continually he heard the cold water pouring and trickling and dripping from the grey rocks on the great mountain side. and he saw that awful land which god has no doubt made for manufacturers to prepare them for their eternal habitation, its weary waves burning under the glaring sky: the factory chimneys of lupton vomiting their foul smoke; the mean red streets, each little hellway with its own stink; the dull road, choking in its dust. for streams there was the wand, running like black oil between black banks, steaming here as boiling poisons were belched into it from the factory wall; there glittering with iridescent scum vomited from some other scoundrel's castle. and for the waterpools of the woods he was free to gaze at the dark green liquor in the tanks of the sulphuric acid factory, but a little way out of town. lupton was a very rising place. his body was faint with the burning heat and the foulness of all about him, and his soul was sick with loneliness and friendlessness and unutterable longing. he had already mastered his bradshaw and had found out the bridge over the railway; and day after day he leaned over the parapet and watched the burning metals vanishing into the west, into the hot, thick haze that hung over all the land. and the trains sped away towards the haven of his desire, and he wondered if he should ever see again the dearly loved country or hear the song of the nightingale in the still white morning, in the circle of the green hills. the thought of his father, of the old days of happiness, of the grey home in the still valley, swelled in his heart and he wept bitterly, so utterly forsaken and wretched seemed his life. it happened towards the end of that dreadful august that one night he had tossed all through the hours listening to the chiming bells, only falling into a fevered doze a little while before they called him. he woke from ugly and oppressive dreams to utter wretchedness; he crawled downstairs like an old man and left his breakfast untouched, for he could eat nothing. the flame of the sun seemed to burn in his brain; the hot smoke of the air choked him. all his limbs ached. from head to foot he was a body of suffering. he struggled out and tottered along the road to the bridge and gazed with dim, hopeless eyes along the path of desire, into the heavy, burning mist in the far distance. and then his heart beat quick, and he cried aloud in his amazed delight; for, in the shimmering glamour of the haze, he saw as in a mirror the vast green wall of the great mountain rise before him--not far, but as if close at hand. nay, he stood upon its slope; his feet were in the sweet-smelling bracken; the hazel thicket was rustling beneath him in the brave wind, and the shining water poured cold from the stony rock. he heard the silver note of the lark, shrilling high and glad in the sunlight. he saw the yellow blossoms tossed by the breeze about the porch of the white house. he seemed to turn in this vision and before him the dear, long-remembered land appeared in its great peace and beauty: meadows and cornfield, hill and valley and deep wood between the mountains and the far sea. he drew a long breath of that quickening and glorious air, and knew that life had returned to him. and then he was gazing once more down the glittering railway into the mist; but strength and hope had replaced that deadly sickness of a moment before, and light and joy came back to his eyes. the vision had doubtless been given to him in his sore and pressing need. it returned no more; not again did he see the fair height of mynydd mawr rise out of the mist. but from that day the station on the bridge was daily consecrated. it was his place of refreshment and hope in many seasons of evil and weariness. from this place he could look forward to the hour of release and return that must come at last. here he could remind himself that the bonds of the flesh had been broken in a wonderful manner; that he had been set free from the jaws of hell and death. fortunately, few people came that way. it was but a by-road serving a few farms in the neighbourhood, and on the sunday afternoon, in november, the head's sermon over and dinner eaten, he betook himself to his tower, free to be alone for a couple of hours, at least. he stood there, leaning on the wall, his face turned, as ever, to the west, and, as it were, a great flood of rapture overwhelmed him. he sank down, deeper, still deeper, into the hidden and marvellous places of delight. in his country there were stories of the magic people who rose all gleaming from the pools in lonely woods; who gave more than mortal bliss to those who loved them; who could tell the secrets of that land where flame was the most material substance; whose inhabitants dwelt in palpitating and quivering colours or in the notes of a wonderful melody. and in the dark of the night all legends had been fulfilled. it was a strange thing, but ambrose meyrick, though he was a public schoolboy of fifteen, had lived all his days in a rapt innocence. it is possible that in school, as elsewhere, enlightenment, pleasant or unpleasant, only comes to those who seek for it--or one may say certainly that there are those who dwell under the protection of enchantments, who may go down into the black depths and yet appear resurgent and shining, without any stain or defilement of the pitch on their white robes. for these have ears so intent on certain immortal songs that they cannot hear discordant voices; their eyes are veiled with a light that shuts out the vision of evil. there are flames about these feet that extinguish the gross fires of the pit. it is probable that all through those early years ambrose's father had been charming his son's heart, drawing him forth from the gehenna-valley of this life into which he had fallen, as one draws forth a beast that has fallen into some deep and dreadful place. various are the methods recommended. there is the way of what is called moral teaching, the way of physiology and the way of a masterly silence; but mr. meyrick's was the strange way of incantation. he had, in a certain manner, drawn the boy aside from that evil traffic of the valley, from the stench of the turmoil, from the blows and the black lechery, from the ugly fight in the poisonous smoke, from all the amazing and hideous folly that practical men call life, and had set him in that endless procession that for ever and for ever sings its litanies in the mountains, going from height to height on its great quest. ambrose's soul had been caught in the sweet thickets of the woods; it had been bathed in the pure water of blessed fountains; it had knelt before the altars of the old saints, till all the earth was become a sanctuary, all life was a rite and ceremony, the end of which was the attainment of the mystic sanctity--the achieving of the graal. for this--for what else?--were all things made. it was this that the little bird sang of in the bush, piping a few feeble, plaintive notes of dusky evenings, as if his tiny heart were sad that it could utter nothing better than such sorry praises. this also celebrated the awe of the white morning on the hills, the breath of the woods at dawn. this was figured in the red ceremony of sunset, when flames shone over the dome of the great mountain, and roses blossomed in the far plains of the sky. this was the secret of the dark places in the heart of the woods. this the mystery of the sunlight on the height; and every little flower, every delicate fern, and every reed and rush was entrusted with the hidden declaration of this sacrament. for this end, final and perfect rites had been given to men to execute; and these were all the arts, all the far-lifted splendour of the great cathedral; all rich carven work and all glowing colours; all magical utterance of word and tones: all these things were the witnesses that consented in the one offering, in the high service of the graal. to this service also, together with songs and burning torches and dyed garments and the smoke of the bruised incense, were brought the incense of the bruised heart, the magic torches of virtue hidden from the world, the red dalmatics of those whose souls had been martyred, the songs of triumph and exultation chanted by them that the profane had crushed into the dust; holy wells and water-stoups were fountains of tears. so must the mass be duly celebrated in cor-arbennic when cadwaladr returned, when teilo agyos lifted up again the shining cup. perhaps it was not strange that a boy who had listened to such spells as these should heed nothing of the foolish evils about him, the nastiness of silly children who, for want of wits, were "crushing the lilies into the dunghill." he listened to nothing of their ugly folly; he heard it not, understood it not, thought as little of it as of their everlasting chatter about "brooks" and "quarries" and "leg-hits" and "beaks from the off." and when an unseemly phrase did chance to fall on his ear it was of no more import or meaning than any or all of the stupid jargon that went on day after day, mixing itself with the other jargon about the optative and the past participle, the oratio obliqua and the verbs in [greek: mi]. to him this was all one nothingness, and he would not have dreamed of connecting anything of it with the facts of life, as he understood life. hence it was that for him all that was beautiful and wonderful was a part of sanctity; all the glory of life was for the service of the sanctuary, and when one saw a lovely flower it was to be strewn before the altar, just as the bee was holy because by its wax the gifts are illuminated. where joy and delight and beauty were, there he knew by sure signs were the parts of the mystery, the glorious apparels of the heavenly vestments. if anyone had told him that the song of the nightingale was an unclean thing he would have stared in amazement, as though one had blasphemed the sanctus. to him the red roses were as holy as the garments of the martyrs. the white lilies were pure and shining virtues; the imagery of the _song of songs_ was obvious and perfect and unassailable, for in this world there was nothing common nor unclean. and even to him the great gift had been freely given. so he stood, wrapt in his meditations and in his ecstasy, by the bridge over the midland line from lupton to birmingham. behind him were the abominations of lupton: the chimneys vomiting black smoke faintly in honour of the sabbath; the red lines of the workmen's streets advancing into the ugly fields; the fuming pottery kilns, the hideous height of the boot factory. and before him stretched the unspeakable scenery of the eastern midlands, which seems made for the habitation of english nonconformists--dull, monotonous, squalid, the very hedgerows cropped and trimmed, the trees looking like rows of roundheads, the farmhouses as uninteresting as suburban villas. on a field near at hand a scientific farmer had recently applied an agreeable mixture consisting of superphosphate of lime, nitrate of soda and bone meal. the stink was that of a chemical works or a texel cheese. another field was just being converted into an orchard. there were rows of grim young apple trees planted at strictly mathematical intervals from one another, and grisly little graves had been dug between the apple trees for the reception of gooseberry bushes. between these rows the farmer hoped to grow potatoes, so the ground had been thoroughly trenched. it looked sodden and unpleasant. to the right ambrose could see how the operations on a wandering brook were progressing. it had moved in and out in the most wasteful and absurd manner, and on each bank there had grown a twisted brake of trees and bushes and rank water plants. there were wonderful red roses there in summer time. now all this was being rectified. in the first place the stream had been cut into a straight channel with raw, bare banks, and then the rose bushes, the alders, the willows and the rest were being grubbed up by the roots and so much valuable land was being redeemed. the old barn which used to be visible on the left of the line had been pulled down for more than a year. it had dated perhaps from the seventeenth century. its roof-tree had dipped and waved in a pleasant fashion, and the red tiles had the glow of the sun in their colours, and the half-timbered walls were not lacking in ruinous brace. it was a dilapidated old shed, and a neat-looking structure with a corrugated iron roof now stood in its place. beyond all was the grey prison wall of the horizon; but ambrose no longer gazed at it with the dim, hopeless eyes of old. he had a breviary among his books, and he thought of the words: _anima mea erepta est sicut passer de laqueo venantium_, and he knew that in a good season his body would escape also. the exile would end at last. he remembered an old tale which his father was fond of telling him--the story of eos amherawdur (the emperor nightingale). very long ago, the story began, the greatest and the finest court in all the realms of faery was the court of the emperor eos, who was above all the kings of the tylwydd têg, as the emperor of rome is head over all the kings of the earth. so that even gwyn ap nudd, whom they now call lord over all the fair folk of the isle of britain, was but the man of eos, and no splendour such as his was ever seen in all the regions of enchantment and faery. eos had his court in a vast forest, called wentwood, in the deepest depths of the green-wood between caerwent and caermaen, which is also called the city of the legions; though some men say that we should rather name it the city of the waterfloods. here, then, was the palace of eos, built of the finest stones after the roman manner, and within it were the most glorious chambers that eye has ever seen, and there was no end to the number of them, for they could not be counted. for the stones of the palace being immortal, they were at the pleasure of the emperor. if he had willed, all the hosts of the world could stand in his greatest hall, and, if he had willed, not so much as an ant could enter into it, since it could not be discerned. but on common days they spread the emperor's banquet in nine great halls, each nine times larger than any that are in the lands of the men of normandi. and sir caw was the seneschal who marshalled the feast; and if you would count those under his command--go, count the drops of water that are in the uske river. but if you would learn the splendour of this castle it is an easy matter, for eos hung the walls of it with dawn and sunset. he lit it with the sun and moon. there was a well in it called ocean. and nine churches of twisted boughs were set apart in which eos might hear mass; and when his clerks sang before him all the jewels rose shining out of the earth, and all the stars bent shining down from heaven, so enchanting was the melody. then was great bliss in all the regions of the fair folk. but eos was grieved because mortal ears could not hear nor comprehend the enchantment of their song. what, then, did he do? nothing less than this. he divested himself of all his glories and of his kingdom, and transformed himself into the shape of a little brown bird, and went flying about the woods, desirous of teaching men the sweetness of the faery melody. and all the other birds said: "this is a contemptible stranger." the eagle found him not even worthy to be a prey; the raven and the magpie called him simpleton; the pheasant asked where he had got that ugly livery; the lark wondered why he hid himself in the darkness of the wood; the peacock would not suffer his name to be uttered. in short never was anyone so despised as was eos by all the chorus of the birds. but wise men heard that song from the faery regions and listened all night beneath the bough, and these were the first who were bards in the isle of britain. ambrose had heard the song from the faery regions. he had heard it in swift whispers at his ear, in sighs upon his breast, in the breath of kisses on his lips. never was he numbered amongst the despisers of eos. ii mr. horbury had suffered from one or two slight twinges of conscience for a few days after he had operated on his nephew. they were but very slight pangs, for, after all, it was a case of flagrant and repeated disobedience to rules, complicated by lying. the high usher was quite sincere in scouting the notion of a boy's taking any interest in norman architecture, and, as he said to himself, truly enough, if every boy at lupton could come and go when and how he pleased, and choose which rules he would keep and which disobey--why, the school would soon be in a pretty state. still, there was a very faint and indistinct murmur in his mind which suggested that meyrick had received, in addition to his own proper thrashing, the thrashings due to the head, his cook and his wine merchant. and horbury was rather sorry, for he desired to be just according to his definition of justice--unless, indeed justice should be excessively inconvenient. but these faint scruples were soon removed--turned, indeed, to satisfaction by the evident improvement which declared itself in ambrose meyrick's whole tone and demeanour. he no longer did his best to avoid rocker. he played, and played well and with relish. the boy was evidently all right at heart: he had only wanted a sharp lesson, and it was clear that, once a loafer, he was now on his way to be a credit to the school. and by some of those secret channels which are known to masters and to masters alone, rather more than a glimmering of the truth as to rawson's black eyes and pelly's disfigured nose was vouchsafed to horbury's vision, and he was by no means displeased with his nephew. the two boys had evidently asked for punishment, and had got it. it served them right. of course, if the swearing had been brought to his notice by official instead of by subterranean and mystic ways, he would have had to cane meyrick a second time, since, by the public school convention, an oath is a very serious offence--as bad as smoking, or worse; but, being far from a fool, under the circumstances he made nothing of it. then the lad's school work was so very satisfactory. it had always been good, but it had become wonderfully good. that last greek prose had shown real grip of the language. the high usher was pleased. his sharp lesson had brought forth excellent results, and he foresaw the day when he would be proud of having taught a remarkably fine scholar. with the boys ambrose was becoming a general favourite. he learned not only to play rocker, he showed pelly how he thought that blow under the ear should be dealt with. they all said he was a good fellow; but they could not make out why, without apparent reason, he would sometimes burst out into loud laughter. but he said it was something wrong with his inside--the doctors couldn't make it out--and this seemed rather interesting. in after life he often looked back upon this period when, to all appearance, lupton was "making a man" of him, and wondered at its strangeness. to boys and masters alike he was an absolutely normal schoolboy, busy with the same interests as the rest of them. there was certainly something rather queer in his appearance; but, as they said, generously enough, a fellow couldn't help his looks; and, that curious glint in the eyes apart, he seemed as good a luptonian as any in the whole six hundred. everybody thought that he had absolutely fallen into line; that he was absorbing the _ethos_ of the place in the most admirable fashion, subduing his own individuality, his opinions, his habits, to the general tone of the community around him--putting off, as it were, the profane dust of his own spirit and putting on the mental frock of the brotherhood. this, of course, is one of the aims--rather, _the_ great aim--of the system: this fashioning of very diverse characters into one common form, so that each great public school has its type, which is easily recognisable in the grown-up man years after his school days are over. thus, in far lands, in india and egypt, in canada and new zealand, one recognises the brisk alertness of the etonian, the exquisite politeness of harrow, the profound seriousness of rugby; while the note of lupton may, perhaps, be called finality. the old luptonian no more thinks of arguing a question than does the holy father, and his conversation is a series of irreformable dogmas, and the captious person who questions any one article is made to feel himself a cad and an outsider. thus it has been related that two men who had met for the first time at a certain country house-party were getting on together capitally in the evening over their whisky and soda and cigars. each held identical views of equal violence on some important topic--home rule or the transvaal or free trade--and, as the more masterful of the two asserted that hanging was too good for blank (naming a well-known statesman), the other would reply: "i quite agree with you: hanging is too good for blank." "he ought to be burned alive," said the one. "that's about it: he ought to be burned at the stake," answered the other. "look at the way he treated dash! he's a coward and a damned scoundrel!" "perfectly right. he's a damned cursed scoundrel!" this was splendid, and each thought the other a charming companion. unfortunately, however, the conversation, by some caprice, veered from the iniquities of blank and glanced aside to cookery--possibly by the track of irish stew, used metaphorically to express the disastrous and iniquitous policy of the great statesman with regard to ireland. but, as it happened, there was not the same coincidence on the question of cookery as there had been on the question of blank. the masterful man said: "no cookery like english. no other race in the world can cook as we do. look at french cookery--a lot of filthy, greasy messes." now, instead of assenting briskly and firmly as before the other man said: "been much in france? lived there?" "never set foot in the beastly country! don't like their ways, and don't care to dine off snails and frogs swimming in oil." the other man began then to talk of the simple but excellent meals he had relished in france--the savoury _croûte-au-pot_, the _bouilli_--good eating when flavoured by a gherkin or two; velvety _épinards au jus_, a roast partridge, a salad, a bit of roquefort and a bunch of grapes. but he had barely mentioned the soup when the masterful one wheeled round his chair and offered a fine view of his strong, well-knit figure--as seen from the back. he did not say anything--he simply took up the paper and went on smoking. the other men stared in amazement: the amateur of french cookery looked annoyed. but the host--a keen-eyed old fellow with a white moustache, turned to the enemy of frogs and snails and grease and said quite simply: "i say, mulock, i never knew you'd been at lupton." mulock gazed. the other men held their breath for a moment as the full force of the situation dawned on them, and then a wild scream of laughter shrilled from their throats. yells and roars of mirth resounded in the room. their delight was insatiable. it died for a moment for lack of breath, and then burst out anew in still louder, more uproarious clamour, till old sir henry rawnsley, who was fat and short, could do nothing but choke and gasp and crow out a sound something between a wheeze and a chuckle. mulock left the room immediately, and the house the next morning. he made some excuse to his host, but he told enquiring friends that, personally, he disliked bounders. the story, true or false, illustrates the common view of the lupton stamp. "we try to teach the boys to know their own minds," said the headmaster, and the endeavour seems to have succeeded in most cases. and, as horbury noted in an article he once wrote on the public school system, every boy was expected to submit himself to the process, to form and reform himself in accordance with the tone of the school. "i sometimes compare our work with that of the metal founder," he says in the article in question. "just as the metal comes to the foundry _rudis indigestaque moles_, a rough and formless mass, without the slightest suggestion of the shape which it must finally assume, so a boy comes to a great public school with little or nothing about him to suggest the young man who, in eight or nine years' time, will say good-bye to the dear old school, setting his teeth tight, restraining himself from giving up to the anguish of this last farewell. nay, i think that ours is the harder task, for the metal that is sent to the foundry has, i presume, been freed of its impurities; we have to deal rather with the ore--a mass which is not only shapeless, but contains much that is not metal at all, which must be burnt out and cast aside as useless rubbish. so the boy comes from his home, which may or may not have possessed valuable formative influences; which we often find has tended to create a spirit of individualism and assertiveness; which, in numerous cases, has left the boy under the delusion that he has come into the world to live his own life and think his own thoughts. this is the ore that we cast into our furnace. we burn out the dross and rubbish; we liquefy the stubborn and resisting metal till it can be run into the mould--the mould being the whole tone and feeling of a great community. we discourage all excessive individuality; we make it quite plain to the boy that he has come to lupton, not to live his life, not to think his thoughts, but to live _our_ life, to think _our_ thoughts. very often, as i think i need scarcely say, the process is a somewhat unpleasant one, but, sooner or later, the stubbornest metal yields to the cleansing, renewing, restoring fires of discipline and public opinion, and the shapeless mass takes on the shape of the great school. only the other day an old pupil came to see me and confessed that, for the whole of his first year at lupton, he had been profoundly wretched. 'i was a dreamy young fool,' he said. 'my head was stuffed with all sorts of queer fancies, and i expect that if i hadn't come to lupton i should have turned out an absolute loafer. but i hated it badly that first year. i loathed rocker--i did, really--and i thought the fellows were a lot of savages. and then i seemed to go into a kind of cloud. you see, sir, i was losing my old self and hadn't got the new self in its place, and i couldn't make out what was happening. and then, quite suddenly, it all came out light and clear. i saw the purpose behind it all--how we were all working together, masters and boys, for the dear old school; how we were all "members one of another," as the doctor said in chapel; and that i had a part in this great work, too, though i was only a kid in the third. it was like a flash of light: one minute i was only a poor little chap that nobody cared for and who didn't matter to anybody, and the next i saw that, in a way, i was as important as the doctor himself--i was a part of the failure or success of it all. do you know what i did, sir? i had a book i thought a lot of--_poems and tales_ of edgar allan poe. it was my poor sister's book; she had died a year before when she was only seventeen, and she had written my name in it when she was dying--she knew i was fond of reading it. it was just the sort of thing i used to like--morbid fancies and queer poems, and i was always reading it when the fellows would let me alone. but when i saw what life really was, when the meaning of it all came to me, as i said just now, i took that book and tore it to bits, and it was like tearing myself up. but i knew that writing all that stuff hadn't done that american fellow much good, and i didn't see what good i should get by reading it. i couldn't make out to myself that it would fit in with the doctor's plans of the spirit of the school, or that i should play up at rocker any better for knowing all about the "fall of the house of usher," or whatever it's called. i knew my poor sister would understand, so i tore it up, and i've gone straight ahead ever since--thanks to lupton.' _like a refiner's fire._ _i_ remembered the dreamy, absent-minded child of fifteen years before; i could scarcely believe that he stood before--keen, alert, practical, living every moment of his life, a force, a power in the world, certain of successful achievement." such were the influences to which ambrose meyrick was being subjected, and with infinite success, as it seemed to everybody who watched him. he was regarded as a conspicuous instance of the efficacy of the system--he had held out so long, refusing to absorb the "tone," presenting an obstinate surface to the millstones which would, for his own good, have ground him to powder, not concealing very much his dislike of the place and of the people in it. and suddenly he had submitted with a good grace: it was wonderful! the masters are believed to have discussed the affair amongst themselves, and horbury, who confessed or boasted that he had used sharp persuasion, got a good deal of _kudos_ in consequence. iii a few years ago a little book called _half-holidays_ attracted some attention in semi-scholastic, semi-clerical circles. it was anonymous, and bore the modest motto _crambe bis cocta_; but those behind the scenes recognised it as the work of charles palmer, who was for many years a master at lupton. his acknowledged books include a useful little work on the accents and an excellent summary of roman history from the fall of the republic to romulus augustulus. the _half-holidays_ contains the following amusing passage; there is not much difficulty in identifying the n. mentioned in it with ambrose meyrick. "the cleverest dominie sometimes discovers"--the passage begins--"that he has been living in a fool's paradise, that he has been tricked by a quiet and persistent subtlety that really strikes one as almost devilish when one finds it exhibited in the person of an english schoolboy. a good deal of nonsense, i think, has been written about boys by people who in reality know very little about them; they have been credited with complexities of character, with feelings and aspirations and delicacies of sentiment which are quite foreign to their nature. i can quite believe in the dead cat trick of stalky and his friends, but i confess that the incident of the british flag leaves me cold and sceptical. such refinement of perception is not the way of the boy--certainly not of the boy as i have known him. he is radically a simple soul, whose feelings are on the surface; and his deepest laid schemes and manoeuvres hardly call for the talents of a sherlock holmes if they are to be detected and brought to naught. of course, a good deal of rubbish has been talked about the wonderful success of our english plan of leaving the boys to themselves without the everlasting supervision which is practised in french schools. as a matter of fact, the english schoolboy is under constant supervision; where in a french school one wretched usher has to look after a whole horde of boys, in an english school each boy is perpetually under the observation of hundreds of his fellows. in reality, each boy is an unpaid _pion_, a watchdog whose vigilance never relaxes. he is not aware of this; one need scarcely say that such a notion is far from his wildest thoughts. he thinks, and very rightly, doubtless, that he is engaged in maintaining the honour of the school, in keeping up the observance of the school tradition, in dealing sharply with slackers and loafers who would bring discredit on the place he loves so well. he is, no doubt, absolutely right in all this; none the less, he is doing the master's work unwittingly and admirably. when one thinks of this, and of the compulsory system of games, which ensures that every boy shall be in a certain place at a certain time, one sees, i think, that the phrase about our lack of supervision _is_ a phrase and nothing more. there is no system of supervision known to human wit that approaches in thoroughness and minuteness the supervision under which every single boy is kept all through his life at an english public school. "hence one is really rather surprised when, in spite of all these unpaid assistants, who are the whole school, one is thoroughly and completely taken in. i can only remember one such case, and i am still astonished at the really infernal ability with which the boy in question lived a double life under the very eyes of the masters and six hundred other boys. n., as i shall call him, was not in my house, and i can scarcely say how i came to watch his career with so much interest; but there was certainly something about him which did interest me a good deal. it may have been his appearance: he was an odd-looking boy--dark, almost swarthy, dreamy and absent in manner, and, for the first years of his school life, a quite typical loafer. such boys, of course, are not common in a big school, but there are a few such everywhere. one never knows whether this kind will write a successful book, or paint a great picture, or go to the devil--from my observation i am sorry to say that the last career is the most usual. i need scarcely say that such boys meet with but little encouragement; it is not the type which the public school exists to foster, and the boy who abandons himself to morbid introspection is soon made to feel pretty emphatically that he is matter in the wrong place. of course, one may be crushing genius. if this ever happened it would be very unfortunate; still, in all communities the minority must suffer for the good of the majority, and, frankly, i have always been willing to run the risk. as i have hinted, the particular sort of boy i have in my mind turns out in nine cases out of ten to be not a genius, but that much more common type--a blackguard. "well, as i say, i was curious about n. i was sorry for him, too; both his parents were dead, and he was rather in the position of the poor fellows who have no home life to look forward to when the holidays are getting near. and his obstinacy astonished me; in most cases the pressure of public opinion will bring the slackest loafer to a sense of the error of his ways before his first term is ended; but n. seemed to hold out against us all with a sort of dreamy resistance that was most exasperating. i do not think he can have had a very pleasant time. his general demeanour suggested that of a sage who has been cast on an island inhabited by a peculiarly repulsive and degraded tribe of savages, and i need scarcely say that the other boys did their best to make him realise the extreme absurdity of such behaviour. he was clever enough at his work, but it was difficult to make him play games, and impossible to make him play up. he seemed to be looking through us at something else; and neither the boys nor the masters liked being treated as unimportant illusions. and then, quite suddenly, n. altered completely. i believe his housemaster, worn out of all patience, gave him a severe thrashing; at any rate, the change was instant and marvellous. "i remember that a few days before n.'s transformation we had been discussing the question of the cane at the weekly masters' meeting. i had confessed myself a very half-hearted believer in the efficacy of the treatment. i forget the arguments that i used, but i know that i was strongly inclined to favour the 'anti-baculist party,' as the head jocosely named it. but a few months later when n.'s housemaster pointed out n. playing up at football like a young demon, and then with a twinkle in his eye reminded me of the position i had taken up at the masters' meeting, there was nothing for it but to own that i had been in the wrong. the cane had certainly, in this case, proved itself a magic wand; the sometime loafer had been transformed by it into one of the healthiest and most energetic fellows in the whole school. it was a pleasure to watch him at the games, and i remember that his fast bowling was at once terrific in speed and peculiarly deadly in its accuracy. "he kept up this deception, for deception it was, for three or four years. he was just going up to oxford, and the whole school was looking forward to a career which we knew would be quite exceptional in its brilliance. his scholarship papers astonished the balliol authorities. i remember one of the fellows writing to our head about them in terms of the greatest enthusiasm, and we all knew that n.'s bowling would get him into the university eleven in his first term. cricketers have not yet forgotten a certain performance of his at the oval, when, as a poetic journalist observed, wickets fell before him as ripe corn falls before the sickle. n. disappeared in the middle of term. the whole school was in a ferment; masters and boys looked at one another with wild faces; search parties were sent out to scour the country; the police were communicated with; on every side one heard the strangest surmises as to what had happened. the affair got into the papers; most people thought it was a case of breakdown and loss of memory from overwork and mental strain. nothing could be heard of n., till, at the end of a fortnight, his housemaster came into our room looking, as i thought, puzzled and frightened. "'i don't understand,' he said. 'i've had this by the second post. it's in n.'s handwriting. i can't make head or tail of it. it's some sort of french, i suppose.' "he held out a paper closely written in n.'s exquisite, curious script, which always reminded me vaguely of some oriental character. the masters shook their heads as the manuscript went from hand to hand, and one of them suggested sending for the french master. but, as it happened, i was something of a student of old french myself, and i found i could make out the drift of the document that n. had sent his master. "it was written in the manner and in the language of rabelais. it was quite diabolically clever, and beyond all question the filthiest thing i have ever read. the writer had really exceeded his master in obscenity, impossible as that might seem: the purport of it all was a kind of nightmare vision of the school, the masters and the boys. everybody and everything were distorted in the most horrible manner, seen, we might say, through an abominable glass, and yet every feature was easily recognisable; it reminded me of swift's disgusting description of the yahoos, over which one may shudder and grow sick, but which one cannot affect to misunderstand. there was a fantastic episode which i remember especially. one of us, an ambitious man, who for some reason or other had become unpopular with a few of his colleagues, was described as endeavouring to climb the school clock-tower, on the top of which a certain object was said to be placed. the object was defended, so the writer affirmed, by 'the dark birds of night,' who resisted the master's approach in all possible and impossible manners. even to indicate the way in which this extraordinary theme was treated would be utterly out of the question; but i shall never forget the description of the master's face, turned up towards the object of his quest, as he painfully climbed the wall. i have never read even in the most filthy pages of rabelais, or in the savagest passages of swift, anything which approached the revolting cruelty of those few lines. they were compounded of hell-fire and the cloaca maxima. "i read out and translated a few of the least abominable sentences. i can hardly say whether the feeling of disgust or that of bewilderment predominated amongst us. one of my colleagues stopped me and said they had heard enough; we stared at one another in silence. the astounding ability, ferocity and obscenity of the whole thing left us quite dumbfounded, and i remember saying that if a volcano were suddenly to belch forth volumes of flame and filth in the middle of the playing fields i should scarcely be more astonished. and all this was the work of n., whose brilliant abilities in games and in the schools were to have been worth many thousands a year to x., as one of us put it! this was the boy that for the last four years we had considered as a great example of the formative influences of the school! this was the n. who we thought would have died for the honour of the school, who spoke as if he could never do enough to repay what x. had done for him! as i say, we looked at one another with faces of blank amazement and horror. at last somebody said that n. must have gone mad, and we tried to believe that it was so, for madness, awful calamity as it is, would be more endurable than sanity under such circumstances as these. i need scarcely say that this charitable hypothesis turned out to be quite unfounded: n. was perfectly sane; he was simply revenging himself for the suppression of his true feelings for the four last years of his school life. the 'conversion' on which we prided ourselves had been an utter sham; the whole of his life had been an elaborately organised hypocrisy maintained with unfailing and unflinching skill term after term and year after year. one cannot help wondering when one considers the inner life of this unhappy fellow. every morning, i suppose, he woke up with curses in his soul; he smiled at us all and joined in the games with black rage devouring him. so far as one can say, he was quite sincere in his concealed opinions at all events. the hatred, loathing and contempt of the whole system of the place displayed in that extraordinary and terrible document struck me as quite genuine; and while i was reading it i could not help thinking of his eager, enthusiastic face as he joined with a will in the school songs; he seemed to inspire all the boys about him with something of his own energy and devotion. the apparition was a shocking one; i felt that for a moment i had caught a glimpse of a region that was very like hell itself. "i remember that the french master contributed a characteristic touch of his own. of course, the headmaster had to be told of the matter, and it was arranged that m. and myself should collaborate in the unpleasant task of making a translation. m. read the horrible stuff through with an expression on his face that, to my astonishment, bordered on admiration, and when he laid down the paper he said: "'_eh bien: maître françois est encore en vie, évidemment. c'est le vrai renouveau de la renaissance; de la renaissance en très mauvaise humeur, si vous voulez, mais de la renaissance tout-de-même. si, si; c'est de la crû véritable, je vous assure. mais, notre bon n. est un rabelais qui a habité une terre affreusement sèche._' "i really think that to the frenchman the terrible moral aspect of the case was either entirely negligible or absolutely non-existent; he simply looked on n.'s detestable and filthy performance as a little masterpiece in a particular literary _genre_. heaven knows! one does not want to be a pharisee; but as i saw m. grinning appreciatively over this dung-heap i could not help feeling that the collapse of france before germany offered no insoluble problem to the historian. "there is little more to be said as to this extraordinary and most unpleasant affair. it was all hushed up as much as possible. no further attempts to discover n.'s whereabouts were made. it was some months before we heard by indirect means that the wretched fellow had abandoned the balliol scholarship and the most brilliant prospects in life to attach himself to a company of greasy barnstormers--or 'dramatic artists,' as i suppose they would be called nowadays. i believe that his subsequent career has been of a piece with these beginnings; but of that i desire to say nothing." the passage has been quoted merely in evidence of the great success with which ambrose meyrick adapted himself to his environment at lupton. palmer, the writer, who was a very well-meaning though intensely stupid person, has told the bare facts as he saw them accurately enough; it need not be said that his inferences and deductions from the facts are invariably ridiculous. he was a well-educated man; but in his heart of hearts he thought that rabelais, _maria monk, gay life in paris and la terre_ all came to much the same thing. iv in an old notebook kept by ambrose meyrick in those long-past days there are some curious entries which throw light on the extraordinary experiences that befell him during the period which poor palmer has done his best to illustrate. the following is interesting: "i told her she must not come again for a long time. she was astonished and asked me why--was i not fond of her? i said it was because i was so fond of her, that i was afraid that if i saw her often i could not live. i should pass away in delight because our bodies are not meant to live for long in the middle of white fire. i was lying on my bed and she stood beside it. i looked up at her. the room was very dark and still. i could only just see her faintly, though she was so close to me that i could hear her breathing quite well. i thought of the white flowers that grew in the dark corners of the old garden at the wern, by the great ilex tree. i used to go out on summer nights when the air was still and all the sky cloudy. one could hear the brook just a little, down beyond the watery meadow, and all the woods and hills were dim. one could not see the mountain at all. but i liked to stand by the wall and look into the darkest place, and in a little time those flowers would seem to grow out of the shadow. i could just see the white glimmer of them. she looked like the flowers to me, as i lay on the bed in my dark room. "sometimes i dream of wonderful things. it is just at the moment when one wakes up; one cannot say where one has been or what was so wonderful, but you know that you have lost everything in waking. for just that moment you knew everything and understood the stars and the hills and night and day and the woods and the old songs. they were all within you, and you were all light. but the light was music, and the music was violet wine in a great cup of gold, and the wine in the golden cup was the scent of a june night. i understood all this as she stood beside my bed in the dark and stretched out her hand and touched me on the breast. "i knew a pool in an old, old grey wood a few miles from the wern. i called it the grey wood because the trees were ancient oaks that they say must have grown there for a thousand years, and they have grown bare and terrible. most of them are all hollow inside and some have only a few boughs left, and every year, they say, one leaf less grows on every bough. in the books they are called the foresters' oaks. if you stay under them you feel as if the old times must have come again. among these trees there was a great yew, far older than the oaks, and beneath it a dark and shadowy pool. i had been for a long walk, nearly to the sea, and as i came back i passed this place and, looking into the pool, there was the glint of the stars in the water. "she knelt by my bed in the dark, and i could just see the glinting of her eyes as she looked at me--the stars in the shadowy waterpool! * * * * * "i had never dreamed that there could be anything so wonderful in the whole world. my father had told me of many beautiful and holy and glorious things, of all the heavenly mysteries by which those who know live for ever, all the things which the doctor and my uncle and the other silly clergymen in the chapel ...[1] because they don't really know anything at all about them, only their names, so they are like dogs and pigs and asses who have somehow found their way into a beautiful room, full of precious and delicate treasures. these things my father told me of long ago, of the great mystery of the offering. [footnote 1: a highly rabelaisian phrase is omitted.] "and i have learned the wonders of the old venerable saints that once were marvels in our land, as the welch poem says, and of all the great works that shone around their feet as they went upon the mountains and sought the deserts of ocean. i have seen their marks and writings cut on the edges of the rocks. i know where sagramnus lies buried in wlad morgan. and i shall not forget how i saw the blessed cup of teilo agyos drawn out from golden veils on mynydd mawr, when the stars poured out of the jewel, and i saw the sea of the saints and the spiritual things in cor-arbennic. my father read out to me all the histories of teilo, dewi, and iltyd, of their marvellous chalices and altars of paradise from which they made the books of the graal afterwards; and all these things are beautiful to me. but, as the anointed bard said: 'with the bodily lips i receive the drink of mortal vineyards; with spiritual understanding wine from the garths of the undying. may mihangel intercede for me that these may be mingled in one cup; let the door between body and soul be thrown open. for in that day earth will have become paradise, and the secret sayings of the bards shall be verified.' i always knew what this meant, though my father told me that many people thought it obscure or, rather, nonsense. but it is just the same really as another poem by the same bard, where he says: "'my sin was found out, and when the old women on the bridge pointed at me i was ashamed; i was deeply grieved when the boys shouted rebukes as i went from caer-newydd. how is it that i was not ashamed before the finger of the almighty? i did not suffer agony at the rebuke of the most high. the fist of rhys fawr is more dreadful to me than the hand of god.' "he means, i think, that our great loss is that we separate what is one and make it two; and then, having done so, we make the less real into the more real, as if we thought the glass made to hold wine more important than the wine it holds. and this is what i had felt, for it was only twice that i had known wonders in my body, when i saw the cup of teilo sant and when the mountains appeared in vision, and so, as the bard says, the door is shut. the life of bodily things is _hard_, just as the wineglass is hard. we can touch it and feel it and see it always before us. the wine is drunk and forgotten; it cannot be held. i believe the air about us is just as substantial as a mountain or a cathedral, but unless we remind ourselves we think of the air as nothing. it is not _hard_. but now i was in paradise, for body and soul were molten in one fire and went up in one flame. the mortal and the immortal vines were made one. through the joy of the body i possessed the joy of the spirit. and it was so strange to think that all this was through a woman--through a woman i had seen dozens of times and had thought nothing of, except that she was pleasant-looking and that the colour of her hair, like copper, was very beautiful. "i cannot understand it. i cannot feel that she is really nelly foran who opens the door and waits at table, for she is a miracle. how i should have wondered once if i had seen a stone by the roadside become a jewel of fire and glory! but if that were to happen, it would not be so strange as what happened to me. i cannot see now the black dress and the servant's cap and apron. i see the wonderful, beautiful body shining through the darkness of my room, the glimmering of the white flower in the dark, the stars in the forest pool. "'o gift of the everlasting! o wonderful and hidden mystery! many secrets have been vouchsafed to me. i have been long acquainted with the wisdom of the trees; ash and oak and elm have communicated to me from my boyhood, the birch and the hazel and all the trees of the green wood have not been dumb. there is a caldron rimmed with pearls of whose gifts i am not ignorant. i will speak little of it; its treasures are known to bards. many went on the search of caer-pedryfan, seven alone returned with arthur, but my spirit was present. seven are the apple trees in a beautiful orchard. i have eaten of their fruit, which is not bestowed on saxons. i am not ignorant of a head which is glorious and venerable. it made perpetual entertainment for the warriors; their joys would have been immortal. if they had not opened the door of the south, they could have feasted for ever, listening to the song of the fairy birds of rhiannon. let not anyone instruct me concerning the glassy isle, in the garments of the saints who returned from it were rich odours of paradise. all this i knew and yet my knowledge was ignorance, for one day, as i walked by caer-rhiu in the principal forest of gwent, i saw golden myfanwy, as she bathed in the brook tarógi. her hair flowed about her. arthur's crown had dissolved into a shining mist. i gazed into her blue eyes as it were into twin heavens. all the parts of her body were adornments and miracles. o gift of the everlasting! o wonderful and hidden mystery! when i embraced myfanwy a moment became immortality!'[2] [footnote 2: translated from the welsh verses quoted in the notebook.] "and yet i daresay this 'golden myfanwy' was what people call 'a common girl,' and perhaps she did rough, hard work, and nobody thought anything of her till the bard found her bathing in the brook of tarógi. the birds in the wood said, when they saw the nightingale: 'this is a contemptible stranger!' "_june 24._ since i wrote last in this book the summer has come. this morning i woke up very early, and even in this horrible place the air was pure and bright as the sun rose up and the long beams shone on the cedar outside the window. she came to me by the way they think is locked and fastened, and, just as the world is white and gold at the dawn, so was she. a blackbird began to sing beneath the window. i think it came from far, for it sang to me of morning on the mountain, and the woods all still, and a little bright brook rushing down the hillside between dark green alders, and air that must be blown from heaven. there is a bird that sings in the valley of the soar. dewi and tegfeth and cybi preside over that region; sweet is the valley, sweet the sound of its waters. there is a bird that sings in the valley of the soar; its voice is golden, like the ringing of the saints' bells; sweet is the valley, echoing with melodies. there is a bird that sings in the valley of the soar; tegfeth in the south won red martyrdom. her song is heard in the perpetual choirs of heaven. there is a bird that sings in the valley of the soar; dewi in the west had an altar from paradise. he taught the valleys of britain to resound with alleluia. there is a bird that sings in the valley of the soar; cybi in the north was the teacher of princes. through him edlogan sings praise to heaven. there is a bird that sings in the valley of the soar when shall i hear again the notes of its melody? when shall i behold once more gwladys in that valley?'[3] [footnote 3: the following translation of these verses appeared in _poems from the old bards_, by taliesin, bristol, 1812: "in soar's sweet valley, where the sound of holy anthems once was heard from many a saint, the hills prolong only the music of the bird. in soar's sweet valley, where the brook with many a ripple flows along, delicious prospects meet the eye, the ear is charmed with _phil'mel's_ song. in soar's sweet valley once a maid, despising worldly prospects gay, resigned her note in earthly choirs which now in heaven must sound alway. in soar's sweet valley david preached; his gospel accents so beguiled the savage britons, that they turned their fiercest cries to music mild. in soar's sweet valley cybi taught to haughty prince the holy law, the way to heaven he showed, and then the subject tribes inspired with awe. in soar's sweet valley still the song of phil'mel sounds and checks alarms. but when shall i once more renew those heavenly hours in gladys' arms?" "taliesin" was the pseudonym of an amiable clergyman, the reverend owen thomas, for many years curate of llantrisant. he died in 1820, at the great age of eighty-four. his original poetry in welsh was reputed as far superior to his translations, and he made a very valuable and curious collection of "cymric antiquities," which remains in manuscript in the keeping of his descendants.] "when i think of what i know, of the wonders of darkness and the wonders of dawn, i cannot help believing that i have found something which all the world has lost. i have heard some of the fellows talking about women. their words and their stories are filthy, and nonsense, too. one would think that if monkeys and pigs could talk about their she-monkeys and sows, it would be just like that. i might have thought that, being only boys, they knew nothing about it, and were only making up nasty, silly tales out of their nasty, silly minds. but i have heard the poor women in the town screaming and scolding at their men, and the men swearing back; and when they think they are making love, it is the most horrible of all. "and it is not only the boys and the poor people. there are the masters and their wives. everybody knows that the challises and the redburns 'fight like cats,' as they say, and that the head's daughter was 'put up for auction' and bought by the rich manufacturer from birmingham--a horrible, fat beast, more than twice her age, with eyes like pig's. they called it a splendid match. "so i began to wonder whether perhaps there are very few people in the world who know; whether the real secret is lost like the great city that was drowned in the sea and only seen by one or two. perhaps it is more like those shining isles that the saints sought for, where the deep apple orchards are, and all the delights of paradise. but you had to give up everything and get into a boat without oar or sails if you wanted to find avalon or the glassy isle. and sometimes the saints could stand on the rocks and see those islands far away in the midst of the sea, and smell the sweet odours and hear the bells ringing for the feast, when other people could see and hear nothing at all. "i often think now how strange it would be if it were found out that nearly everybody is like those who stood on the rocks and could only see the waves tossing and stretching far away, and the blue sky and the mist in the distance. i mean, if it turned out that we have all been in the wrong about everything; that we live in a world of the most wonderful treasures which we see all about us, but we don't understand, and kick the jewels into the dirt, and use the chalices for slop-pails and make the holy vestments into dish-cloths, while we worship a great beast--a monster, with the head of a monkey, the body of a pig and the hind legs of a goat, with swarming lice crawling all over it. suppose that the people that they speak of now as 'superstitious' and 'half-savages' should turn out to be in the right, and very wise, while we are all wrong and great fools! it would be something like the man who lived in the bright palace. the palace had a hundred and one doors. a hundred of them opened into gardens of delight, pleasure-houses, beautiful bowers, wonderful countries, fairy seas, caves of gold and hills of diamonds, into all the most splendid places. but one door led into a cesspool, and that was the only door that the man ever opened. it may be that his sons and his grandsons have been opening that one door ever since, till they have forgotten that there are any others, so if anyone dares to speak of the ways to the garden of delight or the hills of gold he is called a madman, or a very wicked person. "_july 15._ the other day a very strange thing happened. i had gone for a short walk out of the town before dinner on the dunham road and came as far as the four ways where the roads cross. it is rather pretty for lupton just there; there is a plot of grass with a big old elm tree in the middle of it, and round the tree is a rough sort of seat, where tramps and such people are often resting. as i came along i heard some sort of music coming from the direction of the tree; it was like fairies dancing, and then there were strange solemn notes like the priests' singing, and a choir answered in a deep, rolling swell of sound, and the fairies danced again; and i thought somehow of a grey church high on the cliff above a singing sea, and the fair people outside dancing on the close turf, while the service was going on all the while. as i came nearer i heard the sea waves and the wind and the cry of the seagulls, and again the high, wonderful chanting, as if the fairies and the rocks and the waves and the wild birds were all subject to that which was being done within the church. i wondered what it could be, and then i saw there was an old ragged man sitting on the seat under the tree, playing the fiddle all to himself, and rocking from side to side. he stopped directly he saw me, and said: "'ah, now, would your young honour do yourself the pleasure of giving the poor old fiddler a penny or maybe two: for lupton is the very hell of a town altogether, and when i play to dirty rogues the reel of the warriors, they ask for something about two obadiahs--the devil's black curse be on them! and it's but dry work playing to the leaf and the green sod--the blessing of the holy saints be on your honour now, this day, and for ever! 'tis but a scarcity of beer that i have tasted for a long day, i assure your honour.' "i had given him a shilling because i thought his music so wonderful. he looked at me steadily as he finished talking, and his face changed. i thought he was frightened, he stared so oddly. i asked him if he was ill. "'may i be forgiven,' he said, speaking quite gravely, without that wheedling way he had when he first spoke. 'may i be forgiven for talking so to one like yourself; for this day i have begged money from one that is to gain red martyrdom; and indeed that is yourself.' "he took off his old battered hat and crossed himself, and i stared at him, i was so amazed at what he said. he picked up his fiddle, and saying 'may you remember me in the time of your glory,' he walked quickly off, going away from lupton, and i lost sight of him at the turn of the road. i suppose he was half crazy, but he played wonderfully." iv i the materials for the history of an odd episode in ambrose meyrick's life are to be found in a sort of collection he made under the title "concerning gaiety." the episode in question dates from about the middle of his eighteenth year. "i do not know"--he says--"how it all happened. i had been leading two eager lives. on the outside i was playing games and going up in the school with a rush, and in the inside i was being gathered more and more into the sanctuaries of immortal things. all life was transfigured for me into a radiant glory, into a quickening and catholic sacrament; and, the fooleries of the school apart, i had more and more the sense that i was a participant in a splendid and significant ritual. i think i was beginning to be a little impatient with the outward signs: i _think_ i had a feeling that it was a pity that one had to drink wine out of a cup, a pity that kernels seemed to imply shells. i wanted, in my heart, to know nothing but the wine itself flowing gloriously from vague, invisible fountains, to know the things 'that really are' in their naked beauty, without their various and elaborate draperies. i doubt whether ruskin understood the motive of the monk who walked amidst the mountains with his eyes cast down lest he might see the depths and heights about him. ruskin calls this a narrow asceticism; perhaps it was rather the result of a very subtle aestheticism. the monk's inner vision might be fixed with such rapture on certain invisible heights and depths, that he feared lest the sight of their visible counterparts might disturb his ecstasy. it is probable, i think, that there is a point where the ascetic principle and the aesthetic become one and the same. the indian fakir who distorts his limbs and lies on spikes is at the one extreme, the men of the italian renaissance were at the other. in each case the true line is distorted and awry, for neither system attains either sanctity or beauty in the highest. the fakir dwells in _surfaces_, and the renaissance artist dwelt in _surfaces_; in neither case is there the inexpressible radiance of the invisible world shining through the surfaces. a cup of cellini's work is no doubt very lovely; but it is not beautiful in the same way as the old celtic cups are beautiful. "i think i was in some danger of going wrong at the time i am talking about. i was altogether too impatient of surfaces. heaven forbid the notion that i was ever in danger of being in any sense of the word a protestant; but perhaps i was rather inclined to the fundamental heresy on which protestantism builds its objection to what is called ritual. i suppose this heresy is really manichee; it is a charge of corruption and evil made against the visible universe, which is affirmed to be not 'very good,' but 'very bad'--or, at all events, too bad to be used as the vehicle of spiritual truth. it is extraordinary by the way, that the thinking protestant does not perceive that this principle damns all creeds and all bibles and all teaching quite as effectually as it damns candles and chasubles--unless, indeed, the protestant thinks that the logical understanding is a competent vehicle of eternal truth, and that god can be properly and adequately defined and explained in human speech. if he thinks _that_, he is an ass. incense, vestments, candles, all ceremonies, processions, rites--all these things are miserably inadequate; but they do not abound in the horrible pitfalls, misapprehensions, errors which are inseparable from speech of men used as an expression of the church. in a savage dance there may be a vast deal more of the truth than in many of the hymns in our hymn-books. "after all, as martinez said, we must even be content with what we have, whether it be censers or syllogisms, or both. the way of the censer is certainly the safer, as i have said; i suppose because the ruin of the external universe is not nearly so deep nor so virulent as the ruin of men. a flower, a piece of gold, no doubt approach their archetypes--what they were meant to be--much more nearly than man does; hence their appeal is purer than the speech or the reasoning of men. "but in those days at lupton my head was full of certain sentences which i had lit upon somewhere or other--i believe they must have been translations from some eastern book. i knew about a dozen of these maxims; all i can remember now are: "_if you desire to be inebriated: abstain from wine._" "_if you desire beauty: look not on beautiful things._" "_if you desire to see: let your eyes be blindfolded._" "_if you desire love: refrain from the beloved._" "i expect the paradox of these sayings pleased me. one must allow that if one has the inborn appetite of the somewhat subtle, of the truth not too crudely and barely expressed, there is no such atmosphere as that of a public school for sharpening this appetite to an edge of ravening, indiscriminate hunger. think of our friend the colonel, who is by way of being a _fin gourmet_; imagine him fixed in a boarding-house where the meals are a repeating cycle of irish stew, boiled rabbit, cold mutton and salt cod (without oyster or any other sause)! then let him out and place him in the café anglais. with what a fierce relish would he set tooth into curious and sought-out dishes! it must be remembered that i listened every sunday in every term to one of the doctor's sermons, and it is really not strange that i gave an eager ear to the voice of _persian wisdom_--as i think the book was called. at any rate, i kept nelly foran at a distance for nine or ten months, and when i saw a splendid sunset i averted my eyes. i longed for a love purely spiritual, for a sunset of vision. "i caught glimpses, too, i think, of a much more profound _askesis_ than this. i suppose you have the _askesis_ in its simplest, most rationalised form in the case of bill the engine-driver--i forget in what great work of _theologia moralis_ i found the instance; perhaps bill was really _quidam_ in the original, and his occupation stated as that of _nauarchus_. at all events, bill is fond of four-ale; but he had perceived that two pots of this beverage consumed before a professional journey tended to make him rather sleepy, rather less alert, than he might be in the execution of his very responsible duties. hence bill, considering this, wisely contents himself with _one_ pot before mounting on his cab. he has deprived himself of a sensible good in order that an equally sensible but greater good may be secured--in order that he and the passengers may run no risks on the journey. next to this simple asceticism comes, i suppose, the ordinary discipline of the church--the abandonment of sensible goods to secure spiritual ends, the turning away from the type to the prototype, from the sight of the eyes to the vision of the soul. for in the true asceticism, whatever its degree, there is always action to a certain end, to a perceived good. does the self-tormenting fakir act from this motive? i don't know; but if he does not, his discipline is not asceticism at all, but folly, and impious folly, too. if he mortifies himself merely for the sake of mortifying himself; then he defiles and blasphemes the temple. this in parenthesis. "but, as i say, i had a very dim and distant glimpse of another region of the _askesis_. mystics will understand me when i say that there are moments when the dark night of the soul is seen to be brighter than her brightest day; there are moments when it is necessary to drive away even the angels that there may be place for the highest. one may ascend into regions so remote from the common concerns of life that it becomes difficult to procure the help of analogy, even in the terms and processes of the arts. but suppose a painter--i need not say that i mean an artist--who is visited by an idea so wonderful, so super-exalted in its beauty that he recognises his impotence; he knows that no pigments and no technique can do anything but grossly parody his vision. well, he will show his greatness by _not_ attempting to paint that vision: he will write on a bare canvass _vidit anima sed non pinxit manus_. and i am sure that there are many romances which have never been written. it was a highly paradoxical, even a dangerous philosophy that affirmed god to be rather _non-ens_ than _ens_; but there are moods in which one appreciates the thought. "i think i caught, as i say, a distant vision of that night which excels the day in its splendour. it began with the eyes turned away from the sunset, with lips that refused kisses. then there came a command to the heart to cease from longing for the dear land of gwent, to cease from that aching desire that had never died for so many years for the sight of the old land and those hills and woods of most sweet and anguished memory. i remember once, when i was a great lout of sixteen, i went to see the lupton fair. i always liked the great booths and caravans and merry-go-rounds, all a blaze of barbaric green and red and gold, flaming and glowing in the middle of the trampled, sodden field against a background of lupton and wet, grey autumn sky. there were country folk then who wore smock-frocks and looked like men in them, too. one saw scores of these brave fellows at the fair: dull, good jutes with flaxen hair that was almost white, and with broad pink faces. i liked to see them in the white robe and the curious embroidery; they were a note of wholesomeness, an embassage from the old english village life to our filthy 'industrial centre.' it was odd to see how they stared about them; they wondered, i think, at the beastliness of the place, and yet, poor fellows, they felt bound to admire the evidence of so much money. yes, they were of old england; they savoured of the long, bending, broad village street, the gable ends, the grave fronts of old mellow bricks, the thatched roofs here and there, the bulging window of the 'village shop,' the old church in decorous, somewhat dull perpendicular among the elms, and, above all, the old tavern--that excellent abode of honest mirth and honest beer, relic of the time when there were men, and men who _lived_. lupton is very far removed from hardy's land, and yet as i think of these country-folk in their smock-frocks all the essence of hardy is distilled for me; i see the village street all white in snow, a light gleaming very rarely from an upper window, and presently, amid ringing bells, one hears the carol-singers begin: '_remember adam's fall, o thou man._' "and i love to look at the whirl of the merry-go-rounds, at the people sitting with grave enjoyment on those absurd horses as they circle round and round till one's eyes were dazed. drums beat and thundered, strange horns blew raucous calls from all quarters, and the mechanical music to which those horses revolved belched and blazed and rattled out its everlasting monotony, checked now and again by the shriek of the steam whistle, groaning into silence for a while: then the tune clanged out once more, and the horses whirled round and round. "but on this fair day of which i am speaking i left the booths and the golden, gleaming merry-go-rounds for the next field, where horses were excited to brief madness and short energy. i had scarcely taken up my stand when a man close by me raised his voice to a genial shout as he saw a friend a little way off. and he spoke with the beloved accent of gwent, with those tones that come to me more ravishing, more enchanting than all the music in the world. i had not heard them for years of weary exile! just a phrase or two of common greeting in those chanting accents: the fair passed away, was whirled into nothingness, its shouting voices, the charging of horses, drum and trumpet, clanging, metallic music--it rushed down into the abyss. there was the silence that follows a great peal of thunder; it was early morning and i was standing in a well-remembered valley, beside the blossoming thorn bush, looking far away to the wooded hills that kept the east, above the course of the shining river. i was, i say, a great lout of sixteen, but the tears flooded my eyes, my heart swelled with its longing. "now, it seemed, i was to quell such thoughts as these, to desire no more the fervent sunlight on the mountain, or the sweet scent of the dusk about the runnings of the brook. i had been very fond of 'going for walks'--walks of the imagination. i was afraid, i suppose, that unless by constant meditation i renewed the shape of the old land in my mind, its image might become a blurred and fading picture; i should forget little by little the ways of those deep, winding lanes that took courses that were almost subterranean over hill and vale, by woodside and waterside, narrow, cavernous, leaf-vaulted; cool in the greatest heats of summer. and the wandering paths that crossed the fields, that led one down into places hidden and remote, into still depths where no one save myself ever seemed to enter, that sometimes ended with a certain solemnity at a broken stile in a hedgerow grown into a thicket--within a plum tree returning to the savage life of the wood, a forest, perhaps, of blue lupins, and a great wild rose about the ruined walls of a house--all these ways i must keep in mind as if they were mysteries and great secrets, as indeed they were. so i strolled in memory through the pageant of gwent: 'lest i should forget the region of the flowers, lest i should become unmindful of the wells and the floods.' "but the time came, as i say, when it was represented to me that all this was an indulgence which, for a season at least, must be pretermitted. with an effort i voided my soul of memory and desire and weeping; when the idols of doomed twyn-barlwm, and great mynydd maen, and the silver esses of the usk appeared before me, i cast them out; i would not meditate white caerleon shining across the river. i endured, i think, the severest pains. de quincey, that admirable artist, that searcher into secrets and master of mysteries, has described my pains for me under the figure of the opium eater breaking the bonds of his vice. how often, when the abominations of lupton, its sham energies, its sham morals, its sham enthusiasms, all its battalia of cant surged and beat upon me, have i been sorely tempted to yield, to suffer no more the press of folly, but to steal away by a secret path i knew, to dwell in a secure valley where the foolish could never trouble me. sometimes i 'fell,' as i drank deep then of the magic well-water, and went astray in the green dells and avenues of the wildwood. still i struggled to refrain my heart from these things, to keep my spirit under the severe discipline of abstention; and with a constant effort i succeeded more and more. "but there was a yet deeper depth in this process of _catharsis_. i have said that sometimes one must expel the angels that god may have room; and now the strict ordinance was given that i should sever myself from that great dream of celtic sanctity that for me had always been _the_ dream, the innermost shrine in which i could take refuge, the house of sovran medicaments where all the wounds of soul and body were healed. one does not wish to be harsh; we must admit, i suppose, that moderate, sensible anglicanism must have _something_ in it--since the absolute sham cannot very well continue to exist. let us say, then, that it is highly favourable to a respectable and moral life, that it encourages a temperate and well-regulated spirit of devotion. it was certainly a very excellent and (according to her lights) devout woman who, in her version of the _anima christi_ altered 'inebriate me' to 'purify me,' and it was a good cleric who hated the vulgate reading, _calix meus inebrians_. my father had always instructed me that we must conform outwardly, and bear with _dearly beloved brethren_; while we celebrated in our hearts the ancient mass of the britons, and waited for cadwaladr to return. i reverenced his teaching, i still reverence it, and agree that we must conform; but in my heart i have always doubted whether moderate anglicanism be christianity in any sense, whether it even deserves to be called a religion at all. i do not doubt, of course, that many truly religious people have professed it: i speak of the system, and of the atmosphere which emanates from it. and when the public school _ethos_ is added to this--well, the resultant teaching comes pretty much to the dogma that heaven and the head are strict allies. one must not degenerate into ecclesiastical controversy; i merely want to say that i never dreamed of looking for religion in our chapel services. no doubt the _te deum_ was _still the te deum_, but the noblest of hymns is degraded, obscured, defiled, made ridiculous, if you marry it to a tune that would disgrace a penny gaff. personally, i think that the airs on the piano-organs are much more reverend compositions than anglican chants, and i am sure that many popular hymn tunes are vastly inferior in solemnity to _'e dunno where 'e are_. "no; the religion that led me and drew me and compelled me was that wonderful and doubtful mythos of the celtic church. it was the study--nay, more than the study, the enthusiasm--of my father's life; and as i was literally baptized with water from a holy well, so spiritually the great legend of the saints and their amazing lives had tinged all my dearest aspirations, had become to me the glowing vestment of the great mystery. one may sometimes be deeply interested in the matter of a tale while one is wearied or sickened by the manner of it; one may have to embrace the bright divinity on the horrid lips of the serpent of cos. or, on the other hand, the manner--the style--may be admirable, and the matter a mere nothing but a ground for the embroidery. but for me the celtic mythos was the perfect thing, the king's daughter: _omnis gloria ejus filiæ regis ab, intus, in fimbriis aureis circumamicta varietatibus_. i have learned much more of this great mystery since those days--i have seen, that is, how entirely, how absolutely my boyhood's faith was justified; but even then with but little knowledge i was rapt at the thought of this marvellous knight-errantry, of this christianity which was not a moral code, with some sort of metaphorical heaven held out as a reward for its due observance, but a great mystical adventure into the unknown sanctity. imagine a bishop of the established church getting into a boat without oar or sails! imagine him, if you can, doing anything remotely analagous to such an action. conceive the late archbishop tait going apart into the chapel at lambeth for three days and three nights; then you may well conceive the people in the opposite bank being dazzled with the blinding supernatural light poured forth from the chapel windows. of course, the end of the celtic church was ruin and confusion--but don quixote failed and fell, while sancho panza lived a fat, prosperous peasant. he inherited, i think, a considerable sum from the knight, and was, no doubt, a good deal looked up to in the village. "yes; the celtic church was the company of the great errantry, of the great mystery, and, though all the history of it seems but a dim and shadowy splendour, its burning rose-red lamp yet glows for a few, and from my earliest childhood i was indoctrinated in the great rite of cor-arbennic. when i was still very young i had been humoured with the sight of a wonderful relic of the saints--never shall i forget that experience of the holy magic of sanctity. every little wood, every rock and fountain, and every running stream of gwent were hallowed for me by some mystical and entrancing legend, and the thought of this high spiritual city and its blessed congregation could, in a moment, exercise and drive forth from me all the ugly and foolish and gibbering spectres that made up the life of that ugly and foolish place where i was imprisoned. "now, with a sorrowful farewell, i bade good-bye for a brief time (as i hoped it would be) to this golden legend; my heart was emptied of its treasures and its curious shows, and the lights on the altars were put out, and the images were strictly veiled. hushed was the chanting in the sovereign and perpetual choir, hidden were the high hallows of the saints, no more did i follow them to their cells in the wild hills, no more did i look from the rocks in the west and see them set forth for avalon. alas! "a great silence seemed to fall upon me, the silence of the depths beneath the earth. and with the silence there was darkness. only in a hidden place there was reserved the one taper--the light of conformity, of a perfect submission, that from the very excess of sorrow and deprivation drew its secret but quintessential joy. i am reminded, now that i look back upon this great purgation of the soul, of the story that i once read of the arabic alchemist. he came to the caliph haroun with a strange and extravagant proposal. haroun sat in all his splendour, his viziers, his chamberlains, his great officers about him, in his golden court which displayed all the wonders and superfluities of the east. he gave judgment; the wicked were punished, the virtuous were rewarded; god's name was exalted, the prophet was venerated. there came before the commander of the faithful a poor old man in the poor and ragged robes of a wandering poet; he was oppressed by the weight of his years, and his entrance was like the entrance of misery. so wretched was his appearance that one of the chamberlains, who was well acquainted with the poets, could not help quoting the well-known verses: "'between the main and a drop of rain the difference seen is nothing great. the sun so bright and the taper's light are alike and one save in pomp and state. in the grain of sand and in all the land what may ye arraign as disparate? a crust of bread and a king's board spread will hunger's lust alike abate. with the smallest blade or with host arrayed the ruler may quench his gall and hate. a stone in a box and a quarry of rocks may be shown to be of an equal freight. with a sentence bold or with gold untold the lover may hold or capture his mate. the king and the bard may alike be debarred from the fold of the lord compassionate.'" "the commander of the faithful praised god, the merciful, the compassionate, the king of the day of judgment, and caused the chamberlain to be handsomely rewarded. he then enquired of the old man for what reason he came before him, and the beggar (as, indeed, he seemed) informed the caliph that he had for many years prosecuted his studies in magic, alchemy, astrology and geomancy and all other curious and surprising arts, in spain, grand cairo, the land of the moors, india, china, in various cities of the infidels; in fact, in every quarter of the world where magicians were to be found. in proof of his proficiency he produced a little box which he carried about him for the purpose of his geomantic operations and asked anyone who was willing to stand forth, that he might hear his whole life, past, present and future. the caliph ordered one of his officers to submit himself to this ordeal, and the beggar having made the points in the sand, and having erected the figure according to the rules of the geomantic art, immediately informed the officer of all the most hidden transactions in which he had been engaged, including several matters which this officer thought had been secrets locked in his own breast. he also foretold his death in a year's time from a certain herb, and so it fell out, for he was strangled with a hempen cord by order of the caliph. in the meantime, the commander of the faithful and all about him were astonished, and the beggar magician was ordered to proceed with his story. he spoke at great length, and everyone remarked the elegance and propriety of his diction, which was wanting in no refinement of classical eloquence. but the sum of his speech was this--that he had discovered the greatest wonder of the whole world, the name of which he declared was asrar, and by this talisman he said that the caliph might make himself more renowned than all the kings that had ever reigned on the earth, not excepting king solomon, the son of david. this was the method of the operation which the beggar proposed. the commander of the faithful was to gather together all the wealth of his entire kingdom, omitting nothing that could possibly be discovered; and while this was being done the magician said that he would construct a furnace of peculiar shape in which all these splendours and magnificences and treasures of the world must be consumed in a certain fire of art, prepared with wisdom. and at last, he continued, after the operation had endured many days, the fire being all the while most curiously governed, there would remain but one drop no larger than a pearl, but glorious as the sun to the moon and all the starry heavens and the wonders of the compassionate; and with this drop the caliph haroun might heal all the sorrows of the universe. both the commander of the faithful and all his viziers and officers were stupefied by this proposal, and most of the assemblage considered the beggar to be a madman. the caliph, however, asked him to return the next day in order that his plans might receive more mature consideration. "the beggar prostrated himself and went forth from the hall of audience, but he returned no more, nor could it be discovered that he had been seen again by anyone. "'but one drop no larger than a pearl,' and 'where there is nothing there is all.' i have often thought of those sentences in looking back on that time when, as chesson said, i was one of those 'light-hearted and yet sturdy and reliable young fellows to whose hands the honour and safety of england might one day be committed.' i cast all the treasures i possessed into the alembic; again and again they were rectified by the heat of the fire 'most curiously governed'; i saw the 'engendering of the crow' black as pitch, the flight of the dove with silver wings, and at last sol rose red and glorious, and i fell down and gave thanks to heaven for this most wonderful gift, the 'sun blessed of the fire.' i had dispossessed myself of all, and i found that i possessed all; i had thrown away all the money in my purse, and i was richer than i had ever been; i had died, and i had found a new life in the land of the living. "it is curious that i should now have to explain the pertinency of all that i have written to the title of this note--concerning gaiety. it should not be necessary. the chain of thought is almost painfully obvious. but i am afraid it is necessary. "well: i once read an interesting article in the daily paper. it was written apropos of some shakespearean celebrations or other, and its purport was that modern england was ever so much happier than mediæval or elizabethian england. it is possible that an acute logician might find something to say on this thesis; but my interest lay in the following passages, which i quote: "'merrie england,' with its maypoles and its whitsun ales, and its shrove-tide jousts and junketings is dead for us, from the religious point of view. the england that has survived is, after all, a greater england still. it is puritan england.... the spirit has gone. surely it is useless to revive the form. wherefore should the may queen be "holy, wise, and fair," if not to symbolise the virgin mary? and as for shrove-tide, too, what point in jollity without a fast to follow?' "the article is not over-illuminating, but i think the writer had caught a glimpse of the truth that there is a deep relation between mirth and sanctity; that no real mirth is possible without the apprehension of the mysteries as its antecedent. the fast and the feast are complementary terms. he is right; there is no point in jollity unless there is a fast or something of the nature of a fast to follow--though, of course, there is nothing to hinder the most advanced thinker from drinking as much fusel-oil and raw russian spirit as he likes. but the result of this course is not real mirth or jollity; it is perhaps more essentially dismal than a 'tea' amongst the protestant dissenters. and, on the other hand, true gaiety is only possible to those who have fasted; and now perhaps it will be seen that i have been describing the preparations for a light-hearted festival. "the cloud passed away from me, the restrictions and inhibitions were suddenly removed, and i woke up one morning in dancing, bubbling spirits, every drop of blood in my body racing with new life, my nerves tingling and thrilling with energy. i laughed as i awoke; i was conscious that i was to engage in a strange and fantastic adventure, though i had not the remotest notion of what it was to be." ii ambrose meyrick's adventure was certainly of the fantastic order. his fame had long been established on a sure footing with his uncle and with everybody else, and mr. horbury had congratulated him with genuine enthusiasm on his work in the examinations--the summer term was drawing to a close. mr. horbury was ambrose's trustee, and he made no difficulty about signing a really handsome cheque for his nephew's holiday expenses and outfit. "there," he said "you ought to be able to do pretty well on that. where do you think of going?" ambrose said that he had thought of north devon, of tramping over exmoor, visiting the doone country, and perhaps of working down to dartmoor. "you couldn't do better. you ought to try your hand at fishing: wonderful sport in some of those streams. it mightn't come off at first, but with your eye and sense of distance you'll soon make a fine angler. if you _do_ have a turn at the trout, get hold of some local man and make him give you a wrinkle or two. it's no good getting your flies from town. now, when i was fishing in hampshire----" mr. horbury went on; but the devil of gaiety had already dictated a wonderful scheme to ambrose, and that night he informed nelly foran that she must alter her plans; she was to come with him to france instead of spending a fortnight at blackpool. he carried out this mad device with an ingenuity that poor mr. palmer would certainly have called "diabolical." in the first place, there was to be a week in london--for nelly must have some clothes; and this week began as an experience of high delight. it was not devoid of terror, for masters might be abroad, and ambrose did not wish to leave lupton for some time. however, they neither saw nor were seen. arriving at st. pancras, the luggage was left in the station, and ambrose, who had studied the map of london, stood for a while on the pavement outside scott's great masterpiece of architecture and considered the situation with grave yet humorous deliberation. nelly proved herself admirably worthy of the adventure; its monstrous audacity appealed to her, and she was in a state of perpetual subdued laughter for some days after their arrival. meyrick looked about him and found that the euston road, being squalid and noisy, offered few attractions; and with sudden resolution he took the girl by the arm and steered into the heart of bloomsbury. in this charmingly central and yet retired quarter they found rooms in a quiet byway which, oddly enough, looked on a green field; and under the pleasant style of mr. and mr. lupton they partook of tea while the luggage was fetched by somebody--probably a husband--who came with a shock of red, untidy hair from the dark bowels of the basement. they screamed with mirth over the meal. mr. horbury had faults, but he kept a good table for himself, his boys and his servants; and the exotic, quaint flavour of the "bread" and "butter" seemed to these two young idiots exquisitely funny. and the queer, faint, close smell, too, of the whole house--it rushed out at one when the hall door was opened: it was heavy, and worth its weight in gold. "i never know," ambrose used to say afterwards, "whether to laugh or cry when i have been away for some time from town, and come back and smell that wonderful old london aroma. i don't believe it's so strong or so rare as it used to be; i have been disappointed once or twice in houses in quite shabby streets. it was _there_, of course, but--well, if it were a vintage wine i should say it was a second growth of a very poor year--margaux, no doubt, but a margaux of one of those very indifferent years in the early 'seventies. or it may be like the smell of grease-paints; one doesn't notice it after a month or two. but i don't think it is. "still," he would go on, "i value what i can smell of it. it brings back to me that afternoon, that hot, choking afternoon of ever so many years ago. it was really tremendously hot--ninety-two degrees, i think i saw in the paper the next day--and when we got out at st. pancras the wind came at one like a furnace blast. there was no sun visible; the sky was bleary--a sort of sickly, smoky yellow, and the burning wind came in gusts, and the dust hissed and rattled on the pavement. do you know what a low public-house smells like in london on a hot afternoon? do you know what london bitter tastes like on such a day--the publican being evidently careful of his clients' health, and aware of the folly of drinking cold beverages during a period of extreme heat? i do. nelly, poor dear, had warm lemonade, and i had warm beer--warm chemicals, i mean. but the odour! why doesn't some scientific man stop wasting his time over a lot of useless rubbish and discover a way of bottling the odour of the past? "ah! but if he did so, in a phial of rare crystal with a stopper as secure as the seal of solimaun ben daoud would i preserve one most precious scent, inscribing on the seal, within a perfect pentagram, the mystic legend 'no. 15, little russell row.'" the cat had come in with the tea-tray. he was a black cat, not very large, with a decent roundness of feature, and yet with a suggestion of sinewy skinniness about him--the skinniness of the wastrel, not of the poor starveling. his bright green eyes had, as ambrose observed, the wisdom of egypt; on his tomb should be inscribed "the justified in sekht." he walked solemnly in front of the landlady, his body describing strange curves, his tail waving in the air, and his ears put back with an expression of intense cunning. he seemed delighted at "the let," and when nelly stroked his back he gave a loud shriek of joy and made known his willingness to take a little refreshment. they laughed so heartily over their tea that when the landlady came in to clear the things away they were still bubbling over with aimless merriment. "i likes to see young people 'appy," she said pleasantly, and readily provided a latchkey in case they cared to come in rather late. she told them a good deal of her life: she had kept lodgings in judd street, near king's cross--a nasty, noisy street, she called it--and she seemed to think the inhabitants a low lot. she had to do with all sorts, some good some bad, and the business wasn't what it had been in her mother's day. they sat a little while on the sofa, hand in hand still consumed with the jest of their being there at all, and imagining grotesque entrances of mr. horbury or dr. chesson. then they went out to wander about the streets, to see london easily, merrily, without bothering the monument, or the british museum, or madame tussaud's--finally, to get something to eat, they didn't know when or where or how, and they didn't in the least care! there was one "sight" they were not successful in avoiding: they had not journeyed far before the great portal of the british museum confronted them, grandiose and gloomy. so, by the sober way of great russell street, they made their way into tottenham court road and, finally, into oxford street. the shops were bright and splendid, the pavement was crowded with a hurrying multitude, as it seemed to the country folk, though it was the dullest season of the year. it was a great impression--decidedly london was a wonderful place. already ambrose felt a curious sense of being at home in it; it was not beautiful, but it was on the immense scale; it did something more than vomit stinks into the air, poison into the water and rows of workmen's houses on the land. they wandered on, and then they had the fancy that they would like to explore the regions to the south; it was so impossible, as ambrose said, to know where they would find themselves eventually. he carefully lost himself within a few minutes of oxford street. a few turnings to right and then to left; the navigation of strange alleys soon left them in the most satisfactory condition of bewilderment; the distinctions of the mariner's compass, its pedantry of east and west, north and south, were annihilated and had ceased to be; it was an adventure in a trackless desert, in the australian bush, but on safer ground and in an infinitely more entertaining scene. at first they had passed through dark streets, georgian and augustan ways, gloomy enough, and half deserted; there were grave houses, with many stories of windows, now reduced to printing offices, to pickle warehouses, to odd crafts such as those of the metal assayer, the crucible maker, the engraver of seals, the fabricator of boule. but how wonderful it was to see the actual place where those things were done! ambrose had read of such arts, but had always thought of them as existing in a vague void--if some of them even existed at all in those days: but there in the windows were actual crucibles, strange-looking curvilinear pots of grey-yellowish ware, the veritable instruments of the magnum opus, inventions of arabia. he was no longer astonished when a little farther he saw a harpsichord, which had only been a name to him, a beautiful looking thing, richly inlaid, with its date--1780--inscribed on a card above it. it was now utterly wonderland: he could very likely buy armour round the corner; and he had scarcely formed the thought when a very fine sixteenth-century suit, richly damascened, rose up before him, handsomely displayed between two black jacks. these were the comparatively silent streets; but they turned a corner, and what a change! all the roadway, not the pavement only, seemed full of a strolling, chatting, laughing mob of people: the women were bareheaded, and one heard nothing but the roll of the french "r," torrents of sonorous sound trolled out with the music of happy song. the papers in the shops were all french, ensigns on every side proclaimed "vins fins," "beaune supérieur": the tobacconists kept their tobacco in square blue, yellow and brown packets; "charcuterie" made a brave and appetising show. and here was a "café restaurant: au château de chinon." the name was enough; they could not dine elsewhere, and ambrose felt that he was honouring the memory of the great rabelais. it was probably not a very good dinner. it was infinitely better than the soho dinner of these days, for the quarter had hardly begun to yield to the attack of art, intellect and the suburbs which, between them, have since destroyed the character and unction of many a good cook-shop. ambrose only remembered two dishes; the _pieds de porc grillés_ and the salad. the former he thought both amusing and delicious, and the latter was strangely and artfully compounded of many herbs, of little vinegar, of abundant provençal oil, with the _chapon_, or crust rubbed with garlic, reposing at the bottom of the bowl after madame had "tormented" the ingredients--the salad was a dish from fairyland. there be no such salads now in all the land of soho. "let me celebrate, above all, the little red wine," says ambrose in a brief dithyrambic note. "not in any mortal vineyard did its father grape ripen; it was not nourished by the warmth of the visible sun, nor were the rains that made it swell common waters from the skies above us. not even in the chinonnais, sacred earth though that be, was the press made that caused its juices to be poured into the _cuve_, nor was the humming of its fermentation heard in any of the good cellars of the lower touraine. but in that region which keats celebrates when he sings the 'mermaid tavern' was this juice engendered--the vineyard lay low down in the south, among the starry plains where is the _terra turonensis celestis_, that unimaginable country which rabelais beheld in his vision where mighty gargantua drinks from inexhaustible vats eternally, where pantagruel is athirst for evermore, though he be satisfied continually. there, in the land of the crowned immortal tosspots was that wine of ours vintaged, red with the rays of the dog-star, made magical by the influence of venus, fertilised by the happy aspect of mercury. o rare, superabundant and most excellent juice, fruit of all fortunate stars, by thee were we translated, exalted into the fellowship of that tavern of which the old poet writes: _mihi est propositum in taberna mori!_" there were few english people in the château de chinon--indeed, it is doubtful whether there was more than one--the ménage lupton excepted. this one compatriot happened to be a rather remarkable man--it was carrol. he was not in the vanguard of anything; he knew no journalists and belonged to no clubs; he was not even acquainted in the most distant manner with a single person who could be called really influential or successful. he was an obscure literary worker, who published an odd volume every five or six years: now and then he got notices, when there was no press of important stuff in the offices, and sometimes a kindly reviewer predicted that he would come out all right in time, though he had still much to learn. about a year before he died, an intelligent reading public was told that one or two things of his were rather good; then, on his death, it was definitely discovered that the five volumes of verse occupied absolutely unique ground, that a supreme poet had been taken from us, a poet who had raised the english language into a fourth dimension of melody and magic. the intelligent reading public read him no more than they ever did, but they buy him in edition after edition, from large quarto to post octavo; they buy him put up into little decorated boxes; they buy him on japanese vellum; they buy him illustrated by six different artists; they discuss no end of articles about him; they write their names in the carrol birthday book; they set up the carrol calendar in their boudoirs; they have quotations from him in westminster abbey and st. paul's cathedral; they sing him in the famous carrol cycle of song; and, last and best of all, a brilliant american playwright is talking even now of dramatising him. the carrol club, of course, is ancient history. its membership is confined to the ranks of intellect and art; it invites to its dinners foreign princes, bankers, major-generals and other persons of distinction--all of whom, of course, are intensely interested in the master's book; and the record and praise of the club are in all the papers. it is a pity that carrol is dead. he would not have sworn: he would have grinned. even then, though he was not glorious, he was observant, and he left a brief note, a sort of thumb-nail sketch, of his impressions that night at the château de chinon. "i was sitting in my old corner," he says, "wondering why the devil i wrote so badly on the whole, and what the devil i was going to do with the subject that i had tackled. the dinner was not so bad at the old château in those days, though now they say the plate-glass is the best dish in the establishment. i liked the old place; it was dingy and low down and rather disreputable, i fancy, and the company was miscellaneous french with a dash of italian. nearly all of us knew each other, and there were regulars who sat in the same seat night after night. i liked it all. i liked the coarse tablecloths and the black-handled knives and the lead spoons and the damp, adhesive salt, and the coarse, strong, black pepper that one helped with a fork handle. then there was madame sitting on high, and i never saw an uglier woman nor a more good-natured. i was getting through my roast fowl and salad that evening, when two wonderful people came in, obviously from fairyland! i saw they had never been in such a place in all their lives before--i don't believe either of them had set foot in london until that day, and their wonder and delight and enjoyment of it all were so enormous that i had another helping of food and an extra half-bottle of wine. i enjoyed them, too, in their way, but i could see that _their_ fowl and _their_ wine were not a bit the same as mine. _i_ once knew the restaurant they were really dining at--grand café de paradis--some such name as that. he was an extraordinary looking chap, quite young, i should fancy, black hair, dark skin, and such burning eyes! i don't know why, but i felt he was a bit out of his setting, and i kept thinking how i should like to see him in a monk's robe. madame was different. she was a lovely girl with amazing copper hair; dressed rather badly--of the people, i should imagine. but what a gaiety she had! i couldn't hear what they were saying, but one had to smile with sheer joy at the sight of her face--it positively danced with mirth, and a good musician could have set it to music, i am sure. there was something a little queer--too pronounced, perhaps--about the lower part of her face. perhaps it would have been an odd tune, but i know i should have liked to hear it!" ambrose lit a black caporal cigarette--he had bought a packet on his way. he saw an enticing bottle, of rotund form, paying its visits to some neighbouring tables, and the happy fools made the acquaintance of benedictine. "oh, yes, it is all very well," ambrose has been heard to say on being offered this agreeable and aromatic liqueur, "it's nice enough, i daresay. but you should have tasted the _real_ stuff. i got it at a little cafe in soho some years ago--the château de chinon. no, it's no good going there now, it's quite different. all the walls are plate-glass and gold; the head waiter is called maître d'hôtel, and i am told it's quite the thing, both in southern and northern suburbs, to make up dinner parties at the château--everything most correct, evening dress, fans, opera cloaks, 'hide-seek' champagne, and stalls afterwards. one gets a glimpse of bohemian life that way, and everybody says it's been such a queer evening, but quite amusing, too. but you can't get the real benedictine there now. "where can you get it? ah! i wish i knew. _i_ never come across it. the bottle looks just the same, but it's quite a different flavour. the phylloxera may be responsible, of course, but i don't think it is. perhaps the bottle that went round the table that night was like the powder in _jekyll and hyde_--its properties were the result of some strange accident. at all events, they were quite magical." the two adventurers went forth into the maze of streets and lost themselves again. heaven knows where they went, by what ways they wandered, as with wide-gleaming eyes, arm locked in arm, they gazed on an enchanted scene which they knew must be london and nothing else--what else could it be? indeed, now and again, ambrose thought he recognized certain features and monuments and public places of which he had read; but still! that wine of the château was, by all mundane reckonings, of the smallest, and one little glass of benedictine with coffee could not disturb the weakest head: yet was it london, after all? what they saw was, doubtless, the common world of the streets and squares, the gay ways and the dull, the broad, ringing, lighted roads and the dark, echoing passages; yet they saw it all as one sees a mystery play, through a veil. but the veil before their eyes was a transmuting vision, and its substance was shot as if it were samite, with wonderful and admirable golden ornaments. in the eastern tales, people find themselves thus suddenly transported into an unknown magical territory, with cities that are altogether things of marvel and enchantment, whose walls are pure gold, lighted by the shining of incomparable jewels; and ambrose declared later that never till that evening had he realized the extraordinary and absolute truth to nature of the _arabian nights_. those who were present on a certain occasion will not soon forget his rejoinder to "a gentleman in the company" who said that for truth to nature he went to george eliot. "i was speaking of men and women, sir," was the answer, "not of lice." the gentleman in question, who was quite an influential man--some whisper that he was an editor--was naturally very much annoyed. still, ambrose maintained his position. he would even affirm that for crude realism the eastern tales were absolutely unique. "of course," he said, "i take realism to mean absolute and essential truthfulness of description, as opposed to merely conventional treatment. zola is a realist, not--as the imbeciles suppose--because he described--well, rather minutely--many unpleasant sights and sounds and smells and emotions, but because he was a poet, a seer; because, in spite of his pseudo-philosophies, his cheap materialisms, he saw the true heart, the reality of things. take _la terre_; do you think it is 'realistic' because it describes minutely, and probably faithfully, the event of a cow calving? not in the least; the local vet. who was called in could probably do all that as well, or better. it is 'realist' because it goes behind all the brutalities, all the piggeries and inhumanities, of those frightful people, and shows us the strange, mad, transcendent passion that lay behind all those things--the wild desire for the land--a longing that burned, that devoured, that inflamed, that drove men to hell and death as would a passion for a goddess who might never be attained. remember how 'la beauce' is personified, how the earth swells and quickens before one, how every clod and morsel of the soil cries for its service and its sacrifice and its victims--i call _that_ realism. "the _arabian nights_ is also profoundly realistic, though both the subject-matter and the method of treatment--the technique--are very different from the subject-matter and the technique of zola. of course, there may be people who think that if you describe a pigsty well you are a 'realist,' and if you describe an altar well you are 'romantic.' ... i do not know that the mental processes of crétins form a very interesting subject for discussion." one may surmise, if one will, that the sudden violence of the change was a sufficient cause of exaltation. that detestable lupton left behind; no town, but a collection of stink and poison factories and slave quarters; that more detestable school, more ridiculous than the academy of lagado; that most detestable routine, games, lessons and the doctor's sermons--the transition was tremendous to the freedom of fabled london, of the unknown streets and unending multitudes. ambrose said he hesitated to talk of that walk, lest he should be thought an aimless liar. they strolled for hours seeing the most wonderful things, the most wonderful people; but he declared that the case was similar to that of the benedictine--he could never discover again the regions that he had perambulated. somewhere, he said, close to the château de chinon there must be a passage which had since been blocked up. by it was the entrance to fairyland. when at last they found little russell row, the black cat was awaiting them with an expression which was pleased and pious, too; he had devoured the greater portion of that quarter-pound of dubious butter. ambrose smoked black cigarettes in bed till the packet was finished. iii it was an amazing week they spent in london. for a couple of days nelly was busied in getting "things" and "odds and ends," and, to her credit, she dressed the part most admirably. she abjured all the imperial purples, the mediterranean blues, the shrieking lilacs that her class usually affects, and appeared at last a model of neat gaiety. in the meantime, while these shopping expeditions were in progress, while nelly consulted with those tall, dark-robed, golden-haired and awful elegances which preside over the last mysteries of the draper and milliner, ambrose sat at home in little russell row and worked out the outlines of some fantasies that had risen in his mind. it was, in fact, during these days that he made the notes which were afterwards expanded into the curious _defence of taverns_, a book which is now rare and sought after by collectors. it is supposed that it was this work that was in poor palmer's mind when the earnest man referred with a sort of gloomy reticence to meyrick's later career. he had, in all probability, not read a line of it; but the title was certainly not a very pleasing one, judged by ordinary scholastic standards. and it must be said that the critical reception of the book was not exactly encouraging. one paper wondered candidly why such a book was ever written or printed; another denounced the author in good, set terms as an enemy of the great temperance movement; while a third, a monthly reviewer, declared that the work made his blood boil. yet even the severest moralists should have seen by the epigraph that the apes and owls and antiques hid mysteries of some sort, since a writer whose purposes were really evil and intemperate would never have chosen such a motto as: _jalalúd-din praised the behaviour of the inebriated and drank water from the well_. but the reviewers thought that this was unintelligible nonsense, and merely a small part of the writer's general purpose to annoy. the rough sketch is contained in the first of the _note books_, which are still unpublished, and perhaps are likely to remain so. meyrick jotted down his hints and ideas in the dingy "first floor front" of the bloomsbury lodging-house, sitting at the rosewood "davenport" which, to the landlady, seemed the last word in beautiful furniture. the ménage rose late. what a relief it was to be free of the horrible bells that poisoned one's rest at lupton, to lie in peace as long as one liked, smoking a matutinal cigarette or two to the accompaniment of a cup of tea! nelly was acquiring the art of the cigarette-smoker by degrees. she did not like the taste at all at first, but the wild and daring deviltry of the practice sustained her, and she persevered. and while they thus wasted the best hours of the day, ambrose would make to pass before the bottom of the bed a long procession of the masters, each uttering his characteristic word of horror and astonishment as he went by, each whirled away by some invisible power in the middle of a sentence. thus would enter chesson, fully attired in cassock, cap and gown: "meyrick! it is impossible? are you not aware that such conduct as this is entirely inconsistent with the tone of a great public school? have the games ..." but he was gone; his legs were seen vanishing in a whirlwind which bore him up the chimney. then horbury rose out of the carpet: "plain living and clear thinking are the notes of the system. a spartan discipline--meyrick! do you call this a spartan discipline? smoking tobacco and reposing with ..." he shot like an arrow after the head. "we discourage luxury by every means in our power. boy! this is luxury! boy, boy! you are like the later romans, boy! heliogabalus was accustomed ..." the chimney consumed palmer also; and he gave place to another. "roughly speaking, a boy should be always either in school or playing games. he should never be suffered to be at a loose end. is this your idea of playing games? i tell you, meyrick ..." the game amused nelly, more from its accompanying "business" and facial expression than from any particular comprehension of the dialogue. ambrose saw that she could not grasp all the comedy of his situations, so he invented an idyll between the doctor and a notorious and flamboyant barmaid at the "bell." the fame of this lady ran great but not gracious through all lupton. this proved a huge success; beginning as a mere episode, it gathered to itself a complicated network of incidents and adventures, of wild attempts and strange escapes, of stratagems and ambushes, of disguises and alarms. indeed, as ambrose instructed nelly with great solemnity, the tale, at first an idyll, the simple, pastoral story of the loves of the shepherd chesson and the nymph bella, was rapidly becoming epical in its character. he talked of dividing it into twelve books! he enlarged very elaborately the defeat of the suitors. in this the dear old head, disguised as a bookmaker, drugged the whisky of the young bloods who were accustomed to throng about the inner bar of the "bell." there was quite a long passage describing the compounding of the patent draught from various herbs, the enormous cook at the head's house enacting a kind of canidia part, and helping in the concoction of the dose. "mrs. belper," the doctor would observe, "this is _most_ gratifying. i had no idea that your knowledge of simples was so extensive. do i understand you to affirm that those few leaves which you hold in your hand will produce marked symptoms?" "bless your dear 'art, doctor chesson, and if you'll forgive me for talking so to such a learned gentleman, and so good, i'm sure, but you'll find there's nothing in the world like it. often and often have i 'eard my pore old mother that's dead and gone these forty year come candlemas ..." "mrs. belper, mrs. belper, i am surprised at you! are you not aware that the judicial committee of the privy council has pronounced the observance of the festival you so lightly name to be of a highly superstitious nature? your deceased mother, you were saying, will have entered into her reward forty years ago on february the second of next year? is not this the case?" "these forty years came febbymas, i mean, and a good woman she was, and never have i seen a larger wart on the nose and her legs bad as bad for years and years!" "these details, though, no doubt, of high personal interest, seem hardly germane to our present undertaking. however, mrs. belper, proceed in your remarks." "and thank you kindly, sir, and not forgetting you are a clergyman--but there! we can't all of us be everything. and my pore mother, as i was saying, sir, she said, again and again, that if she'd been like some folks she'd a made a fortune in golden money from this very yarb i'm a-showing you, sir." "dear me, mrs. belper! you interest me deeply. i have often thought how wrong it is of us to neglect, as undoubtedly we _do_ neglect, the bounteous gifts of the kindly earth. your lamented mother used this specific with remarkable success?" "lord a mercy, doctor 'chesson! elephants couldn't a stood against it, nor yet whales, being as how it's stronger than the strongest gunpowder that was ever brewed or blasted, and miles better than the nasty rubbidge you get in them doctors' shops, and a pretty penny they make you pay for it and no better than calomel, if you ask me, sir. but be it the strongest of the strong, i'll take my gospel oath it's weak to what my pore mother made, and that anybody in much moddle parish would tell you, for man, woman or child who took one of mrs. marjoram's mixtures and got over it, remember it, he would, until his dying day. and my pore old mother, she was that funny--never was a cheerfuller woman, i do believe, and when tom copus, the lame fiddler, he got married, pore mother! though she could hardly walk, her legs was that bad, come she would, and if she didn't slip a little of the mixture into the beer when everybody was looking another way! pore, dear soul! as she said herself afterwards, 'mirth becomes marriage,' and so to be sure it does, and merry they all were that day that didn't touch the beer, preferring spirits, which pore mother couldn't get at, being locked up--a nasty, mean trick, i call it, and always will." "enough, mrs. belper, enough! you have amply satisfied me as to the potency of the late mrs. marjoram's pharmacopoeia. we will, if you have no objection, mrs. belper, make the mixture--to use the words of shakespeare--'slab and thick.'" "and bless your kind 'art, sir, and a good, kind master you've always been to me, if you 'aven't got enough 'ere to lay out all the lupton town, call me a dutchwoman, and that i never was, nor pore belper neither." "certainly not, mrs. belper. the dutch belong to a different branch of the great teutonic stock, or, if identity had ever existed, the two races have long been differentiated. i think, mrs. belper, that the most eminent physicians have recognised the beneficial effects of a gentle laxative during the treacherous (though delightful) season of spring?" "law bless you, sir, you're right, as you always are, or why, doctor? as my pore mother used to say when she made up the mixture: 'scour 'em out is the right way about!' and laugh she would as she pounded the stuff up till i really thought she would 'a busted, and shaking like the best blancmanges all the while." "mrs. belper, you have removed a weight from my mind. you think, then, that i shall be freed from all unfair competition while i pay my addresses to my young friend, miss floyer?" "as free you will be, doctor chesson, sir, as the little birds in the air; for not one of them young fellers will stand on his feet for days, and groans and 'owls will be the best word that mortal man will speak, and bless you they will with their dying breath. so, sir, you'll 'ave the sweet young lady, bless her dear 'art, all to yourself, and if it's twins, don't blame me!" "mrs. belper, your construction, if i may say so, is somewhat proleptic in its character. still, i am sure that your meaning is good. ha! i hear the bell for afternoon school." the doctor's voice happened to be shrill and piercing, with something of the tone of the tooth-comb and tissue-paper; while the fat cook spoke in a suety, husky contralto. ambrose reproduced these peculiarities with the gift of the born mimic, adding appropriate antic and gesture to grace the show, and nelly's appreciation of its humours was intense. day by day new incidents and scenes were added. the head, in the pursuit of his guilty passion, hid in the coal-cellar of the "bell," and, rustling sounds being heard, evaded detection for a while by imitating the barks of a terrier in chase of a rat. nelly liked to hear the "wuff! wuff! wuff!" which was introduced at this point. she liked also the final catastrophe, when the odd man of the "bell" burst into the bar and said: "dang my eyes, if it ain't the doctor! i seed his cap and gown as he run round and round the coals on all fours, a-growling 'orrible." to which the landlady rejoined: "don't tell your silly lies here! how _could_ he growl, him being a clergyman?" and all the loafers joined in the chorus: "that's right, tom; why _do_ you talk such silly lies as that--him being a clergyman?" they laughed so loud and so merrily over their morning tea and these lunacies that the landlady doubted gravely as to their marriage lines. she cared nothing; they had paid what she asked, money down in advance, and, as she said: "young gentlemen _will_ have their fun with the young ladies--so what's the good of talking?" breakfast came at length. they gave the landlady a warning bell some half-hour in advance, so the odd food was, at all events, not cold. afterwards nelly sallied off on her shopping expeditions, which, as might have been expected, she enjoyed hugely, and ambrose stayed alone, with his pen and ink and a fat notebook which had captured his eye in a stationer's window. under these odd circumstances, then, he laid the foundations of his rare and precious _defence of taverns_, which is now termed by those fortunate enough to possess copies as a unique and golden treatise. though he added a good deal in later years and remodelled and rearranged freely, there is a certain charm of vigour and freshness about the first sketch which is quite delightful in its way. take, for example, the description of the whole world overwhelmed with sobriety: a deadly absence of inebriation annulling and destroying all the works and thoughts of men, the country itself at point to perish of the want of good liquor and good drinkers. he shows how there is grave cause to dread that, by reason of this sad neglect of the dionysiac mysteries, humanity is fast falling backward from the great heights to which it had ascended, and is in imminent danger of returning to the dumb and blind and helpless condition of the brutes. "how else," he says, "can one account for the stricken state in which all the animal world grows and is eternally impotent? to them, strange, vast and enormous powers and faculties have been given. consider, for example, the curious equipments of two odd extremes in this sphere--the ant and the elephant. the ant, if one may say so, is very near to us. we have our great centres of industry, our black country and our slaves who, if not born black, become black in our service. and the ants, too, have their black, enslaved races who do their dirty work for them, and are, perhaps, congratulated on their privileges as sharing in the blessings of civilisation--though this may be a refinement. the ant slaves, i believe, will rally eagerly to the defence of the nest and the eggs, and they say that the labouring classes are liberal to the core. nay; we grow mushrooms by art, and so they. in some lands, i think, they make enormous nests which are the nuisance and terror of the country. we have manchester and lupton and leeds, and many such places--one would think them altogether civilised. "the elephant, again, has many gifts which we lack. note the curious instinct (or intuition, rather) of danger. the elephant knows, for example, when a bridge is unsafe, and refuses to pass, where a man would go on to destruction. one might examine in the same way all the creatures, and find in them singular capacities. "yet--they have no art. they see--but they see not. they hear--and they hear not. the odour in their nostrils has no sweetness at all. they have made no report of all the wonders that they knew. their houses are, sometimes, as ingenious as a chemical works, but never is there any beauty for beauty's sake. "it is clear that their state is thus desolate, because of the heavy pall of sobriety that hangs over them all; and it scarcely seems to have occurred to our 'temperance' advocates that when they urge on us the example and abstinence of the beasts they have advanced the deadliest of all arguments against their nostrum. the laughing jackass is a teetotaller, doubtless, but no sane man should desire to be a laughing jackass. "but the history of the men who have attained, who have done the glorious things of the earth and have become for ever exalted is the history of the men who have quested the cup. dionysius, said the greeks, _civilised_ the world; and the bacchic mystery was, naturally, the heart and core of greek civilisation. "note the similitudes of vine and vineyard in old testament. "note the quest of the san graal. "note rabelais and _la dive bouteille_. "place yourself in imagination in a gothic cathedral of the thirteenth century and assist at high mass. then go to the nearest little bethel, and look, and listen. consider the difference in the two buildings, in those who worship in one and listen and criticise in the other. you have the difference between the inebriated and the sober, displayed in their works. as little bethel is to tintern, so is sobriety to inebriation. "modern civilisation has advanced in many ways? yes. bethel has a stucco front. this material was quite unknown to the builders of tintern abbey. advanced? what is advancement? freedom from excesses, from extravagances, from wild enthusiasms? small protestant tradesmen are free from all these things, certainly. but is the joy of adulteration to be the last goal, the final initiation of the race of men? _cælumque tueri_--to sand the sugar? "the flagons of the song of songs did not contain ginger-beer. "but the worst of it is we shall not merely descend to the beasts. we shall fall very far below the beasts. a black fellow is good, and a white fellow is good. but the white fellow who 'goes fantee' does not become a negro--he becomes something infinitely worse, a horrible mass of the most putrid corruption. "if we can clear our minds of the horrible cant of our 'civilisation,' if we can look at a modern 'industrial centre' with eyes purged of illusions, we shall have some notion of the awful horror to which we are descending in our effort to become as the ants and bees--creatures who know nothing of calix inebrians. "i doubt if we can really make this effort. blacks, stinks, desolations, poisons, hell's nightmare generally have, i suspect, worked themselves into the very form and mould of our thoughts. we are sober, and perhaps the tavern door is shut for ever against us. "now and then, perhaps, at rarer and still rarer intervals, a few of us will hear very faintly the far echoes of the holy madness within the closed door: _"when up the thyrse is raised, and when the sound of sacred orgies flies 'around, around.'_ "which is the _sonus epulantium in æterno convivio_. "but this we shall not be able to discern. very likely we shall take the noise of this high choir for the horrid mirth of hell. how strange it is that those who are pledged officially and ceremonially, as it were, to a rite of initiation which figures certainly a feast, should in all their thoughts and words and actions be continually blaspheming and denying all the uses and ends of feastings and festivals. "this is not the refusal of the _species_ for the sake of enjoying perfectly the most beautiful and desirable _genus_; it is the renouncing of species and genus, the pronouncing of good to be evil. the universal being denied, the particular is degraded and defiled. what is called 'the drink curse' is the natural and inevitable result and sequence of the 'protestant reformation.' if the clear wells and fountains of the magic wood are buried out of sight, then men (who must have drink) will betake them to the slime ponds and poison pools. "in the graal books there is a curse--an evil enchantment--on the land of logres because the mystery of the holy vessel is disregarded. the knight sees the dripping spear and the shining cup pass before him, and says no word. he asks no question as to the end and meaning of this ceremony. so the land is blasted and barren and songless, and those who dwell in it are in misery. "every day of our lives we see the graal carried before us in a wonderful order, and every day we leave the question unasked, the mystery despised and neglected. yet if we could ask that question, bowing down before these heavenly and glorious splendours and hallows--then every man should have the meat and drink that his soul desired; the hall would be filled with odours of paradise, with the light of immortality. "in the books the graal was at last taken away because of men's unworthiness. so it will be, i suppose. even now, the quester's adventure is a desperate one--few there be that find it. "ventilation and sanitation are well enough in their way. but it would not be very satisfactory to pass the day in a ventilated and sanitated hell with nothing to eat or drink. if one is perishing of hunger and thirst, sanitation seems unimportant enough. "how wonderful, how glorious it would be if the kingdom of the great drinkers could be restored! if we could only sweep away all the might of the sober ones--the factory builders, the poison makers, the politicians, the manufacturers of bad books and bad pictures, together with little bethel and the morality of mr. mildmay, the curate (a series of negative propositions)--then imagine the great light of the great inebriation shining on every face, and not any work of man's hands, from a cathedral to a penknife, without the mark of the tavern upon it! all the world a great festival; every well a fountain of strong drink; every river running with the new wine; the sangraal brought back from sarras, restored to the awful shrine of cor-arbennic, the oracle of the _dive bouteille_ once more freely given, the ruined vineyard flourishing once more, girt about by shining, everlasting walls! then we should hear the old songs again, and they would dance the old dances, the happy, ransomed people, commensals and compotators of the everlasting tavern." the whole treatise, of which this extract is a fragment in a rudimentary and imperfect stage, is, of course, an impassioned appeal for the restoration of the quickening, exuberant imagination, not merely in art, but in all the inmost places of life. there is more than this, too. here and there one can hear, as it were, the whisper and the hint of deeper mysteries, visions of a great experiment and a great achievement to which some men may be called. in his own words: "within the tavern there is an inner tavern, but the door of it is visible to few indeed." in ambrose's mind in the after years the stout notebook was dear, perhaps as a substitute for that aroma of the past in a phial which he has declared so desirable an invention. it stood, not so much for what was written in it as for the place and the circumstances in which it was written. it recalled little russell row and nelly, and the evenings at the château de chinon, where, night by night, they served still stranger, more delicious meats, and the red wine revealed more clearly its high celestial origin. one evening was diversified by an odd encounter. a middle-aged man, sitting at an adjoining table, was evidently in want of matches, and ambrose handed his box with the sympathetic smile which one smoker gives to another in such cases. the man--he had a black moustache and a small, pointed beard--thanked him in fluent english with a french accent, and they began to talk of casual things, veering, by degrees, in the direction of the arts. the frenchman smiled at meyrick's enthusiasm. "what a life you have before you!" he said. "don't you know that the populace always hates the artist--and kills him if it can? you are an artist and mystic, too. what a fate! "yes; but it is that applause, that _réclame_ that comes after the artist is dead," he went on, replying to some objection of ambrose's; "it is that which is the worst cruelty of all. it is fine for burns, is it not, that his stupid compatriots have not ceased to utter follies about him for the last eighty years? scotchmen? but they should be ashamed to speak his name! and keats, and how many others in my country and in yours and in all countries? the imbeciles are not content to calumniate, to persecute, to make wretched the artist in his lifetime. they follow him with their praise to the grave--the grave that they have digged! praise of the populace! praise of a race of pigs! for, you see, while they are insulting the dead with their compliments they are at the same time insulting the living with their abuse." he dropped into silence; from his expression he seemed to be cursing "the populace" with oaths too frightful to be uttered. he rose suddenly and turned to ambrose. "artist--and mystic. yes. you will probably be crucified. good evening ... and a fine martyrdom to you!" he was gone with a charming smile and a delightful bow to "madame." ambrose looked after him with a puzzled face; his last words had called up some memory that he could not capture; and then suddenly he recollected the old, ragged irish fiddler, the player of strange fantasies under the tree in the outskirts of lupton. he thought of his phrase about "red martyrdom"; it was an odd coincidence. iv the phrases kept recurring to his mind after they had gone out, and as they wandered through the lighted streets with all their strange and variegated show, with glittering windows and glittering lamps, with the ebb and flow of faces, the voices and the laughter, the surging crowds about the theatre doors, the flashing hansoms and the omnibuses lumbering heavily along to strange regions, such as turnham green and castlenau, cricklewood and stoke newington--why, they were as unknown as cities in cathay! it was a dim, hot night; all the great city smoked as with a mist, and a tawny moon rose through films of cloud far in the vista of the east. ambrose thought with a sudden recollection that the moon, that world of splendour, was shining in a farther land, on the coast of the wild rocks, on the heaving sea, on the faery apple-garths in avalon, where, though the apples are always golden, yet the blossoms of enchantment never fade, but hang for ever against the sky. they were passing a half-lit street, and these dreams were broken by the sudden clanging, rattling music of a piano-organ. for a moment they saw the shadowy figures of the children as they flitted to and fro, dancing odd measures in the rhythm of the tune. then they came into a long, narrow way with a church spire in the distance, and near the church they passed the "church-shop"--roman, evidently, from the subjects and the treatment of the works of art on view. but it was strange! in the middle of the window was a crude, glaring statue of some saint. he was in bright red robes, sprinkled with golden stars; the blood rained down from a wound in his forehead, and with one hand he drew the scarlet vestment aside and pointed to the dreadful gash above his heart, and from this, again, the bloody drops fell thick. the colours stared and shrieked, and yet, through the bad, cheap art there seemed to shine a rapture that was very near to beauty; the thing expressed was so great that it had to a certain extent overcome the villainy of the expression. they wandered vaguely, after their custom. ambrose was silent; he was thinking of avalon and "red martyrdom" and the frenchman's parting salutation, of the vision in one of the old books, "the man clothed in a robe redder and more shining than burning fire, and his feet and his hands and his face were of a like flame, and five angels in fiery vesture stood about him, and at the feet of the man the ground was covered with a ruddy dew." they passed under an old church tower that rose white in the moonlight above them. the air had cleared, the mist had floated away, and now the sky glowed violet, and the white stones of the classic spirit shone on high. from it there came suddenly a tumult of glad sound, exultant bells in ever-changing order, pealing out as if to honour some great victory, so that the mirth of the street below became but a trivial restless noise. he thought of some passage that he had read but could not distinctly remember: a ship was coming back to its haven after a weary and tempestuous voyage over many dreadful seas, and those on board saw the tumult in the city as their sails were sighted; heard afar the shouts of gladness from the rejoicing people; heard the bells from all the spires and towers break suddenly into triumphant chorus, sounding high above the washing of the waves. ambrose roused himself from his dreams. they had been walking in a circle and had returned almost to the street of the château, though, their knowledge of the district being of an unscientific character, they were under the impression that they were a mile or so away from that particular point. as it happened, they had not entered this street before, and they were charmed at the sudden appearance of stained glass lighted up from within. the colour was rich and good; there were flourished scrolls and grotesques in the renaissance manner, many emblazoned shields in ruby and gold and azure; and the centre-piece showed the court of the beer king--a jovial and venerable figure attended by a host of dwarfs and kobolds, all holding on high enormous mugs of beer. they went in boldly and were glad. it was the famous "three kings" in its golden and unreformed days, but this they knew not. the room was of moderate size, very low, with great dark beams in the white ceiling. white were the walls; on the plaster, black-letter texts with vermilion initials praised the drinker's art, and more kobolds, in black and red, loomed oddly in unsuspected corners. the lighting, presumably, was gas, but all that was visible were great antique lanterns depending from iron hooks, and through their dull green glass only a dim radiance fell upon the heavy oak tables and the drinkers. from the middle beam an enormous bouquet of fresh hops hung on high; there was a subdued murmur of talk, and now and then the clatter of the lid of a mug, as fresh beer was ordered. in one corner there was a kind of bar; behind it a couple of grim women--the kobolds apparently--performed their office; and above, on a sort of rack, hung mugs and tankards of all sizes and of all fantasies. there were plain mugs of creamy earthenware, mugs gaudily and oddly painted with garlanded goats, with hunting scenes, with towering castles, with flaming posies of flowers. then some friend of the drunken, some sage who had pried curiously into the secrets of thirst, had made a series of wonders in glass, so shining and crystalline that to behold them was as if one looked into a well, for every glitter of the facets gave promise of satisfaction. there were the mugs, capacious and very deep, crowned for the most part not with mere plain lids of common use and make, but with tall spires in pewter, richly ornamented, evident survivals from the middle ages. ambrose's eyes glistened; the place was altogether as he would have designed it. nelly, too, was glad to sit down, for they had walked longer than usual. she was refreshed by a glass of some cool drink with a borage flower and a cherry floating in it, and ambrose ordered a mug of beer. it is not known how many of these _krugs_ he emptied. it was, as has been noted, a sultry night, and the streets were dusty, and that glass of benedictine after dinner rather evokes than dismisses the demon of thirst. still, munich beer is no hot and rebellious drink, so the causes of what followed must probably be sought for in other springs. ambrose took a deep draught, gazed upward to the ceiling, and ordered another mug of beer for himself and some more of the cool and delicate and flowery beverage for nelly. when the drink was set upon the board, he thus began, without title or preface: "you must know, nelly dear," he said, "that the marriage of panurge, which fell out in due time (according to the oracle and advice of the holy bottle), was by no means a fortunate one. for, against all the counsel of pantagruel and of friar john, and indeed of all his friends, panurge married in a fit of spleen and obstinacy the crooked and squinting daughter of the little old man who sold green sauce in the rue quincangrogne at tours--you will see the very place in a few days, and then you will understand everything. you do not understand that? my child, that is impiety, since it accuses the zeitgest, who is certainly the only god that ever existed, as you will see more fully demonstrated in huxley and spencer and all the leading articles in all the leading newspapers. _quod erat demonstrandum._ to be still more precise: you must know that when i am dead, and a very great man indeed, many thousands of people will come from all the quarters of the globe--not forgetting the united states--to lupton. they will come and stare very hard at the old grange, which will have an inscription about me on the wall; they will spend hours in high school; they will walk all round playing fields; they will cut little bits off 'brooks' and 'quarries.' then they will view the sulphuric acid works, the chemical manure factory and the free library, and whatever other stink-pots and cesspools lupton town may contain; they will finally enjoy the view of the midland railway goods station. then they will say: '_now_ we understand him; _now_ one sees how he got all his inspiration in that lovely old school and the wonderful english country-side.' so you see that when i show you the rue quincangrogne you will perfectly understand this history. let us drink; the world shall never be drowned again, so have no fear. "well, the fact remains that panurge, having married this hideous wench aforesaid, was excessively unhappy. it was in vain that he argued with his wife in all known languages and in some that are unknown, for, as she said, she only knew two languages, the one of touraine and the other of the stick, and this second she taught panurge _per modum passionis_--that is by beating him, and this so thoroughly that poor pilgarlic was sore from head to foot. he was a worthy little fellow, but the greatest coward that ever breathed. believe me, illustrious drinkers and most precious.... nelly, never was man so wretched as this panurge since paradise fell from adam. this is the true doctrine; i heard it when i was at eleusis. you enquire what was the matter? why, in the first place, this vile wretch whom they all called--so much did they hate her--la vie mortale, or deadly life, this vile wretch, i say: what do you think that she did when the last note of the fiddles had sounded and the wedding guests had gone off to the 'three lampreys' to kill a certain worm--the which worm is most certainly immortal, since it is not dead yet! well, then, what did madame panurge? nothing but this: she robbed her excellent and devoted husband of all that he had. doubtless you remember how, in the old days, panurge had played ducks and drakes with the money that pantagruel had given him, so that he borrowed on his corn while it was still in the ear, and before it was sown, if we enquire a little more closely. in truth, the good little man never had a penny to bless himself withal, for the which cause pantagruel loved him all the more dearly. so that when the dive bouteille gave its oracle, and panurge chose his spouse, pantagruel showed how preciously he esteemed a hearty spender by giving him such a treasure that the goldsmiths who live under the bell of st. gatien still talk of it before they dine, because by doing so their mouths water, and these salivary secretions are of high benefit to the digestion: read on this, galen. if you would know how great and glorious this treasure was, you must go to the library of the archevêché at tours, where they will show you a vast volume bound in pigskin, the name of which i have forgotten. but this book is nothing else than the list of all the wonders and glories of pantagruel's wedding present to panurge; it contains surprising things, i can tell you, for, in good coin of the realm alone, never was gift that might compare with it; and besides the common money there were ancient pieces, the very names of which are now incomprehensible, and incomprehensible they will remain till the coming of the coqcigrues. there was, for instance, a great gold sol, a world in itself, as some said truly, and i know not how many myriad myriad of étoiles, all of the finest silver that was ever minted, and anges-gardiens, which the learned think must have been first coined at angers, though others will have it that they were the same as our angels; and, as for roses de paradis and couronnes immortelles, i believe he had as many of them as ever he would. beauties and joys he was to keep for pocket-money; small change is sometimes great gain. and, as i say, no sooner had panurge married that accursed daughter of the rue quincangrogne than she robbed him of everything, down to the last brass farthing. the fact is that the woman was a witch; she was also something else which i leave out for the present. but, if you will believe me, she cast such a spell upon panurge that he thought himself an absolute beggar. thus he would look at his sol d'or and say: 'what is the use of that? it is only a great bright lump: i can see it every day.' then when they said, 'but how about those anges-gardiens?' he would reply, 'where are they? have you seen them? _i_ never see them. show them to me,' and so with all else; and all the while that villain of a woman beat, thumped and belaboured him so that the tears were always in his eyes, and they say you could hear him howling all over the world. everybody said that he had made a pretty mess of it, and would come to a bad end. "luckily for him, this ... witch of a wife of his would sometimes doze off for a few minutes, and then he had a little peace, and he would wonder what had become of all the gay girls and gracious ladies that he had known in old times--for he had played the devil with the women in his day and could have taught ovid lessons in _arte amoris_. now, of course, it was as much as his life was worth to mention the very name of one of these ladies, and as for any little sly visits, stolen endearments, hidden embraces, or any small matters of that kind, it was _good-bye, i shall see you next nevermas_. nor was this all, but worse remains behind; and it is my belief that it is the thought of what i am going to tell you that makes the wind wail and cry of winter nights, and the clouds weep, and the sky look black; for in truth it is the greatest sorrow that ever was since the beginning of the world. i must out with it quick, or i shall never have done: in plain english, and as true as i sit here drinking good ale, not one drop or minim or drachm or pennyweight of drink had panurge tasted since the day of his wedding! he had implored mercy, he had told her how he had served gargantua and pantagruel and had got into the habit of drinking in his sleep, and his wife had merely advised him to go to the devil--she was not going to let him so much as look at the nasty stuff. '"touch not, taste not, smell not," is my motto,' said she. she gave him a blue ribbon, which she said would make up for it. 'what do you want with drink?' said she. 'go and do business instead, it's much better for you.' "sad, then, and sorry enough was the estate of poor panurge. at last, so wretched did he become, that he took advantage of one of his wife's dozes and stole away to the good pantagruel, and told him the whole story--and a very bad one it was--so that the tears rolled down pantagruel's cheeks from sheer grief, and each teardrop contained exactly one hundred and eighteen gallons of aqueous fluid, according to the calculations of the best geometers. the great man saw that the case was a desperate one, and heaven knew, he said, whether it could be mended or not; but certain it was that a business such as this could not be settled in a hurry, since it was not like a game at shove-ha'penny to be got over between two gallons of wine. he therefore counselled panurge to have patience and bear with his wife for a few thousand years, and in the meantime they would see what could be done. but, lest his patience should wear out, he gave him an odd drug or medicine, prepared by the great artist of the mountains of cathay, and this he was to drop into his wife's glass--for though he might have no drink, she was drunk three times a day, and she would sleep all the longer, and leave him awhile in peace. this panurge very faithfully performed, and got a little rest now and again, and they say that while that devil of a woman snored and snorted he was able, by odd chances once or twice, to get hold of a drop of the right stuff--good old stingo from the big barrel--which he lapped up as eagerly as a kitten laps cream. others there be who declare that once or twice he got about his sad old tricks, while his ugly wife was sleeping in the sun; the women on the maille make no secret of their opinion that his old mistress, madame sophia, was seen stealing in and out of the house as slyly as you please, and god knows what goes on when the door is shut. but the tourainians were always sad gossips, and one must not believe all that one hears. i leave out the flat scandal-mongers who are bold enough to declare that he kept one mistress at jerusalem, another at eleusis, another in egypt and about as many as are contained in the seraglio of the grand turk, scattered up and down in the towns and villages of asia; but i do believe there was some kissing in dark corners, and a curtain hung across one room in the house could tell odd tales. nevertheless, la vie mortale (a pest on her!) was more often awake than asleep, and when she was awake panurge's case was worse than ever. for, you see, the woman was no piece of a fool, and she saw sure enough that something was going on. the stingo in the barrel was lower than of rights, and more than once she had caught her husband looking almost happy, at which she beat the house about his ears. then, another time, madame sophia dropped her ring, and again this sweet lady came one morning so strongly perfumed that she scented the whole place, and when la vie woke up it smelt like a church. there was fine work then, i promise you; the people heard the bangs and curses and shrieks and groans as far as amboise on the one side and luynes on the other; and that year the loire rose ten feet higher than the banks on account of panurge's tears. as a punishment, she made him go and be industrial, and he built ten thousand stink-pot factories with twenty thousand chimneys, and all the leaves and trees and green grass and flowers in the world were blackened and died, and all the waters were poisoned so that there were no perch in the loire, and salmon fetched forty sols the pound at chinon market. as for the men and women, they became yellow apes and listened to a codger named calvin, who told them they would all be damned eternally (except himself and his friends), and they found his doctrine very comforting, and probable too, since they had the sense to know that they were more than half damned already. i don't know whether panurge's fate was worse on this occasion or on another when his wife found a book in his writing, full from end to end of poetry; some of it about the wonderful treasure that pantagruel had given him, which he was supposed to have forgotten. some of it verses to those old light-o'-loves of his, with a whole epic in praise of his mistress-in-chief, sophia. then, indeed, there was the very deuce to pay; it was bread and water, stripes and torment, all day long, and la vie swore a great oath that if he ever did it again he should be sent to spend the rest of his life in manchester, whereupon he fell into a swoon from horrid fright and lay like a log, so that everybody thought he was dead. "all this while the great pantagruel was not idle. perceiving how desperate the matter was, he summoned the thousand and first great oecumenical council of all the sages of the wide world, and when the fathers had come, and had heard high mass at st. gatien's, the session was opened in a pavilion in the meadows by the loire just under the lanterne of roche corbon, whence this council is always styled the great and holy council of the lantern. if you want to know where the place is you can do so very easily, for there is a choice tavern on the spot where the pavilion stood, and there you may have _malelotte_ and _friture_ and amber wine of vouvray, better than in any tavern in touraine. as for the history of the acts of this great council, it is still a-writing, and so far only two thousand volumes in elephant folio have been printed _sub signo lucernæ cum permissu superiorum_. however, as it is necessary to be brief, it may be said that the holy fathers of the lantern, after having heard the whole case as it was exposed to them by the great clerks of pantagruel, having digested all the arguments, looked into the precedents, applied themselves to the doctrine, explored the hidden wisdom, consulted the canons, searched the scriptures, divided the dogma, distinguished the distinctions and answered the questions, resolved with one voice that there was no help in the world for panurge, save only this: he must forthwith achieve the most high, noble and glorious quest of the sangraal, for no other way was there under heaven by which he might rid himself of that pestilent wife of his, la vie mortale. "and on some other occasion," said ambrose, "you may hear of the last voyage of panurge to the glassy isle of the holy graal, of the incredible adventures that he achieved, of the dread perils through which he passed, of the great wonders and marvels and compassions of the way, of the manner in which he received the title plentyn y tonau, which signifies 'child of the waterfloods,' and how at last he gloriously attained the vision of the sangraal, and was most happily translated out of the power of la vie mortale." "and where is he now?" said nelly, who had found the tale interesting but obscure. "it is not precisely known--opinions vary. but there are two odd things: one is that he is exactly like that man in the red dress whose statue we saw in the shop window to-night; and the other is that from that day to this he has never been sober for a single minute. "_calix meus inebrians quam præclarus est!_" v ambrose took a great draught from the mug and emptied it, and forthwith rapped the lid for a fresh supply. nelly was somewhat nervous; she was afraid he might begin to sing, for there were extravagances in the history of panurge which seemed to her to be of alcoholic source. however, he did not sing; he lapsed into silence, gazing at the dark beams, the hanging hops, the bright array of the tankards and the groups of drinkers dotted about the room. at a neighbouring table two germans were making a hearty meal, chumping the meat and smacking their lips in a kind of heavy ecstasy. he had but little german, but he caught scraps of the conversation. one man said: "heavenly swine cutlets!" and the other answered: "glorious eating!" "nelly," said ambrose, "i have a great inspiration!" she trembled visibly. "yes; i have talked so much that i am hungry. we will have some supper." they looked over the list of strange eatables and, with the waiter's help, decided on leberwurst and potato-salad as light and harmless. with this they ate crescent loaves, sprinkled with caraway seeds: there was more munich lion-brew and more flowery drink, with black coffee, a _fine_ and a maraschino to end all. for nelly the kobolds began to perform a grotesque and mystic dance in the shadows, the glass tankards on the rack glittered strangely, the white walls with the red and black texts retreated into vast distances, and the bouquet of hops seemed suspended from a remote star. as for ambrose, he was certainly not _ebrius_ according to the baron's definition; he was hardly _ebriolus_; but he was sensible, let us say, of a certain quickening of the fancy, of a more vivid and poignant enjoyment of the whole situation, of the unutterable gaiety of this mad escape from the conventions of lupton. "it was a thursday night," said ambrose in the after years, "and we were thinking of starting for touraine either the next morning or on saturday at latest. it will always be bright in my mind, that picture--the low room with the oak beams, the glittering tankards, the hops hanging from the ceiling, and nelly sitting before me sipping the scented drink from a green glass. it was the last night of gaiety, and even then gaiety was mixed with odd patterns--the frenchman's talk about martyrdom, and the statue of the saint pointing to the marks of his passion, standing in that dyed vesture with his rapt, exultant face; and then the song of final triumph and deliverance that rang out on the chiming bells from the white spire. i think the contrast of this solemn undertone made my heart all the lighter; i was in that odd state in which one delights to know that one is not being understood--so i told poor nelly 'the story of panurge's marriage to la vie mortale; i am sure she thought i was drunk! "we went home in a hansom, and agreed that we would have just one cigarette and then go to bed. it was settled that we would catch the night boat to dieppe on the next day, and we both laughed with joy at the thought of the adventure. and then--i don't know how it was--nelly began to tell me all about herself. she had never said a word before; i had never asked her--i never ask anybody about their past lives. what does it matter? you know a certain class of plot--novelists are rather fond of using it--in which the hero's happiness is blasted because he finds out that the life of his wife or his sweetheart has not always been spotless as the snow. why should it be spotless as the snow? what is the hero that he should be dowered with the love of virgins of paradise? i call it cant--all that--and i hate it; i hope angel clare was eventually entrapped by a young person from piccadilly circus--she would probably be much too good for him! so, you see, i was hardly likely to have put any very searching questions to nelly; we had other things to talk about. "but this night i suppose she was a bit excited. it had been a wild and wonderful week. the transition from that sewage-pot in the midlands to the abbey of theleme was enough to turn any head; we had laughed till we had grown dizzy. the worst of that miserable school discipline is is that it makes one take an insane and quite disproportionate enjoyment in little things, in the merest trifles which ought really to be accepted as a matter of course. i assure you that every minute that i spent in bed after seven o'clock was to me a grain of paradise, a moment of delight. of course, it's ridiculous; let a man get up early or get up late, as he likes or as he finds best--and say no more about it. but at that wretched lupton early rising was part of the infernal blether and blatter of the place, that made life there like a long dinner in which every dish has the same sauce. it may be a good sauce enough; but one is sick of the taste of it. according to our bonzes there, getting up early on a winter's day was a high virtue which acquired merit. i believe i should have liked a hard chair to sit in of my own free will, if one of our old fools--palmer--had not always been gabbling about the horrid luxury of some boys who had arm-chairs in their studies. unless you were doing something or other to make yourself very uncomfortable, he used to say you were like the 'later romans.' i am sure he believed that those lunatics who bathe in the serpentine on christmas day would go straight to heaven! "and there you are. i would awake at seven o'clock from persistent habit, and laugh as i realised that i was in little russell row and not at the old grange. then i would doze off again and wake up at intervals--eight, nine, ten--and chuckle to myself with ever-increasing enjoyment. it was just the same with smoking. i don't suppose i should have touched a cigarette for years if smoking had not been one of the mortal sins in our bedlam decalogue. i don't know whether smoking is bad for boys or not; i should think not, as i believe the dutch--who are sturdy fellows--begin to puff fat cigars at the age of six or thereabouts; but i do know that those pompous old boobies and blockheads and leather-skulls have discovered exactly the best way to make a boy think that a packet of rosebuds represents the quintessence of frantic delight. "well, you see how it was, how little russell row--the dingy, the stuffy, the dark retreat of old bloomsbury--became the abode of miraculous joys, a bright portion of fairyland. ah! it was a strong new wine that we tasted, and it went to our heads, and not much wonder. it all rose to its height on that thursday night when we went to the 'three kings' and sat beneath the hop bush, drinking lion-brew and flowery drink as i talked extravagances concerning panurge. it was time for the curtain to be rung down on our comedy. "the one cigarette had become three or four when nelly began to tell me her history; the wine and the rejoicing had got into her head also. she described the first things that she remembered: a little hut among wild hills and stony fields in the west of ireland, and the great sea roaring on the shore but a mile away, and the wind and the rain always driving from across the waves. she spoke of the place as if she loved it, though her father and mother were as poor as they could be, and little was there to eat even in the old cabin. she remembered mass in the little chapel, an old, old place hidden way in the most desolate part of the country, small and dark and bare enough except for the candles on the altar and a bright statue or two. st. kieran's cell, they called it, and it was supposed that the mass had never ceased to be said there even in the blackest days of persecution. quite well she remembered the old priest and his vestments, and the gestures that he used, and how they all bowed down when the bell rang; she could imitate his quavering voice saying the latin. her own father, she said, was a learned man in his way, though it was not the english way. he could not read common print, or write; he knew nothing about printed books, but he could say a lot of the old irish songs and stories by heart, and he had sticks on which he wrote poems on all sorts of things, cutting notches on the wood in oghams, as the priest called them; and he could tell many wonderful tales of the saints and the people. it was a happy life altogether; they were as poor as poor could be, and praised god and wanted for nothing. then her mother went into a decline and died, and her father never lifted up his head again, and she was left an orphan when she was nine years old. the priest had written to an aunt who lived in england, and so she found herself one black day standing on the platform of the station in a horrible little manufacturing village in lancashire; everything was black--the sky and the earth, and the houses and the people; and the sound of their rough, harsh voices made her sick. and the aunt had married an independent and turned protestant, so she was black, too, nelly thought. she was wretched for a long time, she said. the aunt was kind enough to her, but the place and the people were so awful. mr. deakin, the husband, said he couldn't encourage popery in his house, so she had to go to the meeting-house on sunday and listen to the nonsense they called 'religion'--all long sermons with horrible shrieking hymns. by degrees she forgot her old prayers, and she was taken to the dissenters' sunday school, where they learned texts and heard about king solomon's temple, and jonadab the son of rechab, and jezebel, and the judges. they seemed to think a good deal of her at the school; she had several prizes for bible knowledge. "she was sixteen when she first went out to service. she was glad to get away--nothing could be worse than farnworth, and it might be better. and then there were tales to tell! i never have had a clearer light thrown on the curious and disgusting manners of the lower middle-class in england--the class that prides itself especially on its respectability, above all, on what it calls 'morality'--by which it means the observance of one particular commandment. you know the class i mean: the brigade of the shining hat on sunday, of the neat little villa with a well-kept plot in front, of the consecrated drawing-room, of the big bible well in evidence. it is more often chapel than church, this tribe, but it draws from both sources. it is above all things shiny--not only the sunday hat, but the furniture, the linoleum, the hair and the very flesh which pertain to these people have an unwholesome polish on them; and they prefer their plants and shrubs to be as glossy as possible--this _gens lubrica_. "to these tents poor nelly went as a slave; she dwelt from henceforth on the genteel outskirts of more or less prosperous manufacturing towns, and she soon profoundly regretted the frank grime and hideousness of farnworth. a hedgehog is a rough and prickly fellow--better his prickles than the reptile's poisonous slime. the tales that yet await the novelist who has courage (what is his name, by the way?), who has the insight to see behind those venetian blinds and white curtains, who has the word that can give him entrance through the polished door by the encaustic porch! what plots, what pictures, what characters are ready for his cunning hand, what splendid matter lies unknown, useless, and indeed offensive, which, in the artist's crucible, would be transmuted into golden and exquisite perfection. do you know that i can never penetrate into the regions where these people dwell without a thrill of wonder and a great desire that i might be called to execute the masterpieces i have hinted at? do you remember how zola, viewing these worlds from the train when he visited london, groaned because he had no english, because he had no key to open the treasure-house before his eyes? he, of course, who was a great diviner, saw the infinite variety of romance that was concealed beneath those myriads of snug commonplace roofs: i wish he could have observed in english and recorded in french. he was a brave man, his defence of dreyfus shows that; but, supposing the capacity, i do not think he was brave enough to tell the london suburbs the truth about themselves in their own tongue. "yes, i walk down these long ways on sunday afternoons, when they are at their best. sometimes, if you choose the right hour, you may look into one 'breakfast room'--an apartment half sunken in the earth--after another, and see in each one the table laid for tea, showing the charming order and uniformity that prevail. tea in the drawing-room would be, i suppose, a desecration. i wonder what would happen if some chance guest were to refuse tea and to ask for a glass of beer, or even a brandy and soda? i suppose the central lake that lies many hundreds of feet beneath london would rise up, and the sinful town would be overwhelmed. yes: consider these houses well; how demure, how well-ordered, how shining, as i have said; and then think of what they conceal. "generally speaking, you know, 'morality' (in the english suburban sense) has been a tolerably equal matter. i shouldn't imagine that those 'later romans' that poor old palmer was always bothering about were much better or worse than the earlier babylonians; and london as a whole is very much the same thing in this respect as pekin as a whole. modern berlin and sixteenth-century venice might compete on equal terms--save that venice, i am sure, was very picturesque, and berlin, i have no doubt is very piggy. the fact is, of course (to use a simple analogy), man, by his nature, is always hungry, and, that being the case, he will sometimes eat too much dinner and sometimes he will get his dinner in odd ways, and sometimes he will help himself to more or less unlawful snacks before breakfast and after supper. there it is, and there is an end of it. but suppose a society in which the fact of hunger was officially denied, in which the faintest hint at an empty stomach was considered the rankest, most abominable indecency, the most detestable offence against the most sacred religious feelings? suppose the child severely reprimanded at the mere mention of bread and butter, whipped and shut up in a dark room for the offence of reading a recipe for making plum pudding; suppose, i say, a whole society organised on the strict official understanding that no decent person ever is or has been or can be conscious of the physical want of food; that breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner and supper are orgies only used by the most wicked and degraded wretches, destined to an awful and eternal doom? in such a world, i think, you would discover some very striking irregularities in diet. facts are known to be stubborn things, but if their very existence is denied they become ferocious and terrible things. coventry patmore was angry, and with reason, when he heard that even at the vatican the statues had received the order of the fig-leaf. "nelly went among these manichees. she had been to the world beyond the venetians, the white muslin curtains and the india-rubber plant, and she told me her report. they talk about the morality of the theatre, these swine! in the theatre--if there is anything of the kind--it is a case of a wastrel and a wanton who meet and part on perfectly equal terms, without deceit or false pretences. it is not a case of master creeping into a young girl's room at dead of night, with a bible under his arm--the said bible being used with grotesque skill to show that 'master's' wishes must be at once complied with under pain of severe punishment, not only in this world, but in the world to come. every sunday, you must remember, the girl has seen 'master' perhaps crouching devoutly in his pew, perhaps in the part of sidesman or even church-warden, more probably supplementing the gifts of the pastor at some nightmarish meeting-house. 'master' offers prayer with wonderful fervour; he speaks to the lord as man to man; in the emotional passages his voice gets husky, and everybody says how good he is. he is a deacon, a guardian of the poor (gracious title!), a builder and an earnest supporter of the british and foreign bible society: in a word, he is of the great middle-class, the backbone of england and of the protestant religion. he subscribes to the excellent society which prosecutes booksellers for selling the decameron of boccaccio. he has from ten to fifteen children, all of whom were found by mamma in the garden. "'mr. king was a horrible man,' said nelly, describing her first place; 'he had a great greasy pale face with red whiskers, and a shiny bald head; he was fat, too, and when he smiled it made one feel sick. soon after i got the place he came into the kitchen. missus was away for three days, and the children were all in bed. he sat down by the hearth and asked whether i was saved, and did i love the lord as i ought to, and if i ever had any bad thoughts about young men? then he opened the bible and read me nasty things from the old testament, and asked if i understood what it meant. i said i didn't know, and he said we must approach the lord in prayer so that we might have grace to search the scriptures together. i had to kneel down close to him, and he put his arm round my waist and began to pray, as he called it; and when we got up he took me on his knee and said he felt to me as if i were his own daughter.' "there, that is enough of mr. king. you can imagine what the poor child had to go through time after time. on prayer-meeting nights she used to put the chest of drawers against her bedroom door: there would be gentle, cautious pushes, and then a soft voice murmuring: 'my child, why is your heart so bad and stubborn?' i think we can conceive the general character of 'master' from these examples. 'missus,' of course, requires a treatise to herself; her more frequent failings are child-torture, secret drinking and low amours with oily commercial travellers. "yes, it is a hideous world enough, isn't it? and isn't it a pleasant thought that you and i practically live under the government of these people? 'master' is the 'man in the street,' the 'hard-headed, practical man of the world,' 'the descendant of the sturdy puritans,' whose judgment is final on all questions from poetics to liturgiology. we hardly think that this picture will commend itself to the 'man in the street'--a course of action that is calculated to alienate practical men. pleasant, isn't it? _suburbia locuta est: causa finita est._ "i suppose that, by nature, these people would not be so very much more depraved than the ordinary african black fellow. their essential hideousness comes, i take it, from their essential and most abominable hypocrisy. you know how they are always prating about bible teaching--the 'simple morality of the gospel,' and all that nauseous stuff? and what would be the verdict, in this suburban world, on a man who took no thought for the morrow, who regulated his life by the example of the lilies, who scoffed at the idea of saving money? you know perfectly well that his relations would have him declared a lunatic. _there_ is the villainy. if you are continually professing an idolatrous and unctuous devotion to a body of teaching which you are also persistently and perpetually disregarding and disobeying in its plainest, most simple, most elementary injunctions, well, you will soon interest anglers in search of bait. "yes, such is the world behind the india-rubber plant into which nelly entered. i believe she repelled the advances of 'master' with success. her final undoing came from a different quarter, and i am afraid that drugs, not biblical cajoleries, were the instruments used. she cried bitterly when she spoke of this event, but she said, too; 'i will kill him for it!' it was an ugly story, and a sad one, alas!--the saddest tale i ever listened to. think of it: to come from that old cabin on the wild, bare hills, from the sound of the great sea, from the pure breath of the waves and the wet salt wind, to the stenches and the poisons of our 'industrial centres.' she came from parents who had nothing and possessed all things, to our civilisation which has everything, and lies on the dung-heap that it has made at the very gates of heaven--destitute of all true treasures, full of sores and vermin and corruption. she was nurtured on the wonderful old legends of the saints and the fairies; she had listened to the songs that her father made and cut in oghams; and we gave her the penny novelette and the works of madame chose. she had knelt before the altar, adoring the most holy sacrifice of the mass; now she knelt beside 'master' while he approached the lord in prayer, licking his fat white lips. i can imagine no more terrible transition. "i do not know how or why it happened, but as i listened to nelly's tale my eyes were opened to my own work and my own deeds, and i saw for the first time my wickedness. i should despair of explaining to anyone how utterly innocent i had been in intention all the while, how far i was from any deliberate design of guilt. in a sense, i was learned, and yet, in a sense, i was most ignorant; i had been committing what is, doubtless a grievous sin, under the impression that i was enjoying the greatest of all mysteries and graces and blessings--the great natural sacrament of human life. "did i not know i was doing wrong? i knew that if any of the masters found me with nelly i should get into sad trouble. certainly i knew that. but if any of the masters had caught me smoking a cigarette, or saying 'damn,' or going into a public-house to get a glass of beer, or using a crib, or reading rabelais, i should have got into sad trouble also. i knew that i was sinning against the 'tone' of the great public school; you may imagine how deeply i felt the guilt of such an offence as that! and, of course, i had heard the boys telling their foolish indecencies; but somehow their nasty talk and their filthy jokes were not in any way connected in my mind with my love of nelly--no more, indeed, than midnight darkness suggests daylight, or torment symbolises pleasure. indeed, there was a hint--a dim intuition--deep down in my consciousness that all was not well; but i knew of no reason for this; i held it a morbid dream, the fantasy of an imagination over-exalted, perhaps; i would not listen to a faint voice that seemed without sense or argument. "and now that voice was ringing in my ears with the clear, resonant and piercing summons of a trumpet; i saw myself arraigned far down beside the pestilent horde of whom i have just spoken; and, indeed, my sin was worse than theirs, for i had been bred in light, and they in darkness. all heedless, without knowledge, without preparation, without receiving the mystic word, i had stumbled into the shrine, uninitiated i had passed beyond the veil and gazed upon the hidden mystery, on the secret glory that is concealed from the holy angels. woe and great sorrow were upon me, as if a priest, devoutly offering the sacrifice, were suddenly to become aware that he was uttering, all inadvertently, hideous and profane blasphemies, summoning satan in place of the holy spirit. i hid my face in my hands and cried out in my anguish. "do you know that i think nelly was in a sense relieved when i tried to tell her of my mistake, as i called it; even though i said, as gently as i could, that it was all over. she was relieved, because for the first time she felt quite sure that i was altogether in my senses; i can understand it. my whole attitude must have struck her as bordering on insanity, for, of course, from first to last i had never for a moment taken up the position of the unrepentant but cheerful sinner, who knows that he is being a sad dog, but means to continue in his naughty way. she, with her evil experience, had thought the words i had sometimes uttered not remote from madness. she wondered, she told me, whether one night i might not suddenly take her throat in my hands and strangle her in a sudden frenzy. she hardly knew whether she dreaded such a death or longed for it. "'you spoke so strangely,' she said; 'and all the while i knew we were doing wrong, and i wondered.' "of course, even after i had explained the matter as well as i could she was left to a large extent bewildered as to what my state of mind could have been; still, she saw that i was not mad, and she was relieved, as i have said. "i do not know how she was first drawn to me--how it was that she stole that night to the room where i lay bruised and aching. pity and desire and revenge, i suppose, all had their share. she was so sorry, she said, for me. she could see how lonely i was, how i hated the place and everybody about it, and she knew that i was not english. i think my wild welsh face attracted her, too. "alas! that was a sad night, after all our laughter. we had sat on and on till the dawn began to come in through the drawn blinds. i told her that we must go to bed, or we should never get up the next day. we went into the bedroom, and there, sad and grey, the dawn appeared. there was a heavy sky covered with clouds and a straight, soft rain was pattering on the leaves of a great plane tree opposite; heavy drops fell into the pools in the road. "it was still as on the mountain, filled with infinite sadness, and a sudden step clattering on the pavement of the square beyond made the stillness seem all the more profound. i stood by the window and gazed out at the weeping, dripping tree, the ever-falling rain and the motionless, leaden clouds--there was no breath of wind--and it was as if i heard the saddest of all music, tones of anguish and despair and notes that cried and wept. the theme was given out, itself wet, as it were, with tears. it was repeated with a sharper cry, a more piteous supplication; it was re-echoed with a bitter utterance, and tears fell faster as the raindrops fell plashing from the weeping tree. inexorable in its sad reiterations, in its remorseless development, that music wailed and grew in its lamentation in my own heart; heavy it was, and without hope; heavy as those still, leaden clouds that hung motionless in heaven. no relief came to this sorrowing melody--rather a sharper note of anguish; and then for a moment, as if to embitter bitterness, sounded a fantastic, laughing air, a measure of jocund pipes and rushing violins, echoing with the mirth of dancing feet. but it was beaten into dust by the sentence of despair, by doom that was for ever, by a sentence pitiless, relentless; and, as a sudden breath shook the wet boughs of the plane tree and a torrent fell upon the road, so the last notes of that inner music were to me as a burst of hopeless weeping. "i turned away from the window and looked at the dingy little room where we had laughed so well. it was a sad room enough, with its pale blue, stripy-patterned paper, its rickety old furniture and its feeble pictures. the only note of gaiety was on the dressing-table, where poor little nelly had arranged some toys and trinkets and fantasies that she had bought for herself in the last few days. there was a silver-handled brush and a flagon of some scent that i liked, and a little brooch of olivines that had caught her fancy; and a powder-puff in a pretty gilt box. the sight of these foolish things cut me to the heart. but nelly! she was standing by the bedside, half undressed, and she looked at me with the most piteous longing. i think that she had really grown fond of me. i suppose that i shall never forget the sad enchantment of her face, the flowing of her beautiful coppery hair about it; and the tears were wet on her cheeks. she half stretched out her bare arms to me and then let them fall. i had never known all her strange allurement before. i had refined and symbolised and made her into a sign of joy, and now before me she shone disarrayed--not a symbol, but a woman, in the new intelligence that had come to me, and i longed for her. i had just enough strength and no more." epilogue it is unfortunate--or fortunate: that is a matter to be settled by the taste of the reader--that with this episode of the visit to london all detailed material for the life of ambrose meyrick comes to an end. odd scraps of information, stray notes and jottings are all that is available, and the rest of meyrick's life must be left in dim and somewhat legendary outline. personally, i think that this failure of documents is to be lamented. the four preceding chapters have, in the main, dealt with the years of boyhood, and therefore with a multitude of follies. one is inclined to wonder, as poor nelly wondered, whether the lad was quite right in his head. it is possible that if we had fuller information as to his later years we might be able to dismiss him as decidedly eccentric, but well-meaning on the whole. but, after all, i cannot be confident that he would get off so easily. certainly he did not repeat the adventure of little russell row, nor, so far as i am aware, did he address anyone besides his old schoolmaster in a rabelaisian epistle. there are certain acts of lunacy which are like certain acts of heroism: they are hardly to be achieved twice by the same men. but meyrick continued to do odd things. he became a strolling player instead of becoming a scholar of balliol. if he had proceeded to the university, he would have encountered the formative and salutary influence of jowett. he wandered up and down the country for two or three years with the actors, and writes the following apostrophe to the memory of his old company. "i take off my hat when i hear the old music, for i think of the old friends and the old days; of the theatre in the meadows by the sacred river, and the swelling song of the nightingales on sweet, spring nights. there is no doubt that we may safely hold with plato his opinion, and safely may we believe that all brave earthly shows are but broken copies and dim lineaments of immortal things. therefore, i hope and trust that i shall again be gathered unto the true hathaway company _quæ sursum est_, which is the purged and exalted image of the lower, which plays for ever a great mystery in the theatre of the meadows of asphodel, which wanders by the happy, shining streams, and drinks from an eternal cup in a high and blissful and everlasting tavern. _ave, cara sodalitas, ave semper._" thus does he translate into wild speech _crêpe_ hair and grease paints, dirty dressing-rooms and dirtier lodgings. and when his strolling days were over he settled down in london, paying occasional visits to his old home in the west. he wrote three or four books which are curious and interesting in their way, though they will never be popular. and finally he went on a strange errand to the east; and from the east there was for him no returning. it will be remembered that he speaks of a celtic cup, which had been preserved in one family for many hundred years. on the death of the last "keeper" this cup was placed in meyrick's charge. he received it with the condition that it was to be taken to a certain concealed shrine in asia and there deposited in hands that would know how to hide its glories for ever from the evil world. he went on this journey into unknown regions, travelling by ragged roads and mountain passes, by the sandy wilderness and the mighty river. and he forded his way by the quaking and dubious track that winds in and out among the dangers and desolations of the _kevir_--the great salt slough. he came at last to the place appointed and gave the word and the treasure to those who know how to wear a mask and to keep well the things which are committed to them, and then set out on his journey back. he had reached a point not very far from the gates of west and halted for a day or two amongst christians, being tired out with a weary pilgrimage. but the turks or the kurds--it does not matter which--descended on the place and worked their customary works, and so ambrose was taken by them. one of the native christians, who had hidden himself from the miscreants, told afterwards how he saw "the stranger ambrosian" brought out, and how they held before him the image of the crucified that he might spit upon it and trample it under his feet. but he kissed the icon with great joy and penitence and devotion. so they bore him to a tree outside the village and crucified him there. and after he had hung on the tree some hours, the infidels, enraged, as it is said, by the shining rapture of his face, killed him with their spears. it was in this manner that ambrose meyrick gained red martyrdom and achieved the most glorious quest and adventure of the sangraal. the end books by arthur machen the house of souls the secret glory the hill of dreams far off things the three impostors (in preparation) generously made available by the internet archive.) the folk-lore society, for collecting and printing relics of popular antiquities, &c. established in the year mdccclxxviii. [illustration: alter et idem.] publications of the folk-lore society. 1888. xxiii. list of officers of the society. 1887-1888. president. the right hon. the earl of strafford. vice-presidents. andrew lang, m.a. w. r. s. ralston, m.a. edward b. tylor, ll.d., f.r.s. director. g. l. gomme, f.s.a., 1, beverley villas, barnes common, s.w. council. the hon. j. abercromby. a. machado y alvarez. the earl beauchamp, f.s.a. edward brabrook, f.s.a. dr. g. b. brinton. james britten, f.l.s. loys brueyre. miss c. s. burne. edward clodd. professor d. comparetti. g. laurence gomme, f.s.a. a. granger hutt, f.s.a. sir john lubbock, bt., f.r.s. rev. dr. richard morris. alfred nutt. edward peacock, f.s.a. z. d. pedroso. professor a. h. sayce, m.a. captain r. c. temple. henry b. wheatley, f.s.a. auditors. g. l. apperson. john tolhurst, f.s.a. local secretaries. ireland: g. h. kinahan, r.i.a. south scotland: william george black, esq. north scotland: rev. walter gregor. india: captain r. c. temple. china: j. stewart lockhart. honorary secretaries. a. granger hutt, f.s.a., 8, oxford road, kilburn, n.w. j. j. foster, 36, alma square, st. john's wood, n.w. studies on the legend of the holy grail. _works by the same author._ =the aryan expulsion and return formula among the celts.=--_folk-lore record_, vol. iv. 10_s._ 6_d._ "interessante étude de mythographie comparée."--_revue celtique._ =mabinogion studies, i. the mabinogi of branwen, daughter of llyr.=--_folk-lore record_, vol. v. 10_s._ 6_d._ "eingehendes und sehr beachtenswerthes studium."--prof. ernst windisch, in _ersch und gruber_. "these careful and searching studies deserve to be honourably mentioned."--mons. henri gaidoz, in the _academy_. studies on the legend of the holy grail _with especial reference to the hypothesis_ of its celtic origin. by alfred nutt. "welchem volke das märchen (von parzival's jugendgeschichte) angehörte, welches die schriftliche oder mündliche ueberlieferung mit der gralsage in verbindung brachte, ist schwer zu bestimmen, doch würde dasjenige volk den meisten anspruch darauf haben, bei welchem sich dies märchen ausserhalb jenes zusammenhangs nachweisen liesse."--k. simrock. "the celtic hero who in the twelfth century became perceval le chercheur du basin ... in the end became possessed of that sacred basin le saint graal, and the holy lance which, though christian in the story, are the same as the talismans which appear so often in gaelic tales ... the glittering weapon which destroys, and the sacred medicinal cup which cures."--j. f. campbell. "in all the fenian stories mention is made of fionn's healing cup ... it is the same as the holy grail of course."--j. f. campbell. london: david nutt, 270-71, strand. 1888. harrison and sons, printers in ordinary to her majesty, st. martin's lane, london. dedication. to the memory of j. f. campbell, from whom i first learnt to love celtic tradition. contents. chapter i. description of the leading forms of the romance: conte del graal--joseph d'arimathie--didot-perceval--queste del saint graal--grand saint graal--parzival--perceval le gallois- mabinogi of peredur--sir perceval--diu crône--information respecting date and authorship of these works in the mss. page 1 chapter ii. summaries--conte du graal: pseudo-chrestien, chrestien, gautier de doulens, manessier, gerbert--wolfram--heinrich von dem türlin--didot-perceval--mabinogi of peredur--thornton ms. sir perceval--queste del saint graal--grand saint graal- robert de borron's poem, joseph of arimathea page 8 chapter iii. the legend formed of two portions: early history of grail, quest--two forms of each portion distinguished--grouping of the various versions--alternative hypotheses of development- their bearing upon the alleged celtic origin of the grail- closer examination of the various accounts of the grail: the first use made of it and its first possessor; its solace of joseph; its properties and the effect produced by it; its name; its arrival in england; the grail-keeper and his relationship to the promised knight--three different stages in the development of the queste--the work and the qualification of the promised knight--conclusions: priority over early history of quest--chronological arrangement of the versions page 65 chapter iv. sketch of the literature connected with the grail cycle. villemarqué--halliwell--san marte (a. schulz)--simrock- rochat--furnivall's reprint of the grand st. graal and of borron--j. f. campbell--furnivall's queste--paulin paris- potvin's conte du graal--bergmann--skeat's joseph of arimathea--hucher: grail celtic, date of borron--zarncke, zur geschichte der gralsage; grail belongs to christian legend--birch-hirschfeld develops zarncke's views: grand st. graal younger than queste, both presuppose chrestien and an earlier queste, the didot-perceval, which forms integral part of borron's trilogy; mabinogi later than chrestien; various members of the cycle dated--martin combats birch-hirschfeld: borron later than chrestien, whose poem represents oldest stage of the romance, which has its roots in celtic tradition--hertz--criticism of birch-hirschfeld page 97 chapter v. relationship of the didot-perceval to the conte du graal--the former not the source of the latter--relationship of the conte du graal and the mabinogi--instances in which the mabinogi has copied chrestien--examples of its independence- the incident of the blood drops in the snow--differences between the two works--the machinery of the mabinogi and the traces of it in the conte du graal--the stag hunt--the mabinogi and manessier--the sources of the conte du graal and the relation of the various parts to a common original--sir perceval--steinbach's theory--objections to it--the counsels in the conte du graal--wolfram and the mabinogi--absence of the grail from the apparently oldest celtic form page 127 chapter vi. the lay of the great fool--summary of the prose opening--the aryan expulsion and return formula--comparison with the mabinogi, sir perceval, and the conte du graal--comparison with various gaelic märchen, the knight of the red shield, the rider of grianaig--originality of the highland tale- comparison with the fionn legend--summary of the lay of the great fool--comparison with the stag hunt incident in the conte du graal and the mabinogi--the folk-tale of the twin brethren--the fight against the witch who brings the dead to life in gerbert and the similar incident in the folk-tale of the knight of the red shield--comparison with the original form of the mabinogi--originality of gerbert page 152 chapter vii. the various forms of the visit to the grail castle in the romances--conte du graal: chrestien; gautier-manessier; gautier-gerbert--didot-perceval--mabinogi--conte du graal; gawain's visit to the grail castle--heinrich von dem türlin--conte du graal: perceval's visit to the castle of maidens--inconsistency of these varying accounts; their testimony to stories of different nature and origin being embodied in the romances--two main types: feud quest and unspelling quest--reasons for the confusion of the two types--evidence of the confusion in older celtic literature- the grail in celtic literature: the gear of the tuatha de danann; the cauldron in the ultonian cycle; the mabinogi of branwen; vessel of balsam and glaive of light in the contemporary folk-tale--the sword in celtic literature: tethra; fionn; manus--parallels to the bespelled castle; the brug of oengus, the brug of lug, the brug of manannan mac lir, bran's visit to the island of women, cormac mac art, and the fairy branch; diarmaid and the daughter of king under the waves--unspelling stories: the three soldiers; the waiting of arthur; arthur in etna; the kyffhäuser legend, objections to martin's views concerning it--gawain's visit to the magic castle and celtic parallels; the son of bad counsel; fionn in giant land; fionn in the house of cuana; fionn and the yellow face--the vanishing of the bespelled castle--comparison with the sleeping beauty cycle--the "haunted castle" form and its influence on heinrich's version--the loathly grail messenger page 170 chapter viii. the fisher king in the conte du graal, in the queste, and in borron and the grand st. graal--the accounts of latter complete each other--the fish is the salmon of wisdom- parallel with the fionn saga--the nature of the unspelling quest--the mabinogi of taliesin and its mythological affinities--brons, bran, cernunnos--perceval's silence: conte du graal explanation late; explanation from the fionn saga- comparison of incident with _geasa_; nature of latter; references to it in celtic folk-tales and in old irish literature, book of rights, diarmaid, cuchulainn--_geasa_ and _taboo_ page 207 chapter ix. summing up of the elements of the older portion of the cycle--parallelism with celtic tradition--the christian element in the cycle: the two forms of the early history; brons form older--brons and bran--the bran conversion legend--the joseph conversion legend, joseph in apocryphal literature, the evangelium nicodemi--the bran legend the starting point of the christian transformation of the legend--substitution of joseph for bran--objection to this hypothesis--hypothetical sketch of the growth of the legend page 215 chapter x. the moral and spiritual import of the grail-legend universally recognised--popularity of the arthurian romance- reasons for that popularity--affinities of the mediæval romances with early celtic literature; importance of the individual hero; knighthood; the _rôle_ of woman; the celtic fairy and the mediæval lady; the supernatural--m. renan's views--the quest in english literature, malory--the earliest form of the legend, chrestien, his continuators--the queste and its ideal--the sex-relations in the middle ages- criticism of mr. furnivall's estimate of the moral import of the queste--the merits of the queste--the chastity ideal in the later versions--modern english treatments: tennyson, hawker--possible source of the chastity ideal in popular tradition--the perceval quest in wolfram; his moral conception; the question; parzival and conduiramur--the parzival quest and faust--wagner's parsifal--the christian element in the legend--ethical ideas in the folk-tale originals of the grail romances: the great fool; the sleeping beauty--conclusion page 228 appendix a.: the relationship of wolfram to chrestien page 261 appendix b.: the grand st. graal prologue and the brandan legend page 264 index i. the dramatis personæ of the legend page 266 index ii. page 275 introduction. the present work is, as its title states, a collection of "studies." it does not profess to give an exhaustive or orderly account of the grail romance cycle; it deals with particular aspects of the legend, and makes no pretence of exhausting even these. it may be urged that as this is the case the basis of the work is too broad for the superstructure, and that there was no need to give full summaries of the leading forms of the legend, or to discuss at such length their relation one to another, when it was only intended to follow up one of the many problems which this romance cycle presents. had there existed any work in english which did in any measure what the writer has here attempted to do, he would only too gladly have given more space and more time to the elaboration of the special subject of these studies. but the only work of the kind is in german, _birch-hirschfeld's die gralsage_. many interested in the arthurian romances do not know german; and some who profess an interest in them, and who do know german, are not, to judge by their writings, acquainted with birch-hirschfeld's work. it seemed worth while, therefore, to present the facts about the cycle with greater fulness than would have been necessary had those facts been generally accessible. the writer felt, too, that whatever judgment might be passed upon his own speculations, his statements of fact might give his book some value in the eyes of students. he also wished to give all who felt an interest in the line of investigation he opened up the opportunity of pursuing it further, or the means of checking his assertions and conjectures. the writer has taken his texts as he found them. he has studied the subject matter of the romances, not the words in which they have been handed down. those who seek for philological disquisitions are, therefore, warned that they will find nothing to interest them; and those scholars who are well acquainted with the printed texts, but who are on the search for fresh ms. evidence, must not look here for such. on the other hand, as the printed texts are for the most of such rarity and price as to be practically inaccessible to anyone not within reach of a large library, the writer trusts that his abstract of them will be welcome to many. he has striven to take note of all works of real value bearing upon the subject. he endeavoured, though unsuccessfully, to obtain a copy of m. gaston paris' account of the arthurian romances which, though it has been for some months in print, is not yet published. the writer has done his best to separate the certain from the conjectural. like m. renan, in a similar case, he begs the reader to supply the "perhaps" and the "possibly's" that may sometimes have dropt out. the whole subject is fraught with difficulty, and there are special reasons why all results must for some time to come be looked upon as conjectural. these are glanced at here and there in the course of these studies, but it may be well to put them together in this place. firstly, whatever opinions be held as to which are the older forms of the legend, it is certain that in no one case do we possess a primary form. all the versions that have come down to us presuppose, even where they do not actually testify to, a model. two of the forms which there is substantial agreement in reckoning among the oldest, the poems of chrestien de troyes and robert de borron, were never finished by the authors; sequels exist to both, of a later date and obviously affected by other forms of the legend. a reconstruction of the original story is under these circumstances a task of great uncertainty. so much for the difficulty inherent in the nature of the evidence, a difficulty which it is to be feared will always beset the student of this literature, as no new texts are likely to be found. secondly, this evidence, such as it is, is not accessible in a form of which the most can be made. the most important member of the group, the conte du graal, only exists in one text, and that from a late and poor ms. it is certain that a critical edition, based upon a survey of the entire ms. evidence, will throw great light upon all the questions here treated of. the mabinogi of peredur has not yet been critically edited, nor have the mss. of the other romances yielded up all that can be learnt from them. thirdly, whatever opinion be held respecting the connection of the north french romances and celtic tradition, connection of some kind must be admitted. now the study of celtic tradition is only beginning to be placed upon a firm basis, and the stores of celtic myth and legend are only beginning to be thrown open to the non-celtic scholar. were there in existence a celtic parallel to grimm's great work on german mythology, the views for which the writer contends would have been, in all likelihood, admitted ere now, and there would have been no necessity for this work at all. whilst some of the reasons which render the study of the grail legends so fascinating, because so problematic, will probably always remain in force, others will vanish before the increase of knowledge. when the diplomatic evidence is accessible in a trustworthy form; when the romances have received all the light that can be shed upon them from celtic history, philology, and mythology, the future student will have a comparatively easy task. one of the writer's chief objects has been to excite an interest in these romances among those who are able to examine the celtic elements in them far more efficiently than he could do. welsh philologists can do much to explain the _onomasticon arthurianum_; cymric history generally may elucidate the subject matter. but as a whole welsh literature is late, meagre, and has kept little that is archaic. the study of irish promises far better results. of all the races of modern europe the irish have the most considerable and the most archaic mass of pre-christian traditions. by the side of their heroic traditional literature that of cymry or teuton (high and low), or slav is recent, scanty, and unoriginal. a few words must be said in defence of the free use made of conjecture in the course of these studies. this is well nigh unavoidable from the way in which the texts we have to deal with have come down to us. what m. renan has said about the hebrew historical scriptures is excellently exemplified in the grail romances. there was no fixed text, no definite or rounded sequence of incidents, of which scribes respected the integrity. on the contrary, each successive transcriber was only anxious to add some fresh adventure to the interminable tale, and those mss. were most thought of which contained the greatest number of lines. the earlier mss. have, therefore, almost entirely disappeared, and we are dealing with works which we know to have been composed in the twelfth century, but of which we have only thirteenth or fourteenth century transcripts. inconsistencies in the conduct of the story are the inevitable consequence in most cases, but sometimes the latest arranger had an eye for unity of effect, and attained this by the simple process of altering the old account so as to make it fit with the new. in dealing with the text of an _individual_ author, whether ancient or modern, it would be in the last degree uncritical to explain difficulties by such hypotheses as the loss of an earlier draft, or the foisting into the work of later and incongruous incidents and conceptions. not so in the case of the romances; this method of explanation is natural and legitimate, but none the less is it largely conjectural. the writer may be blamed for not having presented his subject in a more engaging and more lucid form. he would plead in excuse the circumstances under which his work has been carried on. when the only hours of study are those which remain after the claims, neither few nor light, of business and other duties have been met, it is hard to give an appearance of unity to a number of minute detail studies, and to weld them together into one harmonious whole. the fact that the work has been written, and printed, at considerable intervals of time may, it is hoped, be accepted as some excuse for inconsistency in the terminology. the writer has many acknowledgments to make. first and chief to dr. birch-hirschfeld, but for whose labours, covering well nigh the whole field of the grail cycle, he would not have been able to take in hand his work at all; then to dr. furnivall, to whose enthusiasm and spirit the publication of some of the most important texts are due. in these two cases the writer acknowledges his gratitude with the more readiness that he has felt compelled to come to an opposite conclusion from that arrived at by dr. birch-hirschfeld respecting the genesis and growth of the legend, and because he has had to differ from dr. furnivall's estimate of the moral value of the galahad romances. to m. hucher, to mons. ch. potvin, the editor, single-handed, of the conte du graal, to m. d'arbois de jubainville, to professor ernst martin, to the veteran san-marte, to herr otto küpp, and to herr paul steinbach, these studies owe much. professor rhys' hibbert lectures came into the writer's hands as he was preparing the latter portion of the book for the press; they were of great service to him, and he was especially gratified to find opinions at which he had arrived confirmed on altogether independent grounds by professor rhys' high authority. the writer is also indebted to him, to mr. h. l. d. ward, of the british museum, and to his friend mr. egerton phillimore for help given while the sheets were passing through the press. lastly, the writer desires to pay an especial tribute of gratitude and respect to that admirable scholar, j. f. campbell. of all the masters in folk-lore, jacob grimm not excepted, none had a keener eye or surer, more instinctively right judgment. although the writer admits, nay, insists upon the conjectural character of his results, he believes he is on the right track, and that if the grail romances be worked out from any other point of view than the one here taken, the same goal will be reached. it should be said that some of the conclusions, which he can claim as his own by right of first mention, were stated by him in a paper he read before the folk-lore society in 1880 (afterwards reprinted, celtic magazine, 1887, august-october); and in a paper he read before the honourable society of cymmrodorion, in 1884. these studies have been a delight and a solace to the writer; had it been otherwise, he would still feel himself amply repaid for his work by the thought that he had made a contribution, however slight, to the criticism of the legend of the holy grail. errata. [the reader is kindly begged to mark in these corrections before using the book.] page 22, line 12, _for_ corbièrc _read_ corbière. " 25, line 37, _insert_ passion _before_ week. " 30, 7 lines from bottom, _for_ avallon _read_ avalon. " 85, line 24, _for_ percival _read_ perceval. " 86, line 12, _for_ percival _read_ perceval. " 90, 5 lines from bottom, _for_ pelleur _read_ pelleans. " 102, line 22, _for_ seems _read_ seem. " 120, line 3, _for_ 1180 _read_ 1189. " 124, line 29, _for_ bron _read_ brons. " 156, line 11, _insert_ comma _after_ specially. " 159, line 11, _for_ henessey _read_ hennessy. " 163, note, _i.e._, _for_ graal _read_ gaal. " 183, line 23, _insert_ comma _after_ more. " 188, line 5, _for_ euphemerised _read_ euhemerised. " 188, line 5, _for_ invasion _read_ invasions. " 188, line 17, _for_ mystic _read_ mythic. " 189, line 1, _for_ lxxvii _read_ lxxxii. " 197, note, _for_ carl the great _read_ karl the great. " 200, line 12, _insert_ comma _after_ plight; _dele_ comma _after_ love. " 201, 1 line from bottom, _insert_ late _before_ mediæval. " 204, note, _for_ percival _read_ perceval. " 217, line 23, _for_ mystic _read_ mythic. studies on the legend of the holy grail. chapter i. description of the leading forms of the romance: conte del graal--joseph d'arimathie--didot-perceval--queste del saint graal--grand saint graal--parzival--perceval le gallois--mabinogi of peredur--sir perceval--diu crône--information respecting date and authorship of these works in the mss. the following are the forms in which the legend of the holy grail has come down to us:-a.--=le conte del graal=, a poem of over 60,000 verses, the major part of which (45,379 verses) was printed for the first time by potvin: le conte del graal, six volumes, 8vo. (vols. ii.-vi. containing our poem), mons, 1866-71, from a ms. preserved in the mons library.[1] the portion of the poem which is not printed in full is summarised by potvin in the sixth volume of his edition. the poem, so far as at present known, is the work of four men: a i. chrestien de troyes, who carried the work down to verse 10,601. a ii. gautier de doulens, who continued it to verse 34,934. a iii. manessier, who finished it in 45,379 verses. a iv. gerbert, to whom are due over 15,000 verses, mostly found interpolated between gautier de doulens and manessier. a ms. preserved in the library of montpellier[2] differs in important respects from the mons one as far as gautier de doulens and manessier are concerned. it intercalates 228 verses between verses 20,294 and 20,296 of the mons ms., and gives a different redaction of verses 34,996-35,128 in agreement with the aforesaid intercalation. it likewise mentions two visits of gawain to the grail castle. the intercalation in gautier may be called a ii_a_, and the variant in manessier a iii_a_. b.--=joseph d'arimathie, merlin=, exists in two forms: (1) a fragmentary metrical version entitled in the sole existing ms. (bibliothèque nationale, no. 20,047. fonds st. germain, no. 1,987) li r(o)manz de l'est (o)ire dou graal, and consisting of 4,018 verses, 3,514 for the joseph, the remainder, for about one-fifth of the merlin. first printed by francisque michel: le roman du st. graal. bordeaux, 1841. secondly by furnivall: seynt graal or the sank ryal. printed for the roxburghe club, two volumes, 4to., london, 1861-63, where it is found in an appendix at the end of vol i. (2) a prose version of which several mss. exist, all of which are fully described by e. hucher: le saint-graal, ou le joseph d'arimathie, three volumes, 12mo., le mans, 1875-78, vol. i., pp. 1-28. the chief are: the cangé ms. (_circa_ 1250) of which hucher prints the joseph, vol. i., pp. 209-276, and the didot ms., written in 1301, of which hucher prints the joseph, vol. i., pp. 277-333. hucher likewise gives, vol. i., pp. 335-365, variants from the huth ms. (_circa_ 1280). these different versions may be numbered as follows:- b i. the metrical version, which i shall always quote as metr. jos., from furnivall's edition. b ii. the prose versions: b ii_a_, cangé jos.; b ii_b_, didot jos.; b ii_c_, huth jos., all quoted from hucher, vol. i. c.--=perceval=, prose romance found in the already-mentioned didot ms. at the end of the merlin, printed by hucher, vol. i., pp. 415-505, from which it will be quoted as didot-perceval. d.--=queste del saint graal=, prose romance commonly found in the mss. in combination with lancelot and the mort artur. edited by furnivall: la queste del st. graal. printed for the roxburghe club, 4to., london, 1864. the introduction contains a full account of the existing mss. a different redaction from that of any of the known french mss. is preserved in a welsh translation, printed, with a modern english version by the editor, from a fifteenth century hengwrt ms., by the rev. robert williams: y seint graal, london, 8vo., 1876. i shall quote- d i. queste, from furnivall's edition. d ii. welsh quest, from williams' edition. e.--the so-called =grand saint graal=, prose romance found in the mss., both preceding the merlin and the queste, and preceding the queste and the mort artur. printed by furnivall from cambridge and brit. mus. mss., together with a metrical english adaptation by henry lonelich, of about the time of henry the vith, in the already-mentioned seynt graal; and by hucher, vols. ii. and iii., from a le mans ms.; will be quoted as grand st. graal, from furnivall's edition. f.--=parzival=, by wolfram von eschenbach, german metrical romance, critically edited from the mss. by karl lachmann, wolfram von eschenbach, vierte ausgabe, 8vo., berlin, 1879, from which it will be quoted as wolfram. g.--=perceval le gallois=, prose romance, first printed by potvin, vol. i. of his conte del graal, from a mons ms., with variants from a fragmentary berne ms. (as to both of which see pp. 353, etc.). a welsh translation, with modern english version by the editor, made from a ms. closely allied to the berne fragments, and representing a superior text to that printed by potvin, in williams' already-mentioned y seint graal. besides these works there exist two versions of the perceval legend in which the holy grail, as such, does not appear. these are:-h.--=the mabinogi of peredur, the son of evrawc=, welsh prose romance found in the red book of hergest, a ms. of the end of the fourteenth century, and in mss. a hundred years older. i shall quote it as peredur, from lady guest's english translation of the mabinogion, 8vo., london, 1877. i.--=sir perceval of galles=, english metrical romance, printed for the first time from the thornton ms., of _circa_ 1440, by halliwell: the thornton romances, printed for the camden society, small 4to., london, 1884; from which i shall quote it as sir perceval. finally there exists an independent german version of certain adventures, the hero of which in the conte du graal, in wolfram, and in the mabinogi, is gawain. this is-k.--=heinrich von dem türlin.= diu crône. edited by g. h. f. scholl. bibliothek des litterarischen vereins, vol. xxvii., stuttgart, 1852. the positive information which the different mss. of the above mentioned works afford respecting their authors, date of composition, sources, etc., is as follows:--in the prologue to his poem, chrestien (potvin i., pp. 307-308) dedicates his work to "li quens felippes de flandres," who as he states (verse 67), "li bailla le livre," which served him as model, and whom he praises at great length as surpassing alexander. we know that count philip of flanders took the cross in 1188, set out for the holy land in 1190, and died on the 1st of june, 1191, before akkon.[3] as chrestien says not a word about the crusading intentions of philip, it may be inferred that he wrote his prologue before 1188, and began the poem in 1189 at the latest. gautier de doulens (probably of that ilk, in picardy, some miles from amiens)[4] has only left his name, verse 33,755, gautiers de dons qui l'estore, etc. manessier the next continuator has been more explicit; he describes himself as completing the work at the command of ... jehanne la comtesse qu'est de flandre dame et mestresse. (potvin, vi., p. 157.) this joan, daughter of baldwin the vith, ruled flanders _alone_ during the imprisonment of her husband after the battle of bouvines (1214-1227), and manessier's words can only apply to her during this period, so that his continuation must have been written between 1214-1227.[5] the third continuator, gerbers, only mentions his name (potvin, vi., p. 212). the author of version b, names himself, b i, verse 3,461, messires roberz de beron; verses 3,488-94 state that no mortal man had told the story, until he had it from mon seigneur gautier en peis qui de mont belyal estoit. verse 3,155 gives the name somewhat differently, meistres robers dist de bouron. the prose versions follow the poem with additions, thus cangé jos. (p. 275); messires roberz de borron lou restrait à mon seigneur gautier, lou preu conte de mobéliart. walter of montbeliard, brother to count richard of montbeliard, went to the holy land in 1199, became constable of jerusalem, regent of cyprus, and died in 1212. the date of his birth is uncertain, but as his elder brother died in 1237, walter could hardly have been born before 1150. his father, amadeus, died in 1183, in which year he received the countship of montfaucon. it may only have been after he thus became independent that robert entered his service. in any case robert could not have spoken of him as "mon seigneur," before 1170. that year may, therefore, be taken as a _terminus a quo_, and the year 1212 as a _terminus ad quem_ for dating these versions. the grand st. graal is likewise ascribed in the mss. to robert de borron, and it is further stated that he translated from latin into french--et ensi le temoigne me sires robiers de borron qui a translatee de latin en franchois cheste estoire (ii. p. 78). the queste ascribed in the mss. to walter mapes, is said to have been compiled by him for the love of his lord, king henry--maistre gautiers map les extrait pour l'amor del roy henri son seignor, qui fist l'estore translater du latin en francois[6]--walter mapes, born before 1143 (he presided at the assizes of gloucester in 1173), died in 1210. if we may believe the mss., the queste would probably fall within the last twenty-five years of the twelfth century. the author of perceval le gallois describes himself (potvin, i., 348) as writing the book for the "seignor de neele," whose christian name, "johan," is given four lines lower down, at the command of the "seingnor de cambresis," _i.e._, the bishop of cambray. this john of nesle is probably the one who in the year 1225 sold the lordship of bruges to countess joan of flanders.[7] wolfram von eschenbach, of that ilk, in north bavaria, born in the last thirty years of the twelfth century, died about 1220. he knew chrestien's poem well, and repeatedly refers to it, but with great contempt, as being the wrong version of the story, whereas he holds the true version from kyot, the singer, a "provenzal," who found the tale of parzival written in heathen tongue at dôlet (toledo), by flegetanis, a heathen who first taught concerning the grail, put it into french, and after searching the chronicles of britain, france, and ireland in vain, at length found information in the chronicles of anjou (pp. 202 and 219). nothing is stated in the works themselves respecting the authors of the mabinogi and the thornton sir perceval. heinrich von dem türlin frequently quotes chrestien as his authority, _e.g._, verses 16,941, 23,046, 23,982. if these various statements are to be accepted, it follows that in the course of fifty years (1170-1220) a great body of romance came into existence, partly in france, chrestien, his continuators, and robert de borron; partly in england, walter mapes; and partly in germany, wolfram von eschenbach, and heinrich von dem türlin. of this body of romance only a portion has come down to us, the work of kyot and the latin originals of the queste and the grand st. graal having disappeared. furthermore, it is only possible to date with any accuracy three or four of the works, viz., chrestien, manessier, wolfram (whose poem falls certainly within the first ten years of the thirteenth century), though it may also be taken as certain that r. de borron wrote after 1170, and the anonymous author of perceval le gallois before 1225. of the dated works chrestien's is the oldest, 1188-90, and it postulates the existence of previous versions. the object of the present investigation being to determine, as far as possible, the age and relationship to one another of the different versions which have come down to us, to exhibit the oldest form of the story as we have it, and to connect it with celtic traditional belief and literature, it will be well, before proceeding to further discuss the various points left doubtful by the evidence gathered from the mss., to give clear and detailed summaries of the most important versions. chapter ii. summaries--conte du graal: pseudo-chrestien, chrestien, gautier de doulens, manessier, gerbert--wolfram--heinrich von dem türlin--didot-perceval--mabinogi of peredur--thornton ms. sir perceval--queste del saint graal--grand saint graal--robert de borron's poem, joseph of arimathea. =the conte du graal.=--pseudo-chrestien.[8]--the story tells of the "graal," whose mysteries, if master blihis lie not, none may reveal; it falls into seven parts, and shows how the rich land of logres was destroyed. (1) in the wells and springs of that land harboured damsels who fed the wayfarer with meat and pasties and bread. but king amangons did wrong to one and carried off her golden cup, so that never more came damsels out of the springs to comfort the wanderer. and the men of king amangons followed his evil example. thereafter the springs dried up, and the grass withered, and the land became waste, and no more might be found the court of the rich fisher, which had filled the land with plenty and splendour. (2) the knights of the table round, learning the ill done to the damsels, set forth to protect them; they found them not, but fair damsels wandering in the woods, each with her knight; with the latter they strove, and when they overcame them sent them to arthur. thus came blihos bliheris to arthur's court conquered by gauvain; he knew goodly tales and he told how the wandering damsels were sprung from those ravished by king amangons. so long would they wander till god gave them to find the court, whence joy and splendour would come to the land. (3) arthur's knights resolved to seek the court of the rich fisher--much knew he of black art, more than an hundred times changed he his semblance, that no man seeing him again recognised him. gauvain found it, and had great joy therefrom; but before him a young knight, small of age, but none bolder of courage--percevaus li galois was he--he asked whereto the grail served, but nought of the lance why it dripped blood, nor of the sword one half of which was away whilst the other lay in the bier. but he asked surely concerning the rich cross of silver. now in the room three times there arose such great sorrow that no man who heard it, so bold he might be but feared. afterwards the room filled and the king came in, full richly dressed, so that he might hardly be known of them that had seen him the day before, fishing. and when all were sat down the grail came in, and without serjeant nor seneschal served all present, and 'twas wonder what food it gave them. and then came the great marvel which has not its like. but perceval will tell of this, so i must say no more; it is a great shame to tell beforehand what is in a good tale. when the good knight shall come who found the court three times you shall hear me tell of grail and lance, and of him who lay in the bier, of the sword, of the grief and swooning of all beholders. (4) now the court was found seven times, and each time shall have a fresh tale:- the seventh (the most pleasing) tells of the lance wherewith longis pierced the side of the king of holy majesty; the sixth of warlike feats; the fifth of the anger and loss of huden; the fourth of heaven, for he was no coward, the knight mors del calan, who first came to glamorgan; the third of the hawk whereof castrars had such fear--pecorins, the son of amangons, bore all his days the wound on his forehead; the second has not yet been told; it tells of the great sorrows lancelot of the lake had there where he lost his virtue; and the last is the adventure of the shield, never a better one was there. (5) after this adventure the land was repeopled; court and grail were found; the streams ran again; the meadows were green, the forests thick and leafy; so that all folk marvelled. but there came back a folk, the same that came out of the springs (save they were not cooks), a caitiff set, and built for their damsels the rich maidens' castel, and the bridge perillous, and castel orguellous, and warred against the table round. in the castle were 376, each sire of 20 knights. and not till after four years did arthur overcome them and was there peace. _(here beginneth the story of the grail.)_ (6) there were in the land of wales twelve knights, of whom bliocadrans alone survived, so eager were they in seeking tournament and combats. after living for two years with his wife, childless, bliocadrans set forth to a tournament given by the king of wales and cornwall against them of the waste fountain. at first successful, he is at length slain. a few days after his departure his wife has borne a son. when at length she learns her husband's death, she takes counsel with her chamberlain, and pretending a pilgrimage to st. brandan, in scotland, withdraws to the waste forest far removed from all men. here she brings up her son, and though she allows him to hunt in the forest, warns him against men covered with iron--they are devils. he promises to follow her counsel, and thenceforth he goes into the forest alone. =the conte du graal.=--(_a_) chrestien.--(1) when as trees and meadows deck themselves with green, and birds sing, the son of the widow lady goes out into the wood. he meets five knights, and, as their weapons shine in the sun, takes them for angels, after having first thought them to be the devils his mother had warned him against. he prays to them as his mother has taught him. one of the knights asks if he has seen five knights and three maidens who had passed that way, but he can but reply with questions concerning the arms and trappings of the knights. he learns of arthur the king who makes knights, and when he returns to his mother tells her he has beheld a more beautiful thing than god and his angels, knights namely, and he too will become one. in vain his mother tells him of his father's and his two elder brothers' fates, slain in battle. nothing will serve, so the mother makes him a dress of coarse linen and leather, and before he leaves counsels him as follows: if dame or damsel seek his aid he is to give it, he is to do naught displeasing to them, but to kiss the maiden who is willing, and to take ring and girdle of her if he can; to go for long with no fellow-traveller whose name he knows not, to speak with and consort with worthy men, to pray to our lord when he comes to church or convent. she then tells him of jesus christ, the holy prophet. he departs clad and armed in welsh fashion, and his mother swoons as though dead. (2) perceval comes to a tent in the wood, and, taking it for a convent, goes in and finds sleeping on a bed a damsel, whom the neighing of his horse wakes. in pursuance of his mother's counsel he kisses her more than twenty times, takes her ring from her, and eats and drinks of her provisions. thereafter he rides forth, and her lover returning and hearing what has taken place, swears to avenge himself upon the intruder, and until such time the damsel, whose tale he disbelieves, is to follow him barefoot and not to change her raiment. (3) perceval learns the way to carduel from a charcoal-burner; arrived there, he sees a knight coming forth from the castle and bearing a golden cup in his hand, clad in red armour, who complains of arthur as having robbed him of his land. perceval rides into the castle hall and finds the court at meat. arthur, lost in thought, pays no attention to the first two salutations of perceval, who then turns his horse to depart, and in so doing knocks off the king's hat. arthur then tells him how the red knight has carried off his cup, spilling its contents over the queen. perceval cares not a rap for all this, but asks to be made knight, whereat all laugh. perceval insists, and claims the red knight's armour. kex bids him fetch them, whereat the king is displeased. perceval greets a damsel, who laughs and foretells he shall be the best knight in the world. for this saying kex strikes her, and kicks into the fire a fool who had been wont to repeat that the damsel would not laugh till she beheld the best of knights. (4) perceval tarries no longer, but follows the red knight, and bids him give up his arms and armour. they fight, and perceval slays his adversary with a cast of his dart. yonès, who has followed him, finds him put to it to remove the knight's armour--he will burn him out of it if need be--and shows him how to disarm the dead man and to arm himself. perceval then mounts the knight's steed and rides off, leaving the cup to yonés to be given to the king, with this message: he, perceval, would come back to avenge the damsel of the blow kex struck her. (5) perceval comes to a castle, in front of which he finds an old knight, to whom he relates what has befallen him, and of whom he asks counsel as his mother bade him. the knight, gonemans of gelbort, takes him into his castle, teaches him the use of arms, and all knightly practices. in especial he is to avoid over-readiness in speaking and in asking questions, and to give over his habit of always quoting his mother's counsels. he then dubs him knight, and sends him forth to return to his mother. (6) after a day's journey perceval comes to a town defended by a castle, and, being allowed entrance therein, finds all waste and deserted, even the very convents. the lady of the castle, a damsel of surpassing beauty, welcomes him and bids him to table. mindful of gonemans' counsels he remains silent, and she must speak to him first. she turns out to be gonemans' niece. at night the young stranger is shown to his chamber, but the damsel cannot sleep for thought. weeping she comes to perceval's bedside, and in reply to his wondering questions tells him how the forces of king clamadex encompass the castle, and how that on the morrow she must yield, but rather than be clamadex's she will slay herself. he promises to help her, and bids her to him in the bed, which she does, and they pass the night in each other's arms, mouth to mouth. on the morrow he begs for her love in return for his promised aid, which she half refuses, the more to urge him on. he fights with and overcomes aguigrenons, clamadex's marshal, and sends him to arthur's court. clamadex hearing of this tries afresh to starve out the castle, but a storm luckily throws a passing ship ashore, and thereby reprovisions the besieged ones. clamadex then challenges perceval, is overcome, and sent to arthur's court, where he arrives shortly after his marshal. they relate wonders concerning the red knight, and the king is more than ever displeased with kex for having offended such a valiant warrior. after remaining for a while with blanchefleur, perceval takes leave of her, as he longs to see his mother again. (7) he comes to a river, upon which is a boat, and therein two men fishing. one of them, in reply to his questions, directs him for a night's shelter to his own castle hard by. perceval starts for it, and at first unable to find it reproaches the fisher. suddenly he perceives the castle before him, enters therein, is disarmed, clad in a scarlet mantle, and led into a great hall. therein is a couch upon which lies an old man; near him is a fire, around which some four hundred men are sitting. perceval tells his host he had come from biau-repaire. a squire enters, bearing a sword, and on it is written that it will never break save in one peril, and that known only to the maker of it. 'tis a present from the host's niece to be bestowed where it will be well employed. the host gives it to perceval, "to whom it was adjudged and destined." hereupon enters another squire, bearing in his hand a lance, from the head of which a drop of blood runs down on the squire's hand. perceval would have asked concerning this wonder, but he minds him of gonemans' counsel not to speak or inquire too much. two more squires enter, holding each a ten-branched candlestick, and with them a damsel, a "graal" in her hands. the graal shines so that it puts out the light of the candles as the sun does that of the stars. thereafter follows a damsel holding a (silver) plate. all defile past between the fire and the couch, but perceval does not venture to ask wherefore the graal is used. supper follows, and the graal is again brought, and perceval, knowing not its use, had fain asked, but always refrains when he thinks of gonemans, and finally puts off his questions till the morrow. after supper the guest is led to his chamber, and on the morrow, awakening, finds the castle deserted. no one answers his calls. issuing forth he finds his horse saddled and the drawbridge down. thinking to find the castle dwellers in the forest he rides forth, but the drawbridge closes so suddenly behind him that had not the horse leapt quickly forward it had gone hard with steed and rider. in vain perceval calls: none answer. (8) he pricks on and comes to an oak, beneath which sits a maid holding a dead knight in her arms and lamenting over him. she asks him where he has passed the night, and on learning it tells him the fisher who had directed him to the castle and his host were one and the same; wounded by a spear thrust through both thighs his only solace is in fishing, whence he is called the fisher king. she asks, had perceval seen the bleeding lance, the graal, and the silver dish? had he asked their meaning? no; then what is his name? he does not know it, but she guesses it: perceval le gallois; but it should be perceval the caitiff, for had he asked concerning what he saw, the good king would have been made whole again, and great good have sprung therefrom. he has also a heavy sin on his conscience in that his mother died of grief when he left her. she herself is his cousin. perceval asks concerning the dead knight, and learning it is her lover offers to revenge her upon his slayer. in return she tells him about the sword, how it will fly in pieces if he have not care of it, and how it may be made whole again by dipping it in a lake, near which dwells its maker, the smith trebucet. (9) perceval leaves his cousin and meets, riding on a wretched horse, a scantily and shabbily clad woman of miserable appearance, lamenting her hard fate and unjust treatment. she is the lady of the tent whose ring perceval had carried off. she bids him fly her husband, the orgellous de la lande. the latter appears, challenges perceval, but is overcome by him, convinced of his wife's innocence, compelled to take her into favour again, and both must go to arthur's court, relate the whole story, and renew perceval's promise to the damsel whom kex had struck, to avenge her. arthur, when he hears of the deeds of the young hero, sets forth with his whole court to seek him. (10) snow has fallen, and a flock of wild geese, blinded by the snow, has had one of its number wounded by a falcon. three blood drops have fallen on the snow, and perceval beholding them falls into deep thought on the red and white in his love's face. arthur and his knights come up with him. saigremors sees him first, bids him come, and, when he answers no word, tilts against him, but is overthrown. kex then trys his luck, but is unhorsed so rudely that arm and leg are broken. gauvain declares that love must be mastering the strange knight's thoughts, approaches him courteously, tells his own name and learns perceval's, and brings the latter to arthur, by whom he is received with all honour. perceval then learns it is kex he has overthrown, thus fulfilling his promise to the damsel whom kex had smitten, and whose knight he offers himself to be. (11) perceval returns on the morrow with the court to carlion, and the next day at noon there comes riding on a yellow mule a damsel more hideous than could be pictured outside hell. she curses perceval for having omitted to ask concerning the lance and graal; had he done so the king would have been healed of his wound and ruled his land in peace; now maidens will be put to shame, orphans and widows made, and many knights slain. turning to the king she tells of the adventures to be achieved at the castel orgellous, where dwell five hundred and seventy knights, each with his lady love. he, though, who would win the highest renown must to montesclaire to free the damsel held captive there. she then departs. gauvain will forth to the imprisoned damsel, giflès to the castel orgellous, and perceval swears to rest no two nights in the same place till he have learnt concerning graal and lance. (12) a knight, guigambresil, enters and accuses gauvain of having slain his lord. the latter sets forth at once to the king of cavalon to clear himself of this accusation. (13) on his way he meets the host of melians, who is preparing to take part in a tournament to approve himself worthy the love of the daughter of tiebaut of tingaguel, who had hitherto refused his suit. gauvain rides on to tingaguel to help its lord. on arriving at the castle the eldest daughter jeers at him, whilst the youngest takes his part, declaring him a better knight than melians, whereat her sister is very indignant. on the first day of the tournament melians shows himself the best knight, but the younger sister still declares her faith in gauvain, and has her ears boxed in consequence. she appeals to gauvain to be her knight and avenge the injury done her. he consents, overcomes melians, whose horse he sends to his little lady, and all other knights; then, after telling his name, rides forth. (14) he meets two knights, the younger of whom offers him hospitality, and sends him to his sister, bidding her welcome him. she receives him kindly, and when, struck with her beauty, he asks her favours, grants them at once. they are interrupted by a steward, who reproaches her with giving her love to her father's murderer, and calls upon the castle folk to attack gauvain. the latter defends himself until the return of guigambresil, who reproaches the lord of the castle for letting gauvain be attacked, as he had expressed his readiness to do single combat. gauvain is then allowed to go, and is excused the combat if within a year he can bring back the bleeding lance. he sets off in search of it. (15) the tale returns to perceval, who has wandered about for five years without thinking of god, yet performing many feats. he meets three knights accompanied by ladies, all clad in penitents' dress. 'twas a good friday, and the eldest knight rebukes perceval for riding fully armed on such a day. he must confess him to a holy hermit who lives hard by. perceval goes thither, accuses himself of having forgotten god through his great grief at not learning the use of the graal. the hermit reveals himself as his uncle, tells perceval that he is in sin as having caused his mother's death, and for that reason he could not ask concerning lance and graal; but for her prayers he had not lived till now. perceval remains two days with his uncle, receives absolution, and rides forth. (16) the story turns to gauvain, who, after escalavon, finds beneath an oak a damsel lamenting over a wounded knight; the latter advises gauvain to push on, which he does, and comes upon a damsel who receives him discourteously, and when at her bidding he has fetched her horse from a garden hard by, mocks at him and rides off. he follows, and culls on the way herbs with which he heals the wounded knight. a squire rides up very hideous of aspect, mounted on a wretched hack. gauvain chastises him for discourteous answers; meanwhile the wounded knight makes off with gauvain's steed, making himself known as griogoras, whom gauvain had once punished for ill-doing, gauvain has to follow the damsel upon the squire's hack, comes to a river, on the other side of which is a castle, overcomes a knight who attacks him, during which the damsel vanishes, is ferried across the stream, giving the vanquished knight to the ferryman as toll; (17) comes on the morrow to the magic castle, wherein damsels are held fast, awaiting a knight full of all knightly virtues to restore their lands to the ladies, marry the damsels, and put an end to the enchantments of the palace. upon entering, gauvain sees a magnificent bed, seats himself therein, is assailed by magic art, overcomes a lion, and is then acclaimed lord of the castle. he would then leave the castle, but the ferryman says he may not, whereat gauvain is moved to anger. on the morrow, looking forth, gauvain beholds the (18) damsel who led him to the ford, accompanied by a knight. he hastens forth, overcomes the knight, seeks again the damsel's love, but is sent by her to the ford perillous. here he meets guiromelant, who loves gauvain's sister, clarissant, a dweller in the magic castle. a combat is arranged to take place after seven days. upon his return to the damsel, named orgellouse de logres, he is now well received by her. she hates guiromelant for having slain her lover, and has long sought a good knight to avenge her. guiromelant on his side hates gauvain for having, as he says, treacherously killed his father. gauvain and orgellouse return to the magic castle. one of the queens who dwells there is mother to arthur; the second one, his daughter, mother to gauvain. the latter gives his sister clarissant a ring guiromelant had begged him, unknowing who he was, to bring to her. he then sends a knight to arthur to bid him and his whole train come witness the fight 'twixt him and guiromelant. the messenger finds arthur plunged in grief at gauvain's absence.... * * * * * here chrestien's share breaks off abruptly in the middle of a sentence, and the poem is taken up by (_b_) gautier de doulens.[9]--(1) arthur and his court accept gauvain's invitation and make for the castle of wonders, the queen whereof has meantime made herself known to gauvain as ygène, arthur's mother. the duel between gauvain and guiromelant is hindered, and the latter weds gauvain's sister. (montp. ms. here inserts a first visit of gawain to grail castle, which is substantially the same as the one it repeats afterwards in the same place as the mons ms.) adventures of arthur and gauvain against brun de branlant follow, of gauvain with a maiden in a tent and her brother brandalis, of carduel of nantes, whose wife is beloved of the magician garahiet, and of their son carados, and the magic horn (verses 11,000-15,800). (2) (a fresh series of adventures begins) arthur sets forth to seek giflet, son of dos; gauvain meets again with brandalis, whose sister has meanwhile borne him a son; castel orgellous, where giflet is imprisoned, is captured; gauvain's son by brandalis' sister is lost. (3) an unknown knight comes to arthur's court; keie, who demands his name, is unhorsed; gauvain brings the unknown to the court, but the latter is slain by a javelin cast by invisible hands. gauvain equips himself in the unknown's armour and starts forth to learn the latter's name. after praying in a chapel, in which he beholds a light on the altar quenched by a black hand, he rides through brittany and normandy, and comes to a castle where, owing to his armour, he is at first hailed as lord. in one of the rooms stands a bier, whereon lies a knight, cross and broken sword upon his body, his left hand bleeding. a crowned knight enters and goes to battle with gauvain; canons and clerks come and perform the vigil of the dead; whilst at table gauvain sees the rich grail serving out bread and wine to the knights. gauvain remains alone after the meal; he sees a lance which bleeds into a silver cup. the crowned knight again enters, bearing in his hand a broken sword which had belonged to the unknown knight, over whom he mourns. he hands the sword to gauvain and asks him to put the pieces together. gauvain cannot, whereupon the knight declares him unfit to fulfil the quest (_li besoin_) on which he came. later he may try again. gauvain asks concerning lance, sword, and bier. the lance, he is told, is the one wherewith the son of god was pierced in the side, 'twill bleed till doomsday. the tale of the broken sword which brought so much woe upon the kingdom of logres will also be told, but here gauvain falls fast asleep.[10] on the morrow he wakes, and finds himself on the sea strand. he rides off, and behold the country has burst into green leaf, and the reason thereof is his having asked concerning the lance. the countryfolk both bless and curse him for having so far delivered them and for not having completed the deliverance by asking concerning the grail. (4) he meets a young knight who turns out to be his son. (5) (adventures in which carahiès, gauvain's brother, is chief actor.) (6) the story returns to perceval, who, after leaving the hermit, rides for three days and comes to a castle, over the door of which hangs a horn. perceval blows therein, overcomes the knight who answers the challenge, and sends him to arthur's court. (7) on his way to the castle of mont orgellous, to the pillar of which only an accomplished knight might tie his horse, he comes to the stream on whose banks he had previously met the fisher king. seeking for a bridge he meets a damsel on a mule, who, under pretence of showing a way across the river, tries to drown him. he then comes to a castle, which entering he finds untenanted. in the hall stands a chessboard. perceval plays, is beaten, seizes the board and makes as if to throw it in the moat. hereupon a damsel rises from the water to stay his hand, and coming into the room reproaches him. overcome by her beauty he asks her favours. she will grant them if he bring the head of the stag which roams in the castle park. thereto she lends him her hound, bidding him be sure he return it. the hunt follows; perceval overtakes the stag, slays it, and cutting off its head prepares to bring it back, when a maid of ill-chance (_pucelle de malaire_) takes and carries it off. perceval claiming it is reproached by her for having slain her stag, but told he may win again the hound if he go to a mound whereon a knight is painted and say, "vassal, what doest thou here?" the combat with the knight of the tomb follows, during which hound and stag's head are carried off by another knight, whom perceval can only follow when he has overcome the knight of the tomb and driven him back therein. now this knight, hight the black knight, had dwelt there summer and winter five years, striving with all-comers for the sake of his love. perceval, following up the robber knight, meets the damsel who had carried off the hound, but she only mocks him for answer to his questions. (8) after an adventure with a discourteous knight, perceval meets at length a brother of the red knight whom he had formerly slain, who tells him he had seen the daughter of the fisher king, and she had told him of a knight who had carried off a hound and stag's head belonging to a good knight who had been at her court, and had omitted to ask concerning the grail, for which reason she had taken his hound and refused him help to follow the robber knight. (9) perceval is directed by the red knight's brother to the fisher king's castle, but misses his way, and after an adventure at a castle, where he slays a lion, overcomes abrioris and sends him to arthur; finds a damsel mourning over a knight slain by a giant, whom he kills, achieves the feat of the ford amorous, meets and fights with gauvain's son until they learn who each other is, and at length comes to belrepaire. (10) at first unrecognised by blanchefleur he makes himself known, stays with her three days, and then rides off, in spite of her entreaties. (11) he meets rosette (the loathly damsel) and le biaus mauvais, laughs at the former, is challenged by the latter, whom he overcomes and sends to arthur. (12) he comes to his mother's house, enters without making himself known, learns from his sister that his mother died at his departure ten years before, tells her who he is, and both set forth to their uncle, the hermit. on the way perceval slays a knight who offers violence to his sister. they come to their uncle, sleep there, and on the morrow perceval reveals himself, confesses, is reproved for having slain the knight the day before. perceval, after mentioning his desire to learn more concerning lance, grail, and sword, and receiving good advice from the hermit, leaves with his sister, with whom he stays three days and then quits her, despite her piteous entreaties. (12_a_) perceval comes to the castle of maidens, where he falls untimely asleep, and on the morrow finds himself in the forest, far from any castle. (13) perceval finds the damsel who had carried off the hound, fights with her knight, garalas, overcomes him, learns that the knight of the tomb is his brother, who had lived for ten years with a fay in a magic invisible castle, and had met no one to overcome him until perceval came. perceval sends both knight and damsel to arthur. (14) perceval meets with a white mule led by a damsel; he joins her, although she entreats him not to do so. suddenly struck by a great light in the forest, he turns to ask his companion what it might mean, but finds her gone. a violent storm comes on. the morrow he meets the damsel with the mule, who had felt no storm. she tells him about the great light: it came from the "gréaus," which was given by the king of kings as he hung on the cross; the devil may not lead astray any man on the same day he sees it, therefore the king has it carried about. perceval asks further, but is told only a holy man may speak of these mysteries. perceval relates his adventure with the lady of the chessboard, and the damsel gives him the white mule, which will lead to her castle, together with a ring giving the possessor power over the mule. he is to give both back when he meets her. (16) the mule brings perceval across a river, over a glass bridge, on the other side of which he meets with brios, who persuades him to join in a tournament held by arthur at the castel orguellous, as he must win the prize of knighthood before coming to the castle of the fisher king. perceval leaves stag's head and hound at brios' castle, carries off the prize at the tournament, remaining unknown. (17) proceeding thence he frees a knight imprisoned beneath a tombstone, who, in return, shuts him up in the tomb, but, being unable to make the mule go forward, is obliged to release him, and returns to his prison, telling perceval he knows him for the best knight in the world. (18) perceval meets the damsel of the mule, to whom he returns ring and mule, and who asks him if he has been at the fisher king's court; on his saying, no, she hurries off. perceval prays god to direct him to the castle of the chessboard. a voice tells him to follow the hound; he does so, reaches the castle, is greeted by the maiden, to whom he gives stag's head and hound, and who in return tells him concerning the chessboard which _morghe la fée_ had had made at london, on the thames, and grants him her favours as she had promised. on the morrow perceval rides forth, accompanied awhile by the damsel, who will show him his onward way. (19) they come to a river, on which is a boat tied to an oak tree. perceval is to enter it, cross the river, and on the other side he will find a road leading to the fisher king. on his way perceval releases a knight whom he finds hanging by his feet from a tree; 'tis bagommedes whom keie had treated thus, and who returns to arthur's court, challenges keie, and is only hindered by arthur from slaying him. all arthur's knights then start forth for the mont dolorous and in search of perceval. the adventures of gauvain alone are related in detail until the tale returns to perceval. (20) after freeing bagommedes, perceval, wandering in the woods, comes to a tree, in whose branches sits a child, who can tell nothing of the fisher king, but tells perceval he will come on the morrow to the mont dolorous. this he does, and binds his horse to the pillar. a damsel on a white mule tells him of arthur's birth, and how merlin had made castle and pillar to prove who should be the best of knights. she was merlin's daughter. (21) perceval rides on, and towards evening sees afar off a tree upon which burn many lights; as he draws near he finds only a chapel, upon the altar of which lies a dead knight. a great and sudden light is followed by the appearance of a black hand, which puts out the candle on the altar. on the morrow he meets first a huntsman, who tells him he is near the castle, then a damsel, who explains the child in the tree, the chapel, and the black hand as having connection with the holy grail and the lance. (22) perceval comes at last to the castle of the fisher king, whom he finds on a couch as heretofore. he tells him his adventures, and asks concerning the child on the tree, the tree full of lights, and the chapel with the dead knight. meanwhile a damsel enters a hall bearing the grail, another follows with the bleeding lance, then comes a squire with a sword broken in two. again perceval puts his questions, and will not eat until they are answered. first, he is told of the child which would not speak to him on account of his many sins, and which climbed ever upwards to show man's thoughts should be raised to the creator. before learning aught further perceval is to try and weld the broken sword together; none but a true knight lover of god, and of god's spouse, holy church, may accomplish it. perceval succeeds, save that a little crack still remains. the fisher king embraces him and hails him as lord of his house. here the section which goes under the name of gautier ends. [a portion of gautier's section of the conte du graal is found in the berne ms., partly edited, partly summarised, by rochat in his work, _ein unbekannter percheval li gallois_ (_vide_ _infra_ p. 101). this version offers some remarkable peculiarities. it has a short introduction of thirteen lines; then follows line 21,930 of gautier in potvin's text (mons ms.). an incident follows, omitted in the mons ms., but found in montpellier and in paris, 794: perceval meets a huntsman who upbraids him for having been at the fisher king's court, and failed to ask about grail and bleeding lance. then follow incidents 6, 7 (8 is absent so far as one can judge from rochat's summary), 9 to 13 (in which perceval does not apparently send garalas and his love to arthur), and 14 to end, the following finish being then tacked on: the fisher king is father to alain le gros, husband to enigeus, sister to that joseph who, when christ's body was taken down from the cross, had it from pilate as a reward for his services. joseph had the vessel prepared to catch in it the blood from the body; it was the same jesus had made the sacrament in on the thursday before. the fisher king dies on the third day and perceval reigns in his stead.][11] the conte du graal is continued by-(_c_) manessier.--(1) perceval, full of joy, sits down to table; after the meal, lance, grail, and a goodly silver dish pass before the royal table away into the next room. perceval, sighing, asks concerning these objects and the maidens bearing them. (2) the king tells as follows: the lance is that wherewith longis pierced god's side that day he hung on the cross (montpellier ms.: when longis withdrew the spear the blood ran down to feet, so that joseph of barimacie turned black from sorrow, and he collected the blood in the holy vessel). on perceval's asking further, the grail is the vessel wherein the holy precious blood of our lord was received. then perceval asks how it came thither; (3) joseph brought it when he departed from the prison whence he was freed by vespasian. he baptized forty of his friends, and wandered forth with them till they came to sarras, where, as the tale tells, they found the king in the temple of the sun. joseph helped the king against his enemies by means of a red cross which he fixed on the king's shield. evelac, such was the king's name, won the battle thereby, was baptized, and renamed noodrans. it went so likewise with his brother-in-law, salafrès, renamed natiien. joseph departed thence, ever bearing the grail with him, till at length he came hither, converted the land, and i, of his seed, am keeping manor and grail, the which shall never dwell elsewhere, god willing. (montpellier ms. merely says, how joseph was put into a dark prison, and kept there forty years, but the lord sent him the sweetness of the grail twice or thrice a day. tiberius and vespasian deliver him and bring him to rome, whence he carries away the lance.) (4) to perceval's questions concerning the damsels: the grail-bearer is of royal blood, and pure maid, or god might not let her hold it, she is my child; the dish-bearer is also of high lineage, daughter to king goon desert. (5) the king would then go to sleep, but perceval would know about the broken sword: in quiquagrant dwelt goon desert, the king's brother. besieged by espinogre he made a sally and slew him. espinogre's nephew swore revenge; donning the armour of a knight of goon desert, he slew him, but the sword broke when the traitrous blow was struck. goon desert's body was brought to his brother's castle, whither came, too, his daughter with the broken sword, foretelling that a knight should come, rejoin the pieces, and avenge the foul blow. the fisher king taking up the fragments incautiously was pierced through the thigh, and the wound might not be healed until his brother's death was avenged. the murderer's name is partiniaus, lord of the red tower. perceval vows to avenge this wrong, but first, despite the king's strong hints that it is bed-time, must learn (6) about the candles on the trees, how they are fay trees, and the lights deceiving ones, but they might not deceive perceval, he being destined to achieve the wonders of the earth, and he has put an end to this illusion; (7) how the black hand haunted a chapel wherein pinogres had slain his mother, and over four thousand knights had been slain by it. (8) perceval starting on the morrow in search of partinal meets with saigremors, and with him delivers a damsel from ten robber knights. perceval, wounded, stays a month at the damsel's castle, and (9) the story tells for some fifteen hundred verses (36,100-37,400) of saigremors; how he pursues the robber knights, comes to the castle of maidens, delivers the dame thereof from a knight, calides, who wars upon her, and afterwards delivers another maiden, to whom two knights were offering violence; (10) then, for over two thousand verses of gauvain; how he prepares to set forth again in search of the fisher king; how a maiden comes to him whose brother had been slain in his service, reproaches gauvain for his conduct at the fisher king's castle, and carries him off; how he saves a maid going to be burnt; how after other adventures he slays king margon, returns to arthur's court, fights with kex to avenge the brother of the damsel, etc. (11) meanwhile perceval, leaving the damsel who has tended him right well, rides forth into a wood, where he is overtaken by a great storm of thunder and hail, after which he comes to the chapel where lies the body of the knight slain by the black hand. perceval strives with the devil to whom this belongs, overcomes, and with the help of a hermit who tells him the tale of all the knights who had fallen there, buries the body. he then confesses to the hermit, who warns him not to think of acquiring fame, but rather to save his soul. (12) perceval, riding forth on the morrow, is met by the devil, who throws him from his horse; he finds another, mounts it, but coming to a stream luckily crosses himself, when it disappears; it was the devil. (13) a damsel passes by with a bark, wherein perceval mounts; she minds him of blanchefleur, and desire masters him, but again he crosses himself in time, and ship and damsel vanish. (14) a hermit comes who instructs him concerning all these things, brings him where he finds a fresh steed, and to a fair castle. perceval overcomes a knight who would bar his passing, delivers the lady love of dodinel from a felon knight; is appealed to for help by a damsel of blanchefleur's, oppressed by arides of cavalon. (15) setting off to the succour of his lady love, his horse falls lame, he comes to a smith who tells him his name is tribuet, the forger of the broken sword. tribuet makes the sword whole, and bids perceval guard it well, never had king or conqueror a better one. (16) perceval reaches bel repaire, overcomes arides, whom he sends to arthur's court, bidding him announce his own arrival for whitsuntide. he then quits blanchefleur, and (17) meets with the coward knight, who will not fight even when he sees two damsels carried off by ten knights. perceval attacks the ravishers, the coward knight is drawn into the struggle, and quits himself valiantly. the rescued damsels bring the knights to their castle, where perceval, sore wounded, remains for two months. (18) meanwhile saigremors has announced perceval's arrival at camelot. whitsuntide passing, all the knights set forth in search of him, and, amongst others, boort; he meets his brother lyonel led, bound and naked, by six knights, who scourge him, and at the same moment he hears the plaint of a maid to whom a knight is doing violence. her he succours, then hurries after his brother, whom, meanwhile, gauvain has rescued. lyonel bitterly reproaches his brother for abandoning him, and falls upon him, sword in hand; boort offers no defence, and would be slain but for a passing knight, calogrinant, who pays for his interference with his life. finally, heavenly intervention appeases lyonel. calogrinant is buried by a hermit. (19) perceval, healed, leaves the castle together with the coward knight, is present with him at a tournament, at which he distinguishes himself above all others, leaves his companion, to whom he gives the name le hardis, and (20) meets hector, who challenges him. the two fight, and well-nigh kill each other. to them, lying on the field of combat, appears an angel with the grail, and makes them whole. (21) perceval rides on to partinal's castle, before which stands a fir tree whereon hangs a shield. perceval throws this down, whereupon partinal appears and a desperate combat ensues, ended by the overthrow of partinal, and, as he will submit to no conditions, his death. perceval cuts off his head and makes for the grail castle, but only after a summer's seeking, lights upon it chancewise. (22) as he nears the castle, the warders come to the king, telling him a knight is coming with a head hanging at his saddle-bow; hereupon the king leaps to his feet and is straightway made whole. partinal's head is stuck on a pike on the highest tower of the castle. after supper, at which the same mystic procession of talismans takes place as heretofore, the king learns perceval's name, and thereby finds that he is his own sister's son. he would hand him his crown, but perceval has vowed not to take it, his uncle living. (23) he returns to arthur's court, overcoming on the way seven knights, and tells his adventures, which arthur has written down and kept in a box at salisbury. the grail damsel appears and tells perceval his uncle is dead. perceval goes to corbière accompanied by all the court, who assist at his crowning and remain with him a month, during which time the grail feeds all with the costliest foods. he marries his cousins, the two grail-bearers, to two valiant kings, and reigns in peace for seven years. (24) after which time he follows a hermit into the wilderness, accompanied by grail, lance, and holy dish. he serves the lord for ten years, and, when he dies, grail, lance, and dish were doubtless carried up to heaven, for since that day no man saw them. (_d_) gerbert.--(according to birch hirschfeld interpolated between gautier and manessier, and joining on therefore to the last incident in gautier.)[12] (1) perceval's sin in having indirectly caused the death of his mother disables him from making whole the broken sword, and he must set forth again in search of the grail. in the night he dreams a danger threatens his sister, and on the morrow he wakes up in open field, the grail castle having vanished. (2) he comes to a fair castle in the midst of a meadow, and, finding the door shut, knocks at it with his sword till the latter breaks. an old man appears, and tells him the broken sword will cost him seven years more wanderings until he come again to the grail castle. all he can do for perceval is to give him a letter which heals the wounded and makes the wearer invincible. (3) perceval riding thence through country that the day before was waste and folkless, finds it now well cultivated and peopled; all press round him and bless him for the change wrought by his asking concerning the grail. (4) he comes to a castle wherein is a forge guarded by two serpents, and on it was a sword forged for a year, and it might not be broken, save in a certain danger, or mended save at the same forge. perceval, after resisting the devil in the shape of a fair maid, attacks and overcomes the two serpents, and has his sword mended by the blacksmith, who tells him how he broke it at the gate of paradise. (5) after making whole by his letter two knights of the round table who had lost their wits in castle dolorous, perceval comes to carlion, to arthur's court, and accomplishes the adventure of the perillous seat which a fairy had sent to arthur. only the destined grail-finder might sit in it. six knights who had previously essayed the feat had been swallowed up by the earth; they reappear when perceval is successful. (6) perceval is called away from the court by a forsaken damsel, whose false lover he compels to marry her; then, after overcoming fresh temptation in damsel-shape, he comes to his sister's castle, overcomes her adversary, who turns out to be mordret, and reaches the castle of maidens, where he is healed of his wounds by the lady of the castle, his cousin. she tells him of his mother, philosofine, and how the grail was taken from the ken of man owing to the sinfulness of the world. perceval leaves his sister in this castle where dames are chaste and damsels maids. (7) returning to court, whither mordret had preceded him in sorry plight, perceval is mocked at by kex, whom he overcomes, and afterwards meets gauvain and tristan. (8) leaving the court, he meets with four knights carrying their father, mortally wounded, accompanies them to their castle, recognises in the wounded knight, gornumant, who had knighted him, swears to avenge him, tells all that has befallen himself, and learns that the cause of his successive failures is his forsaking his betrothed, blanchefleur, whom he knows to be gornumant's niece. he is told that if he listen heedfully to mass and marry the damsel all will be well, and he will learn the secrets of lance and grail. but first perceval overcomes a hideous hag, who by night brings to life gornumant's enemies slain during the day. she has a potion, whereof christ made use in the sepulchre, and with it she quickens the dead. she recognizes perceval and acknowledges him as her conqueror, yet while she lives he shall know nought of the grail; she works by order of the king of the waste city, who hates all christian folk. perceval tries the virtue of the potion on the most valiant of his enemies, with whom he engages in a fresh and desperate struggle, heals gornumant with it, and sets off to marry blanchefleur, as he is wishful to live cleanly and fly deadly sin. (9) she is overjoyed at his arrival; preparations are made for the marriage; the night before, she comes to his bedside in smock and mantle, and they pass the night side by side, but with the sheet between them. the wedding follows, and then, fearful of losing the heavenly joy for sake of carnal longing, they resolve to resist the devil and live virgin-wise, for virginity surpasseth aught else, even as the topaz does crystal. perceval, in a dream, is assured that of his seed shall be the swan knight and the deliverer of the holy sepulchre. meanwhile he is still to search after lance and grail. (10) on the morrow he quits blanchefleur, "maid she laid her to bed, maid she arose;" frees a maiden pursued by a brutal knight; (11) comes to a castle where the wayfarer must first fight against four knights and then against the lord of the castle; does away with this custom; (12) comes to cross roads, whereof one is safe and easy, the other adventurous and full of danger; meets a knight all on fire; sees two hermits, one kneeling at a cross, the other scourging it; then a wonderful beast, a doe followed by fawns, which assail and devour her; (13) is presented at a hermit's with a shield none but the grail-winner may wear, after which the table heretofore meanly spread is covered with rich fare, and learns the meaning of the mystic scenes he has witnessed. (14) he is summoned by a damsel, who tells him of the dragon king, lord of a heathen folk dwelling in mid-sea, possessor of a shield whereon is painted a dragon that belches forth flame. perceval sets forth to attack him, resists the devil who dwells in the dragon head, thanks to his miraculous shield whereon the cross is painted, and forces him to flee; continues the fight against the dragon knight without his shield, and slays him, but not till he has repented him of his sins. (15) meanwhile a thief has made off with the shield, in pursuing whom perceval comes to an abbey, where he learns the story of joseph of arimathea. some forty years after the crucifixion lived a heathen king, evelac, in sarras, wherefrom the saracens have their name, sore pressed by tholomes, king of syria. but joseph of barimaschie, who had been five years in pilate's service, comes to him, and with him his brother-in-law, seraphe; he promised the king victory if he would let himself be baptized. the king consented, and received the name of mordrach. joseph then came to this land, and with him sixty folk and two fair ladies, whereof the one, philosophine, bore a plate, the other an ever-bleeding lance, whilst joseph had a vessel, never saw man a fairer one. but king crudel flung joseph and his companions into prison, where they dwelt forty days, but it harmed them not, as through the holy grail they were filled with great plenty and had every wish fulfilled. now, mordrains, learning this, brought together a great host, invaded king crudel's lands, attacked and slew him. mordrains, disarming, was found to be covered with wounds, none of which he had felt. on the morrow joseph put up a table, altar-wise, and thereon laid the grail, which mordrains seeing, pressed near to. but an angel with a fiery sword kept him back, and a voice assured him he had laid such a burden on his shoulders as he might not pass away, nor would his wounds be healed until should come the true knight, loved of christ, sinless, and in his arms he, mordrains, should die. and till then the host should be his only food. since then three hundred years have passed, and the monks have heard that the knight is in the land who shall ask concerning lance and grail, and thereby heal the king. (16) perceval leaves on the morrow and comes to a castle wherein is a coffin, brought thereto in a boat drawn by a swan; none save the best knight in the world may open it. all have tried, even gauvain, and failed. perceval succeeds, and finds in the coffin the body of a knight, former lord of the castle, and a letter setting forth that he who should open the coffin was his murderer. perceval, attacked in consequence by the dead man's sons, defends himself by making a buttress of the youngest son's body. afterwards he overcomes the folk of the castle, and delivers gauvain, held prisoner therein. (17) perceval, after confessing his sins to a hermit, has an adventure with the devil, who comes out of a tomb, but whom he forces back therein. (18) he then succours a maiden whom her jealous lover has thrown into a fountain; (19) punishes a damsel who tempts him in traitrous-wise; (20) meets with and is sore pressed by a giant, whom he overcomes; (21) has a fresh and victorious encounter with kex, and, finally, (22) arrives at crossways, is directed by the cross to the fisher king's court, reaches it, asks straightway for the grail, is questioned by the king and relates his allegorical adventures. at table the grail appears, followed by lance and sword. perceval pieces together the sword, and the king, full of joy, embraces him. =wolfram von eschenbach's parzival.=--gahmuret, parzival's father, goes to the east, takes service with baruc, wins the love of the heathen queen belakane, but after remaining with her a short time forsakes her, promising to return if she become christian. she bears a son, and names him feirefiz. gahmuret by his prowess at a tournament wins the love of herzeloyde, whom he marries on condition he may go a tourneying every month. hearing his old lord baruc is in danger, he hastens to his aid, and is slain. herzeloyde on receipt of the news resolves to withdraw to the wilderness, and bring up her son in ignorance of knighthood. [from this point up to and including the adventure with orgeuilleuse, where chrestien's share of the conte du graal breaks off, wolfram agrees very closely with chrestien. it has been much debated in germany whether he really had any other model but chrestien, and whether his alleged model kyot be not a feigned source to justify his departure from the story as found in the conte du graal. a brief outline of the arguments for and against this view will be found in appendix a. the chief points of difference in the portion common to the two poets are: the more important position in the narrative assigned to perceval's cousin, whom wolfram names sigune, who is fed from the grail by the grail messenger, the loathly damsel, and about whose loves with schianatulander wolfram has left fragments of another poem, titurel. parzival meets her immediately after his adventure with the lady of the tent. parzival's love is named condwiramur. on the first night of their marriage he leaves her maid (as in gerbert's version). but the most important peculiarity of wolfram's poem is his account of the grail itself, a stone which yields all manner of food and drink, the power of which is sustained by a dove, which every week lays a host upon it, given, after the fall of the rebel angels, in charge to titurel and his dynasty, by them preserved in the grail castle, montsalvatch, guarded by a sacred order of knighthood whom it chooses itself. the knights are vowed to virginity, the king alone being allowed marriage. the cause of the maimed king's (amfortas) hurt is his having taken up arms in the cause of worldly and unlawful love. when parzival leaves the grail castle after the first visit, he is mocked at by the inmates for having omitted the question. more stress is laid on the broken sword, connected with which is a magic spell parzival must master before he can become lord of the grail castle. the "loathly damsel," kundrie, is also a much more important person with wolfram than with chrestien, and she is brought into contact with parzival's cousin, sigune. parzival's love for his wife is dwelt upon at length, and he is urged by the hermit rather to rejoin her than to seek the grail.] after the adventure with orgueilleuse, wolfram continues as follows:--the lord of the magic castle, wherein are kept prisoners arthur's mother and the other queens, is clinschor, nephew of virgilius of naples, who took to magic after his unmanning at the hands of king ibert, whose wife, iblis, he loved. gawain overcomes the magician, and, both unknowing, fights with parzival. the latter, after many lesser adventures, meets his half-brother feirefiz, and sustains with him the hardest of all his fights. at length recognition is brought about, the two embrace, and repair to arthur's court. cundrie nears once more, tells parzival he has been chosen grail king, that his wife and twin sons, loherangrin and kardeiz, have been summoned to the grail castle, and that the question will now free amfortas and his land. with cundrie and feirefiz, parzival rides to the grail castle, meets his wife, together they all behold the talismans, save feirefiz, to whom as a heathen the sight of the grail is denied. but he is baptised, weds repanse de schoie, the grail damsel, the two return to india, and from them is born prester john. parzival rules over his grail kingdom. of his son loherangrin it is told how he is led to the aid of the duchess of brabant by a swan, how he marries her on condition she inquire not as to his origin, and how, on her breaking the command, the swan carries him away from her. =heinrich von dem türlin.=--_the gawain episodes of diu crône._--the parallelism of heinrich's poem with those of wolfram and chrestien begins about verse 17,500 with an adventure of gawain's corresponding to inc. 13 in chrestien (tournament for the hand of tiebaut of tingaguel's daughter, episode of the two sisters, combat with melians de lis). in heinrich the father is named leigamar, the eldest daughter fursensephin, (fleur sans epine ?), the youngest quebelepluz, where heinrich has taken a french phrase setting forth the greater fairness of the damsel for a proper name. inc. 14 in chrestien then follows with these differences: the name of the castle is karamphi; gawain and the facile damsel are surprised by the latter's brother, and it is her father who, to avenge the wrong done his house, makes gawain swear that within a year he will either seek out the grail or return as prisoner to karamphi. chrestien's inc. 15 is of course missing, the story going straight on to inc. 16, meeting with the wounded knight (here lohenis) and his lady love emblie, who by treachery deprive gawain of his steed; then the arrival at the castle of wonders, and the night passed in the enchanted bed, where the hero is overwhelmed with crossbolts shot at him by invisible foes. the plucking of the flower from the enchanted garden at the bidding of a damsel (orgueilleuse in chrestien and wolfram, here mancipicelle), and the meeting with and challenge by giremelanz follow. arthur's court comes to the castle of wonders to witness the combat. gawain and giremelanz are reconciled, the latter marries gawain's sister, and gawain himself sets off to search for the grail. [adventures then follow which correspond to nothing in chrestien or wolfram, in which gawain wins talismans destined to aid him in his search.] gawain sets forth on his quest accompanied by kay, lancelot, and calocreant. they part at crossways. gawain comes to the sister of the magician (anonymous in chrestien, klinschor in wolfram, here gansguoter) of the castle of wonders. she bids him take heed, if he wish to see the grail, he be not overcome by sleep, and for this that he drink not overmuch; as soon as he saw it and its accompanying damsels, he was to ask about it. if he neglected this, all his past and any future toil would be useless. on his way to the grail castle, the hero meets with all sorts of dangers, and obstacles, and wonders; amongst others, passing the night in a castle where he is tended by invisible hands. after month-long wanderings he meets with lancelot and calocreant, and learns that kay, in a vain attempt to penetrate to the grail, has been flung into prison. the three comrades then come to the grail castle. they are led into a hall which passes in splendour aught earthly eye ever saw. the floor is strewn with roses, on a bed lies an old man in gold-embroidered garments, and watches two youths playing at chess. towards night the hall fills with knights and dames, a youth enters bearing a sword which he lays before the old man. gawain is pressed to drink; but refuses, not so his two companions, who straightway fall asleep. then enter two damsels bearing lights, followed by two knights with a spear, and two more damsels with a "toblier" (? tailleor, plate) of gold and jewels. after them comes the fairest woman ever god created, and with her a maiden weeping. the spear is laid on the table, by it the "toblier" wherein are three drops of blood. in the box borne by the fair lady is a piece of bread, one third part of which she breaks off and gives to the old man. gawain recognising in her gansguoter's sister, stays no longer, but asks what these wonders mean. straightway knights and dames all with mighty shout leap from table, and great joy arises. the old man says what he has seen is the grail; none saw it before save parzival, and he asked not. by his question gawain has delivered from long waiting and suffering both those which are dead and those which live. the old man himself and his companions are really dead, though they seem it not, but the lady and her damsels are living; for their unstained womanhood god has granted them to have the grail, and therewith yearly to feed the old man. all gawain's adventures latterly have come from the grail. now he has ended all, he is to take as prize of his knighthood the sword which will help him in every danger. after him no man shall see the grail; further concerning it he must not ask, nor may know more. at daybreak the old man's tale ends, and he with his whole court vanish, leaving only the lady with her five damsels. [after releasing kay, and undergoing other adventures, gawain returns to arthur's court.] =the petit saint graal or didot-perceval.=[13]--_prologue._--after the choosing of arthur to be king, merlin comes to the court, and tells how arthur is uther-pendragon's son, brought up by antor as his son. all rejoice at this, especially gauvain, son of lot. after dinner the barons bring merlin to arthur, and tell him how he was the prophet of uther-pendragon, and had made the round table. arthur promises to honour merlin. the latter calls him apart with gauvain and key, and tells him how, in the time of uther-pendragon, the round table was made after the pattern of one joseph constructed when he separated the good from the evil. two kings of britain before had been kings of france, and conquered rome; queen sibyl and solomon had prophesied arthur should be third, and he, merlin, was the third to assure him of it. but this could only be if arthur established the round table as merlin directed. now the grail had been given joseph by our lord himself, and at his command joseph led a great folk into the desert. and when evil befell them joseph, at our lord's command, made a table; whereat one place was left empty in remembrance of judas. but moyses, a false disciple, sat therein, but sank into the abyss, whereout he shall not come until the time of antichrist. our lord made the first table; joseph, the second; he, merlin, the third. the grail was given into the keeping of the rich fisher king; but he was old, full of sickness, and should not win health till a knight came, having sat at the round table, true man of god and of holy church, and the best knight in the world for feats of arms. he must ask the rich fisher of what use is the grail; then the king would be cured of his infirmity, the enchantments of britain would cease, and the prophecy be fulfilled. should arthur do this, great good would come of it; he, merlin, must go, as he could not often show himself to the people. whereupon he departs to ortoberland, to blaise, his master, who writes down these things, and by his writings we know them. the son of alein le gros is a child named percevaux, and as alein is dying he hears the voice of the holy ghost saying, know thou art near thy end, and wilt soon come into the fellowship of jesus christ. brons, thy father, dwells in these isles of ireland, and with him is the grail. and he may not die until thy son finds him, to whom he shall commend the grace of the vessel, and teach the secret words joseph taught him, then shall he be cured of his infirmities. and i command thy son that he go to the court of arthur, where he shall be taught how he may find the house of his grandfather. alein dies, and percevaux mounts his horse and comes to arthur's court, and asks arms from him, and stays there and is much loved. (1) arthur proposes holding a tournament at easter, the greatest the world had seen, to honour the round table. perceval at first takes no part in the tournament; but afterwards, for love of aleine, niece of gauvain, who incites him thereto, and sends him a suit of red armour, he enters the lists unknown, and overbears all opponents, so that all say he should fill the empty place at the round table. perceval claims the empty place from the king, and when refused threatens to return to his land and never visit the court again. arthur yields, and perceval seats himself. then the rocks and the earth groan dolorously, and a voice reproaches arthur with having disobeyed merlin's command. were it not the goodness of alein le gros perceval had died the death of moys. now should arthur know the vessel our lord gave joseph was in the keeping of the rich fisher, and he was ill and infirm, and until the best knight in the world should come might not die. and when that knight should come to the rich fisher and ask concerning the vessel, then should he be cured, but die within three days after giving the vessel to that knight, and teaching him the secret words handed down by joseph. thus the enchantments of britain should cease. (2) perceval swears not to lie one night where he had lain the night before till he find the rich fisher. gauvain, sagremors, beduers, hurgains, and erec swear the same. the knights set forth amid general lamentation. they part at a chapel, and the story follows perceval. (3) he comes, after two days, upon a damsel weeping over a knight, hurganet, one of the round table, who had gone forth on the grail quest. he had delivered her from a giant, and ridden with her into a tent where they found knights and ladies, who warned them not to await the owner, the "orgoillos delandes," who would kill him. and whilst speaking a dwarf entered, scourge in hand, who threw down the tent. the lord of the tent then appeared, clad in red armour, and slew hurganet. perceval determines to avenge his death; rides to the tent with the damsel; is warned of its inmates; is surprised by the dwarf, who smites the damsel with his scourge, whereupon perceval fells him to the ground. the knight of the tent appears; after a desperate struggle perceval overcomes him and sends him with the damsel to arthur's court. she had fain stayed with him, but he thought of other things. (4) perceval comes to the finest castle in the world, enters, and finds no inhabitant. only a chessboard he finds. he begins to move the pieces, and they play against him, and he is checkmated three times running. full of anger he prepares to throw the chessmen into the castle moat--suddenly a damsel shows herself and reproaches him. he will abstain if she comes to him. she consents, and after her squires and maidens have disarmed perceval he joins her. overcome by her beauty he requests her love. she will grant it him if he capture the white stag of the wood. she lends him her hound, and recommends him to take the utmost care of it. perceval chases the stag, captures it, and, having cut off its head, starts back. but meanwhile an old woman has carried off the hound. she will only give it up if perceval will go to a grave whereunder is a knight painted, and say: "felon, he that put you there." perceval complies; whereupon appears a knight on a black horse armed in black. they strive, and perceval overcomes him. but meantime a second knight has carried off both the stag's head and the hound from the old woman. perceval's adversary flees to the tomb, which closes upon him, and perceval follows the second knight after a vain attempt to get help from the old woman. (5) him he found not; but after feats longer than i can tell, comes to his father's house, where he was born. he only finds his sister and a niece. the former tells him concerning her brother, who went to arthur's court; whereupon their mother died of grief. perceval reveals himself, and is amazed at what she relates concerning the grail and its guardian, and asks if he may come to behold it. she answers, yes; whereupon he vows not to rest till he have found it. she attempts to dissuade him, but he remains firm. she then urges him to go to their uncle, who is a hermit, to whom he may confess the sin of his mother's death, and who will advise him concerning the quest. (6) both proceed thither. he rejoices to see them, and asks if perceval has been to the house of his father, guardian of the vessel named grail, and, on hearing that he has not, tells him how at the table which joseph and himself had made, the voice of the holy ghost had come to them, telling them to go westward, and ordering the rich fisher, his father, to come to that land where the sun goes down (_avaloit_), telling him he should not die till the son of alein had become the best knight in the world. perceval had been chosen to do his lord's service; he is to slay no knight nor to lie with any woman, that being luxurious sin. his sins have prevented his reaching brons. he is to be careful to keep himself from sin and felony, being of a race our lord so loved that he committed his blood to their keeping. much else he says, and on the morrow perceval and his sister ride forth. (7) they meet a knight who challenges them. perceval, thinking of the damsel who had given him the hound, at first pays no attention, but then overcomes and slays him. perceval is much grieved at having so soon broken his uncle's injunction. on the morrow he leaves his sister, promising to return so soon as he may. (8) he meets a knight, accompanied by a damsel the most wonderfully ugly nature ever made, whereat he signs himself and laughs. the knight, indignant, challenges him, but is overcome and sent with the damsel to arthur's court. kay makes mock of them; but arthur reproves him and receives them courteously. they remain at the court, and know that she was the most beautiful woman in the world! (9) perceval comes to a ford and is challenged by its guardian, whom he overcomes. his name is urban of the black thorn; his lady had set him to guard the ford. her castle vanishes with a great noise, and she comes to her lover's aid with her maidens in shape of birds. perceval slays one who becomes a woman, and is carried off by the others to avallon. (10) perceval comes to a tree at the crossing of four roads, among its branches he sees two naked children of seven years old. they speak to him concerning the grail, and direct him to take the road to the right. they vanish, and a voice tells him to heed their counsel. (11) perceval comes to a river whereon are three men in a boat, and the master of the boat bids him go down the stream till he should come to his house. perceval rides a whole day without finding it, and curses the fisher. at last he comes to a castle with lowered drawbridge, enters, and is robed in scarlet by two squires. meanwhile four attendants have carried the fisher king, father of alein, and grandfather of perceval, into the hall. the king wished to do perceval what honour he might. they eat, and whilst at table a squire comes out of a chamber, and brings in both hands a lance, whence flows a drop of blood. him follows a damsel bearing two silver plates and clothes; then a squire with a vessel in which was our lord's blood. all bow as he passes, and perceval had fain asked, but he fears to displease the king, minding him of the worthy man to whom he had confessed, and who forbade his speaking too much and enquiring overmuch--for a man of idle words is displeasing to our lord. all night perceval thinks of the lance and of the grail, and in the morning, on waking, finds neither man nor woman. he sets forth to seek some one, but in vain, and is greatly distressed. (12) he finds a damsel weeping bitterly, who, seeing him, cries out: "percevaux le gallois, be accursed, unhappier art thou than ever, having been in the house of the rich fisher king, and not having asked concerning the grail. thy lord hates thee; and 'tis wonder the earth do not open beneath thee." had he not seen grail and lance pass? had he asked what one did with them, the king, cured of his infirmity, would have returned to his youth; our lord's prophecy to joseph been fulfilled, and the enchantments of britain undone. but perceval is neither wise, valiant, nor true man enough to have charge of the blood. but he shall come again and ask concerning the grail, and his grandfather shall be cured. (13) the damsel departs, and perceval, unable to find his grandfather's house, rides on and comes to a tree under which a damsel is sitting, and in whose branches the stag's head, which had been carried off from him, is hanging. perceval takes it, and when his hound following a stag comes up, takes possession of it likewise. but the knight who had taken them appears. perceval fights with and overcomes him; learns that he is the brother of the knight of the tomb, who lives therein with his love, sister of the damsel for whose sake perceval had hunted the stag. to her perceval now returns, gives her hound and stag's head, and then departs refusing the offer of her love, even to stop one night with her. (14) perceval wanders for seven years achieving many feats, and sending more than one hundred knights prisoners to arthur; but, not being able to find his grandfather's house, he falls into such melancholy as to lose his memory, so that he minds him no more of god, and never enters church. one good friday, fully armed, he meets a knight and ladies in penitents' dress, who reproach him for going armed on a day that our lord was crucified. perceval repents; returns to his uncle, the hermit; learns that his sister is dead, and does penitence. the songmen, in their pleasing rhymes, say nothing of this; but we tell you of it as we find it in the tale merlin made blaise write down. (15) perceval rides forth and meets seven squires of melianz de liz, who is going to a tournament at the white castle, the damsel of which is to be the victor's prize. all the knights of the round table will be there, having returned that whitsuntide from the quest of the grail without achieving aught. perceval leaves the squires and come to a castle where he puts up. his host urges him to take part in the tournament. the morrow they ride forth and look on; melianz wears the scarf of the lady of the castle; he and gauvain prove themselves the best knights, the onlooking ladies know not to whom to award the prize. the next day, perceval, having resolved upon taking part, accepts the scarf of his host's daughter, overcomes all adversaries, and sends steeds to the lady in return for her scarf. being asked by his host if he will not woo the damsel of the white castle, perceval answers he may not take wife. then appears an old man who reproaches perceval for going to a tournament, and with forgetting his vow to sleep no two nights in the same house till the quest be accomplished. he is merlin, come from hortoblande, to say that owing to the prayers of perceval's uncle, our lord wills that the latter may have his blood to keep. he is to go to his grandfather. perceval asks when he shall get there. "before a year," is the answer. "'tis a long time." "not so," says merlin, who leaves him, and tells all to blaise, from whose writing we know of it. (16) that same night perceval comes to his grandfather's house, is received by the fisher king, and as they sit at table the grail appears, and the relics with it, and when perceval sees it he asks to what use is the vessel put? forthwith the king is cured, and his being changed. perceval must say first who he is before learning such holy things. upon learning it is his grandson before him, the king leads him to the grail, and tells him with this lance longis pierced the side of jesus christ, whom he knew in the flesh. in this vessel is the blood, joseph caught as it ran to the ground. it is called grail because it is agreeable to worthy men; none may sin in its presence. then brons, kneeling, prays, and the voice of the holy ghost tells him the prophecy will be fulfilled; and he is to teach perceval the secret words our lord on the cross told joseph, and joseph told him. he does, but i cannot and may not say what these words were. then angels carry him off; and perceval remains, and the enchantments of britain and of the whole world cease. and that same day arthur and his knights sitting at the round table are aware of a great noise, and the seat is made whole again which had broken under perceval. merlin appears to blaise, tells him his work is ended, and takes him to perceval, who was right glad of his company. _epilogue._--merlin comes to arthur's court and relates all that had taken place. the knights, finding the quest of the grail is over, and mindful of merlin's former words, urge arthur to invade the continent. he does so, overcomes frollo, king of france; refuses tribute to the emperor of rome, overcomes him, but is recalled to england on learning mordret's treachery. the latter is slain; but arthur, wounded mortally, is carried to avallon to be healed of morguen, his sister. lastly, merlin tells perceval how he will withdraw from the world, and be no more seen of men. and the tale says no more of merlin and the grail. =the mabinogi of peredur ab evrawc.=--evrawc, earl of the north, has seven sons, six of whom, like himself, fall in tournaments and combats. his wife carries off her youngest son, peredur, to the desert, and forbids horses or arms being shown to him. he grows up strong and active, and can outrun his mother's goats and hinds. (1) one day he sees three knights passing--gwalchmai, the son of gwyar, and geneir gwystyl, and owain, the son of urien. his mother declares them to be angels; whereupon he determines to join them. he questions owain concerning his accoutrements and the use of his weapons. his mother swoons away at the thought of his leaving her; but he picks out a horse and saddles it. before leaving, his mother counsels him to repeat his paternoster wherever he sees a church; to take food and drink if none offer them; to aid when any outcry is, especially a woman's; if he sees a fair jewel to take it and give it to another; to pay his court to fair women whether they will or no. (2) after two days and nights peredur comes to a tent, where he finds a damsel. half of the food and drink she has he takes, half leaves to her; asks her for her ring at leaving, which she gives him. her lord returning, is jealous, and sets forth to avenge his supposed wrong. (3) peredur journeys on to arthur's court. a knight has been there before him, and grievously insulted gwenhwyvar by dashing a goblet of wine in her face, and carrying the goblet out, and has dared any to avenge the insult; but all hang their heads. peredur enters the hall and demands knighthood. on kai's protesting he is too meanly equipped, a dwarf, who, with his female companion has been a year at arthur's court without speaking, salutes him as the flower of knighthood. kai strikes him for this, and kicks the female dwarf, who repeats the salutation. kai bids peredur seek the knight and win back the goblet, then shall he have knighthood. peredur does so, and slays the knight. owain, who has followed, shows him how to undo the armour and to clad himself in it, and bids him back to arthur. but peredur refuses, he will not come back to the court till he have avenged the injury done by kai to the dwarf and dwarfess. (4) peredur overcomes sixteen knights and sends them to arthur with the same message. (5) peredur comes to a castle by a lake, and sees a venerable man sitting by the lake and his attendant fishing, and the old man is lame. and peredur enters the castle, and is practised in the use of weapons, and learns courtesy and noble bearing; and the old man is his uncle--his mother's brother. he is to leave his mother's habits and discourse, and if he sees aught to wonder at, not to ask the meaning of it. (6) peredur leaves his uncle and comes to a castle where dwells a second uncle of his--brother likewise of his mother. his strength is tested by his having to cut through an iron staple with a sword. twice he does it and the broken pieces re-unite, but the third time neither would unite as before. he has arrived at two-thirds of his strength, and when he attains his full power none will be able to contend with him. whilst talking, two youths enter the hall bearing a mighty spear with three streams of blood flowing from the point to the ground. all wail and lament; but as peredur is not vouchsafed the meaning of what he sees he forbears to ask concerning it. then enter two maidens with a salver in which a man's head swims in blood. the outcry redoubles. peredur retires to sleep. (7) on the morrow, with his uncle's permission, he rides forth, finds a beautiful woman lamenting over the corpse of a knight. she reveals herself as his foster-sister; calls him accursed for causing his mother's death by leaving her; and tells him it is her husband she mourns for, slain by the knight of the glade. peredur meets the latter, overcomes him, and makes him take his foster-sister in marriage. (8) peredur comes to a castle where are eighteen youths and five maidens, and he had never seen one of so fair an aspect as the chief of the maidens. a flask of wine and six loaves are brought by two nuns, and that must suffice for all. the youths press the maiden to offer herself to peredur as his wife or lady love. she refuses; but consents when they threaten leaving her to her enemies. she comes weeping to peredur and relates how she is besieged by an earl who seeks her hand. she implores his aid, and offers to place herself in his hands. peredur bids her go sleep, he will assist her, the next day he overthrows the master of the household of the earl. to save his life the latter must deliver up one-third of the besieged maiden's lands. the second day it fares the same with the earl's steward; the third with the earl himself. peredur thus wins back all his hostess' lands, and tarries with her three weeks; but for her love he would not have stayed so long. (9) peredur next meets the lady of the tent, ill-entreated of her husband concerning him. him he overcomes, compels to acknowledge her innocence, and sends both to arthur. (10) peredur comes to the castle of a tall and stately lady, who bids him escape from the sorceresses of gloucester, who will attack the castle that night; but he resolves to remain, and defends one of the watch when overtaken by a sorceress. the latter hails him by his name. she foreknows she is to suffer harm from him. if he will go with her he shall learn chivalry and the use of arms. peredur consents on her promising to refrain from injuring the countess, and stays with her three weeks. (11) peredur comes to a hermit's cell. in the morning it has snowed. a hawk has killed a fowl in front of the cell, but is scared away by peredur's horse; a raven has alighted on the bird. peredur likens the blackness of the raven and the whiteness of the snow and the redness of the blood to the hair and the skin and the two red spots on the cheeks of the lady he loves best. whilst thus lost in thought, arthur and his household come up with him, but fail to recognise him. a youth accosts him, but receives no answer; whereupon he thrusts at peredur but is struck to the ground. twenty-four youths essay the same, and are repulsed in like manner. kai then comes and speaks angrily, but peredur breaks his arms for him. gwalchmai then approaches him courteously, learns his name, and brings him to arthur, who does him honour. thus all return to caerlleon. (12) peredur solicits the love of angharad law eurawc, and when she denies him, vows to speak to no christian till she loves him. (13) peredur comes to the castle of a huge grey man, a heathen, after slaying a lion, his porter. the grey man's daughter warns him of her father, and at his request brings his horse and arms to his lodging. peredur overcomes the vassals, and slays the sons of the grey man, and sends the whole household to arthur to be baptized. (14) peredur slays a serpent lying upon a gold ring, and wins the ring. for a long time he speaks to no christian, and loses colour and aspect through longing for arthur and his lady love. he returns to arthur's court, but none know him, and he suffers kai to thrust him through the thigh without his saying a word. he overcomes many knights, and at length angharad law eurawc confesses her love for him. he remains at arthur's court. (15) peredur comes to the castle of a huge, black, one-eyed man. the latter's daughter warns him against her father. but peredur stays, overcomes the latter, and learns how he lost his eye. on the mound of mourning is a cairn, in the cairn a serpent with a stone in its tail, the virtue whereof is to give as much gold to the possessor as he may desire. in fighting the serpent he had lost his eye. he directs peredur to the serpent, and is slain by him. peredur refuses the love of the maidens of the castle, and rides forth. (16) he comes to the palace of the son of the king of the tortures. every day the addanc of the lake slays them. whilst at discourse a charger enters the hall with a corpse in the saddle. they anoint the corpse with warm water and balsam, and it comes to life. the same happens with two other youths. the morrow they ride forth anew against the addanc, refusing peredur, who would go with them; but he follows and finds seated on a mound the fairest lady, who, if he will pledge her his love, will give him a stone by which he may see the addanc and be unseen of it. he promises, and she gives him the stone, telling him to seek her in india. peredur passes through a valley wherein is a flock of white sheep, and one of black, and when they cross the river flowing through the valley they change colour. he learns of their shepherd the way to the addanc's cave, slays it, meets his three companions of the night before, who tell him it was predicted that he should slay the monster, offers them its head, refuses their sister whom they proffer him in marriage; accepts the services of a youth, etlym gleddyv coch, who wishes to become his attendant, and rides forth. (17) he comes to the court of the countess of achievements, overthrows her three hundred knights; but learning she loves etlym resigns her to him. (18) peredur, accompanied by etlym, comes to the mound of mourning, slays two out of the three hundred knights he finds guarding the serpent, slays the latter, repays the remaining hundred knights all they have spent, gives etlym the stone and sends him back to his love. (19) peredur comes to a valley wherein are many coloured tents, lodges with a miller, from whom he borrows food and lodging, and learns that a tournament is forward. he overcomes all the knights present, and sends their horses and arms to the miller as repayment. the empress of the tournament sends for him, he repels her messengers thrice, the fourth time he yields. she reveals herself as the lady who had helped him against the addanc, and she entertains him for fourteen years. (20) arthur is at caerlleon-upon-usk, with him his knights, and among them peredur. there enters, riding upon a yellow mule, a maiden of hideous aspect. she greets all save peredur, to whom she reproaches his silence at the court of the lame king; had he asked the meaning of the streaming spear and of the other wonders the king would have regained health and the dominions peace--all his misfortunes are due to peredur. she then tells of a castle where are five hundred and seventy knights, each with the lady he loves best--there may fame be acquired; and of a castle on a lofty mountain where a maiden is detained prisoner, whoso should deliver her should attain the summit of the fame of the world. gwalchmai sets forth to release the imprisoned maiden, peredur to enquire the meaning of the bleeding lance. before they leave a knight enters and defies gwalchmai to single combat, for that he had slain his lord by treachery. (21) gwalchmai meets a knight who directs him to his own castle, where he is welcomed by his sister. the steward of the castle accuses him to the knight of being the slayer of his, the knight's, father. gwalchmai demands a year to acknowledge or deny the accusation. (22) peredur, who, seeking tidings of the black maiden, but finding none, has wandered over the whole island, meets a priest who chides him for being in armour on good friday. peredur dismounts, asks the priest's blessing, and learns of a castle where he may gain tidings of the castle of wonders. (23) peredur proceeds thither, and meets the king of the castle, who commends him to his daughter, by whom he is well received. a little yellow page accuses him to the king of winning his daughter's love, and advises that he should be thrown into prison. but the damsel befriends him, and assists him to take part in a tournament, where, for three days, he overthrows all opponents. the king at last recognises him, and offers him his daughter; but he refuses and sets forth for the castle of wonders. (24) on arriving there he finds the door open, and in the hall a chessboard and chessmen playing by themselves. he favours one side which loses, whereupon he casts the chessboard in the lake. the black maiden comes in and reproaches him--he may find the chessboard again at the castle of ysbidinongyl, where a black man lays waste the dominions of the empress. him peredur overcomes, but spares his life; this the black maiden chides him for, and he slays him; but the black maiden still refuses him access to the empress unless he can slay a stag, swift as the swiftest bird, with one sharp horn in his forehead. she gives him a little dog belonging to the empress which will rouse the stag. with its aid he slays the latter, but a lady, riding by, carries off the dog, and chides him for slaying the stag. he can only win her friendship by going to a cromlech which is in a grove, and challenging to fight three times a man who dwells there. peredur complies, and fights with a black man clad in rusty armour; but when he dismounts his adversary disappears. (25) peredur, riding on, comes to a castle where sits a lame grey-headed man, and gwalchmai by him. a youth enters the hall and beseeches peredur's friendship--he had been the black maiden who came to arthur's court, and who had chid peredur concerning the chessboard; he was the youth who came with the bloody head in the salver, and the head was that of peredur's cousin slain by the sorceresses of gloucester, who also lamed peredur's uncle, and he, the speaker, was peredur's cousin. peredur seeks aid of arthur, and they start against the sorceresses. one of the latter slays three of arthur's men; whereupon peredur smites her, and she flees, exclaiming this was peredur, who had learnt chivalry of them, their destined slayer. she and all her companions are slain. thus is it related concerning the castle of wonders. =the thornton ms. sir perceval.=--(1) percyvelle is son of percyvelle and acheflour, arthur's sister. his father is slain in a tournament by the red knight whom he had previously overcome in a former tournament. his mother takes to the woods, brings up her son without instruction till he is fifteen years, when she teaches him to pray to god. (2) he then meets with three knights of arthur's court--ewayne, gawayne, and kay. he takes them for gods. learning that they are knights, he determines to go to arthur's court and become a knight himself, catches a wild horse, and, returning to his mother, announces his attention. she counsels him to be always of measure, to salute knights when he meets them, and at his departure gives him a ring for token. (3) he sets forth, and finding on his way a house makes himself free of it, eats, drinks, and finding a lady sleeping on a bed takes from her her ring, leaving his mother's in its place. (4) coming to arthur's hall he rides into it and up to the king so that his mare kisses arthur's forehead. he demands knighthood at arthur's hands, threatening to slay him if refused. arthur sees the likeness to his father, laments over the latter's untimely fate, and recalls that books say the son should avenge the father's bane. percyvelle bids him let be his jangling and dub him knight. whilst sitting down to table the red knight comes in, carries off arthur's cup (five years long had he done so) none daring to hinder him. at the king's lament percyvelle engages to slay the red knight, and bring the cup back if knighthood be granted him. the king promises, percyvelle follows the ravisher, who scorns him, but is slain by a dart flung at him. he captures the knight's steed, and not being able otherwise to remove his armour, and recalling his mother's injunction "out of the iron burn the tree" kindles a fire to burn the body. gawayne, who has followed him, shows him how to unlace the armour; when that is removed percyvelle casts the body into the fire to roast. he refuses to return to arthur, looking upon himself as great a lord as the king, but sends the cup back through gawayne and rides on. (5) he meets an old witch, mother to the red knight, who addresses him as her son; her he spears and casts into the fire. (6) he meets ten knights, who flee, taking him for the red knight, but on his raising his vizor the oldest knight, reassured, relates how the red knight bore him and his sons enmity, and how, fifteen years before, he had slain his brother. learning that percyvelle had burnt his enemy, he invites him to his castle. (7) whilst at meat a messenger comes in from the maiden-land begging help from the lady lufamour against a "sowdane," who would have her to wife. percyvelle starts forth with three of the old knight's sons, whom, however, he sends back each after a mile. meanwhile, the king at carebedd, mourning for percyvelle, receives lufamour's messages, gains from him tidings of percyvelle, and sets forth with his court to follow him. percyvelle, coming to the sowdane's camp, is set upon by the guard, but slays them all, and then lays him down to rest under the castle wall. in the morning lufamour's men make her aware of the slaughter wrought upon her enemies. she perceives percyvelle and sends her chamberlain, hatlayne, to bid him to her chamber. whilst at table together tidings are brought that the enemy have nearly taken the town. percyvelle sallies forth alone and soon leaves not one alive. he is then ware of four knights--arthur, ewayne, gawayne, kay. he pricks against them and gawayne receives his onslaught. they recognise each other, and all proceed to lufamour's castle. the next day the sowdane challenges all comers; percyvelle, dubbed knight by arthur, slays him, and thereafter weds lufamour. (8) after a year he thinks on his mother's loneliness, and sets forth to seek her. hearing a damsel lamenting in the wood, he finds her bound to a tree, for that a year before, while sleeping, a stranger had robbed her of a ring leaving his own in its stead. now her ring was of a stone of such virtue that neither death nor hurt could come to the wearer. he releases her, overcomes the black knight who had bound her, reconciles them and claims his own ring for the ring he had taken. but the black knight has given it to the lord of the land--a giant. (9) percyvelle slays the giant, and claims the ring of the porter. the latter tells him how his master, loving a fair lady, had offered her that same ring, but she, exclaiming that he had killed her son, rushed into the forest and was since then bereft of her senses. percyvelle puts on a goat's skin, and after nine days search finds her. a magic drink of the giant's throws her into a three days' sleep, after which, restored to her right mind, she goes home with her son. he afterwards goes to the holy land, and is there slain. =the queste del saint graal.=--[_furnivall's text (f.) has been taken as the basis of the present summary. words and passages not found in the welsh translation (w) are italicised; words or passages found in the welsh translation instead of those in furnivall are in parentheses. the variants from birch-hirschfeld's summary (b. h.) are given in the notes._] (1) on whitsun eve the companions of the round table being assembled at camelot, a _damsel_ (youth) comes in great haste, asks for lancelot and bids him _from king pelles_ (for the sake of whatever he loved most) accompany her to the forest. notwithstanding guinevere's opposition he does so, and comes to a nunnery where he finds his two cousins, boort and lionel. three nuns then bring galahad, a child the like of whom might scarce be found in the world; one asks lancelot to knight him, he consents, and on the morrow lancelot and his companions return to camelot; his cousins think the child must be lancelot's son, but lancelot answers no word. (2) at the round table the seat of each knight is marked, but on the seat perillous it is written that _four hundred and fifty-four_ (four hundred and fifty) years have passed since the lord's passion, and that on this whitsun day the seat shall find its master. lancelot covers these words, and, whilst at kay's reminding, the court awaits an adventure before sitting down to meat, a youth tells them of a stone floating on the water. it is a block of red marble, in which sticks a sword, and upon it written that none may draw the sword save the best knight in the world. lancelot declares that the wonders of the holy grail are about to begin, and refuses to essay the adventure; gawain, perceval, and others try, but fail; they then sit down to table served by twelve kings; an old man enters, leading a knight in vermeil armour, whom he proclaims the desired knight, of the seed of david and kin of joseph of arimathea, who shall achieve the adventures of the holy grail. he draws near the seat perillous, on which is now written, "this is galahad's seat," sits himself therein, dismisses the old man, _and bids him greet_, "_my uncle, king pelles, and my grandfather, the rich fisher_."[14] (3) great honour is done to the new knight, whom lancelot recognises as his son, and bors and lionel as the youth begot by lancelot upon the daughter _of the fisher king_ (king pelles). the queen is told that the knight is come, and her ladies say he _shall end the wonders of great britain, and through him the maimed king shall be healed_. galahad is then urged by arthur to essay the adventure of the sword, consents, easily draws out the sword, and asks for a shield. (4) a damsel appears, weeps for lancelot as having lost his place as the best knight in the world, and tells the king from nasciens, the hermit, that on that day he would send the holy grail to feed the companions of the round table. a tournament is ordered, in which galahad is held the best, as he overthrows all save lancelot and perceval. after vespers the court sits down to table, a clap of thunder is heard, followed by the brightest of sunbeams, so that all are as if lighted by the holy ghost. none know whence the light comes, and none has power to say a word. the holy grail enters, covered with white samite, but none may see who carries it; the hall is filled with sweet odours, and as the grail passes along the tables each seat is filled with such meat as each one longs for. then it departs, none may say how, and those can now speak who before could say no word. (5) all return thanks to god for the grace vouchsafed them, and gawain tells them that heretofore no man had been served with whatever he might desire save _at the maimed king's_ (at the court of king peleur). but they could not behold the grail openly, and gawain declares he will go on quest of it for a year and a day. the knights of the round table make a like vow. arthur is much distressed, as he knows many will die on the quest. the queen and her ladies weep likewise, and propose to join their knights, but an old priest tells them from nasciens, the hermit, that no knight entering on the quest of the holy grail is to have with him his lady or damsel--the quest is no earthly one. on the morrow, at king bandamagus' suggestion, all the questers, galahad first, swear to maintain the quest for a year and a day and longer if need be. after the queen has taken leave of lancelot, and arthur has vainly tried to force a shield on galahad, the questers set off together and pass the first night at vagan's castle. on the morrow they ride forth and separate. (6) after five days galahad comes to an abbey where he finds king bandamagus and ywain "li aoutres." the abbey contains a shield which no knight save the destined one may take and go unslain or unhurt. king bandamagus would take it, but is overthrown by a white knight; galahad then takes it, and his right to do so is admitted by the white knight, who tells him as follows concerning it:--forty-three years after our lord's passion, joseph of arimathea, who took our lord's body down from the cross,[15] came to the city sarras, where dwelt king evelac, then a saracen, who was at war with his neighbour, tholomes. josephes, joseph's son, warned evelac against going forth to battle unprepared, and, in answer to the king's questions what he should do, told him of the new law and gospel truth and the saviour's death, and fixed on his shield a cross of sandal. he was to uncover this on the fourth day's fighting, and to call on the lord. when he did so he beheld a bleeding, crucified figure. he won the battle, and on his telling the story his brother-in-law, nasciens, received baptism. the shield then restored to a man his lost hand. evelac was baptized, and guarded the shield in lordly fashion. josephes came with his father to great britain, where king crudel threw them with many other christians into prison. mordrains[16] and nasciens then invaded great britain, released josephes and remained with him in the land. when josephes was on his deathbed, and evelac asked him for a remembrance, then he bade king mordrains bring his shield, and with the blood streaming from his nose marked on it a cross; this would always remain red, and no knight should with impunity unhang the shield till galahad should come, last of nasciens' line. where nasciens lay buried, there the shield was to be kept. (7) galahad draws near a tomb in the abbey graveyard, whence issues a voice telling him not to approach and drive it out. but he does so, and a smoke in man's form comes out; on opening the tomb a dead knight's body is found lying therein, this is cast out. these things are a symbol: the hard tombstone signifies the _hard-heartedness of the world_ (the hardship which jesus christ had in this world);[17] the dead body those dead in sin, and as in christ's time when they slew him and were harried out of their land by vespasian as a punishment; the smoke was a devil who fled from galahad because he was a virgin. (8) on the morrow galahad rides forth accompanied by melians, a youth who had begged to be allowed to serve him, and whom he had knighted. they separate at a cross road, melians takes the left hand road in spite of warning, comes to a tent where hangs a golden crown, seizes it, meets a strange knight who overthrows and had slain him but for galahad coming to the rescue and overcoming first one, then a second assailant. melians is taken to an abbey to be tended, and learns that the two knights who almost overpowered him were his pride in taking the left hand path, his covetousness in carrying off the crown of gold. (9) galahad enters a hermitage to pray there, and hears a voice bidding him proceed to the castle of maidens and rid it of its bad customs. he encounters on the way seven knights whom he must overcome, such was the custom of the castle. he forces them to flight, and an old priest brings him the keys of the castle. he finds therein numberless maidens, and learns that the former lord of the castle had been, with his son, slain by the seven knights, who had striven beforehand to carry off his daughter. she foretold that as they had gained the castle for a maiden's sake, they would lose it through a maiden, and be overcome by a single knight, whereupon they determined to make prisoner every maiden passing that way. galahad delivers the captives, and puts a daughter of the former duke in possession of the castle. he learns then that the seven brothers have been slain by gawain, gheriot, and ywain. (10) the story now returns to gawain. he passes by the abbey where galahad found the shield, then that where melians lay ill, is reproached by a friar with being too sinful to be with galahad, meets gheheries, his brother, meets ywain on the morrow, meets the seven brothers who attack them and are slain; then gawain comes alone to a hermitage, confesses for the first time since fourteen years, is admonished by the hermit, learns that the castle of maidens signifies hell, the captives the good souls wrongfully therein confined before christ's coming, the seven knights the seven sins. gawain is pressed, but vainly, to make penitence. (11) the story returns to galahad. after wandering for awhile without adventures he meets lancelot and perceval. they do not recognise him, not knowing his _arms_ (shield),[18] and attack him. he overcomes them, but learning from the words of a recluse, who sees the combat, that she really knows him, and, fearing recognition, he hurries off.[19] (12) perceval stays with the recluse, and lancelot starts in pursuit of the unknown knight. he comes in the night to a stone cross near which stands (an old)[20] chapel. he dismounts and enters, but an iron rail hinders his progress; through it he sees an altar whereon _burn seven candles_ (a silver candlestick, a wax taper).[21] he leaves the chapel, unsaddles his horse, and lies down to sleep by the cross. then comes a sick knight on a bier drawn by two horses, dolourously lamenting. he looks at lancelot, but says no word, thinking him asleep, nor does lancelot say aught, but remains half asleep. and the sick knight laments, "_when may i have solace from the holy vessel for the pain i suffer for such a small fault_ (was ever so much pain as is upon me who have done no evil at all)?"[22] but lancelot says no word, nor when the candlestick comes towards the cross and the holy grail approaches the sick knight, who prays he may be made whole to join likewise the quest. then crawling to the table whereon the vessel stands, and _touching his eyes with_ (kissing) it, feels relief and slumbers. the grail disappears and lancelot still says never a word, for which aftertimes much mischance was his. the sick knight arises well, a squire appears and _arms_ him (with lancelot's sword and helm),[23] and brings him lancelot's steed, and the knight swears never to rest till he knows why the holy grail appears in so many places of the kingdom of logres, and by whom it was brought to england. so he departs, and _his squire carries off lancelot's armour_. lancelot awakes wondering whether what he has seen be dream or truth. and he hears a voice saying--harder than stone, bitterer than wood, more despised than the fig tree--he must away, not pollute the spot where is the holy grail. he wanders forth weeping, comes to a hermit, confesses his great sin, his love for guinevere, is admonished to tear it from his heart, when there may still be hope for him. lancelot promises, and has the adventure at the chapel explained to him, and stays with the hermit for penance and instruction. (13) the story now returns to perceval. the recluse orders he be well taken care of, she loves him well, he is her nephew. she dissuades him from fighting galahad as he wishes, does he wish to die and be killed as his brothers _for their outrages_ (in their combats and tournaments)? he and galahad and bors will achieve the quest. she is his aunt, formerly queen of the waste land. _he asks about his mother whom he fears he has badly treated, and learns she died when he went to arthur's court._[24] he asks further concerning the knight with the red arms, and is told as follows:--since christ's coming were three chief tables; first, the table at which christ often ate with his apostles; second, the table of the holy grail, established in semblance and remembrance of the first, by which so many miracles were wrought in this land in the time of joseph of arimathea, in the beginning when christianity was brought to this country. he came with four thousand poor companions. one day, wandering in a forest, they had nothing to eat, but an old woman brought _twelve_ (ten) loaves, these they bought and they were wroth with one another when they came to divide them. joseph angry, took the twelve loaves, made the people sit, and by virtue of the holy grail multiplied the loaves to their need. at that table was a seat where josephes, son of joseph, might sit, but none other, for, as the history tells, the place was blessed by our lord himself. now two brothers, relatives of josephes, envied him his leadership, saying they were of as good seed as he, and one sat in josephes' seat, and was straightway swallowed up by the earth, whence the seat was called the dreaded seat. last came the round table, made by merlin's counsel, to show the roundness of the world and of the firmament. and merlin foretold that by companions of this table should the truth of the grail be known, and that three should achieve it, two virgins and one chaste, and the one should surpass his father as man surpasses wolf, and he should be master, and for him merlin made a great and wonderful seat, wherein none might sit unharmed save he, and it was known as the seat perillous. and as at whitsuntide the holy spirit came to the apostles in guise of fire, so at whitsuntide galahad came clad in red armour. and on the day he came the questing for the grail began, which might not cease till the truth concerning it _and the lance_ was known. to find galahad, perceval must first try castle _gher_ (goth) where dwells a cousin of galahad, _and then castle corbenic where dwells the maimed king_. (14) his aunt then tells how after that her husband fell in war against king laban she withdrew into that wild place. and her son went to serve king pelles, their relative, and since two years she only knows of him that he is following tournaments throughout great britain. (15) on the morrow perceval comes to a monastery, and seeing mass being performed would enter but cannot, and sees a sick bed with a man or woman lying on it, whom, as he rises when the body of our lord is raised, he sees to be an old man crowned, with his body full of wounds and crying out, "father, forget me not." he seems as if he were over _four hundred_ (one hundred and four) years old. perceval asks concerning these wonders, and is told as follows:--when joseph of arimathea came to this land, the saracen, king crudel, hearing of the grail by which he lived, threw him and his son josephes and some hundred others into prison for forty days, and forbade food to be given them. but they had the holy vessel with them. when mordrains and his brother-in-law, seraphe, heard these things, they assembled their host, landed in britain, overcame crudel, and freed joseph. on the morrow evelac, as he was called before he became christian, desired to see the holy grail plainly, and though warned to desist pressed forward to do so, and was struck blind and helpless. he accepted his punishment submissively, but only prayed to christ that he might survive till _the good knight should come, the best[25] of his seed_ (the knight who is to achieve the adventures of the holy grail). a voice answered his prayer should be granted, and then he should receive the light of his eyes and his wounds should be made whole. this happened _four hundred_ (one hundred and four) years before, and it was that king evelac whom perceval had seen, and during that while he had fed on nought else save the lord's body. (16) perceval riding forth on the morrow is attacked by twenty knights, sore pressed, and only rescued by the red knight's help, who then disappears. (17) perceval, having lost his horse, asks one vainly from a passing squire, from whom it is shortly afterwards carried off by another knight, whom perceval, mounted on the squire's cob, attacks but is overthrown. (18) at night a woman appears and offers him a horse if he will do her will--she is, in truth, the enemy. he agrees, she mounts him, he comes to a river, and, before essaying to ford it, makes the sign of the cross, whereupon the horse rushes howling into the water. (19) perceval, rescued from this peril, finds himself on a wild island mountain, full of savage beasts; he helps a lion against a snake and wins its service. he is ill at ease on his island, but he trusts god, and is not like those men of wales where sons pull their fathers out of bed and kill them to save the disgrace of their dying in bed. (20) that night, sleeping by the lion's side, perceval dreams of two women visiting him, one mounted on a lion, the second on a serpent; this one reproaches him for killing the serpent. on the morrow an old man comes ship-borne, comforts perceval with good counsel, and interprets his dream: the dame on the lion was christ's new law, she on the serpent the old law. (21) a damsel then appears, warns perceval against the old man, prepares for him a rich banquet with good wine, not british, as in great britain they only drink cervoise and other home-made drinks, and excites his passion. he is on the point of yielding, but seeing the cross-handled pommel of his sword crosses himself, and the damsel disappears in flames. perceval pierces his thigh with his sword in his contrition. the old man reappears, exhorts, explains the various features of his temptation, and finally takes him away with him in his ship. (22) the story now returns to lancelot. after three exhortations from the hermit he sets forth, and first meets a servant, who assails him bitterly as an unfaithful traitorous knight, in that having openly seen the holy grail doing its wonders before him, he yet moved not from his seat. (23) he comes to a hermit's hut and finds the hermit lamenting over the dead body of his companion, who, at his nephew, agaran's, request, had left the hermitage to aid him against his enemies, and had been treacherously slain by the latter. these things are told by a devil, which had entered into the dead hermit's body. lancelot is admonished at great length, receives stripes, puts on the dead hermit's hair shirt, and finally leaves with the advice that he should confess every week. (24) he meets a damsel who encourages him, but tells him he will find no lodging for the night. _he dismounts at the foot of a cross at the cross-ways, and has a vision of a man surrounded with stars, crowned and accompanied by seven kings and two knights, who pray to be taken to heaven; a man descending from heaven orders one of the knights away, whilst to the other he gives the shape of a winged lion, so that he flies up to heaven and is admitted._[26] (25) lancelot meets the knight who had carried off his arms, and who attacks, but is overthrown by him. (26) _he comes to a hermitage, confesses, tells his vision, and learns that it has a great meaning in respect of his lineage, which must be expounded at much length: forty-two years after the passion of christ, joseph of arimathea left jerusalem, came to sarras, helped evelac, who received baptism at the hands of josephes, together with his brother-in-law, seraphe (who took the name nasciens), and who became a pillar of the holy faith, so that the great secrets of the holy grail were opened to him, which none but joseph had beheld before, and no knight after save in dream. now evelac dreamed that out of his nephew, son of nasciens, came forth a great lake, whence issued nine streams, eight of the same size, and the last greater than all the rest put together; our lord came and washed in the lake which king mordrains thus saw flowing from celidoine's belly. this celidoine was the man surrounded by stars in lancelot's vision, and this because he knew the course of the stars and the manner of the planets, and he was first king of scotland, and the nine streams were his nine descendants, of whom seven kings and two knights:--first, warpus; second, chrestiens;[27] third, alain li gros; fourth, helyas; fifth, jonaans, who went to wales and there took to wife king moroneus' daughter; sixth, lancelot, who had the king of ireland's daughter to wife; seventh, bans. these were the seven kings who appeared to lancelot. the eighth stream was lancelot himself, the elder of the knights of the vision. the ninth stream was galahad, begot by lancelot upon the fisher king's daughter, lion-like in power, deepest of all the streams._[28] (27) lancelot comes to a castle with a meadow before it, whereon a throng of black armoured knights is tourneying against knights in white armour. lancelot goes to the help of the former,[29] but is captured, and on being released rides off lamenting. at night, as he sleeps, a man comes from heaven and reproaches him with his ill faith. a hermitess expounds the allegorical meaning of the adventure. the white knights are those of eliezer, son of king pelles, the black those of argastes, son of king helain; this symbolised the quest, which was a tournament between the heavenly knights and the earthly ones, and in that quest none might enter who was black with sin; and lancelot though sinful, having entered thereon had joined the black knights, and his capture by the others was his overthrow by galahad, and his lamentation his return to sin, and it was our lord who reproached him in his vision; let him not depart from truth. (28) lancelot comes to lake marchoise, is attacked by a knight in black armour, who kills his horse and rides off; he lays down on the shore and awaits trustfully god's help. (29) the story returns to gawain. after journeying many days adventureless, he meets hector de mares. neither has heard aught of lancelot, galahad, or bohors. travelling together they come to a deserted chapel, where, passing the night, gawain dreams he sees in a meadow one hundred and fifty bulls all spotted, save three, one being dingy, the two others being pure white. of the one hundred and forty-seven who set off to find better pasture many die and some return, of the three one returns, but two remain between whom strife arises and they separate. hector dreams that he and lancelot, being companions, are attacked by a man who knocks lancelot off his horse and sits him on an ass, after which lancelot, coming to a fair fountain, would drink of it, but it vanishes; he, hector, keeping his horse comes to a castle, the lord of which refuses him admission for that he is too high mounted. whilst telling one another their dreams, a hand with a taper appears and vanishes, and a voice tells them that, poor of belief as they are, they cannot attain the holy grail. on their way to find a hermit who may explain these wonders, gawain is attacked by and kills a knight, ywains the adulterer, son of king urien. they then come to the hermit, nasciens, who explains the bulls as the companions of the round table, the spotted ones those stained by sin, the three unspotted ones are the achievers, two white, virgins--galahad and perceval--one dingy, having once sinned carnally, bors. the last part of the dream may not be explained, as evil might come of it. in hector's dream the two horses are pride and ostentation. lancelot's being seated on an ass signifies the putting off of pride, the fountain is the holy grail. both knights are too full of sin to continue in the quest of the grail. they ride forth and meet with no adventure worth notice. (30) the story returns to bors. after first coming to a hermit, who exhorts him to abandon the quest if he do not feel himself free from sin, to whom he confesses, from whom he receives absolution, and to whom he vows to eat nought save bread and water till the quest be achieved, he comes to a castle whose mistress is sore oppressed by her sister, against whose champion, priadam the black, she has vainly sought a defender. bors promises to come to help. he passes the night at the castle and will not sleep in the rich bed she offers him, though in the morning he tumbles it as if he had lain in it. he overcomes priadam, and reinstates the lady in her lordship. (31) on the morrow he meets his brother, naked, bound on a hack, being beaten with thorns by two knights. at the same moment passes a very fair maiden being carried off by a knight, and she cries to him for help. he is in anguish, but goes to the maiden's help, wounds her would-be ravisher, and restores her to her friends. (32) he then hurries after his brother, but meets a seeming monk who makes him believe his brother is dead, and gives him an explanation of dreams he has had. he then comes to a tower and is welcomed by its inmates. a damsel offers him her love, and when he refuses threatens with twelve other damsels to throw herself from the tower. bors is full of pity, but thinks they had better lose their souls than he his. they fall from the tower, bors crosses himself, and the whole vanishes, being a deceit of the devil. his brother's corpse that had been shown him is also gone. (33) on the morrow he comes to an abbey, where he learns that his brother lives, and where all his dreams and adventures are allegorically explained. he then meets lionel, his brother, who reproaches him bitterly for his conduct, and falls upon him with intent to kill. first a hermit, then a passing knight, calogrenant, would stop him, but he slays both. bors is at length, in spite of prayers and entreaties, compelled to draw in self defence, but a voice tells him to flee, and a fiery brand comes from heaven between them. bors follows the command of the voice directing him towards the sea, where perceval awaits him. he comes to a ship covered with white samite, and finds therein perceval, who at first does not know him again, and who tells him all that he has passed through. (34) the story returns to galahad. after countless adventures he finds himself one day opposed to gawain and hector de mares in a tournament; he deals the former such a blow as knocks him out of his saddle. (35) he is brought to the ship wherein are perceval and bors by a damsel, who accompanies them until, fourteen days' sail from logres, they come to a desert isle off which is another ship, on which is written[30] that those who would enter should see they were full of faith. the damsel then tells perceval she is his sister, _daughter of king pellehem_. they enter the ship and find a rich bed with a crown at its head, and at its foot a sword six inches out of the scabbard, its tip a stone of all the colours in the world, its handle of the bones of two beasts, the serpent papagast, the fish orteniaus; it is covered with a cloth whereon is written that only the first of his line would grasp the sword. perceval and bors both essay vainly. galahad, on being asked, sees written on the blade that he only should draw who could strike better than others. the damsel tells the story of the sword as follows:--when the ship came to the kingdom of logres there was war between king lambar, father to the maimed king, and king urlain, heretofore saracen, but newly baptised. once urlain, discomfited, fled to the ship, and, finding therein the sword, drew it and slew king laban[31] with it, and that was the first blow struck with the sword in the kingdom of logres, and there came from it such pestilence and destruction in the land of the two kingdoms that it was afterwards called the waste land. when urlain re-entered the ship he fell down dead. (36) galahad, further examining the sword, finds the scabbard of serpent's skin, but the hangings of poor stuff. on the scabbard is written that the wearer must surpass his fellows, and the hangings be changed only by a king's daughter and she a maid; on turning the sword over, the other side is found black as pitch, and bearing words that he who should praise it most should blame it most in his greatest need. perceval's sister explains this as follows: forty years after our lord's passion, nasciens, mordrains' brother-in-law, came to the turning isle, and found this ship, and therein bed and sword, this last he coveted, but had not the hardihood to draw it, though he stayed eight days food and drinkless longing for it; on the ninth day a tempest drove him to another island, where, assailed by a giant, he drew the sword, and though it snapped in two and thus fulfilled the inscription, yet he overcame the giant. he afterwards met mordrains and told him of these wonders; mordrains reunited the fragments, then, in obedience to a voice, they left the ship, but in going nasciens was wounded for having dared to draw a sword of which he was not worthy, thus he who praised it most had most reason to blame it. as for the other words, _king pelles,[32] called the maimed king_ (a lame king who was my, _i.e._, the damsel's, uncle) once came to this ship on the shore of the sea over against ireland, and entering it found the sword, drew but was wounded through the thighs by a lance, _and might not be healed till galahad come_.[33] (37) they then examine the bed and find it has three spindles; that in front, snow white; that behind, blood red; that above, emerald green, and lest this be thought a lie the story turns from its straight path to explain about these spindles. after eve, yielding to the devil's advice, had caused adam to sin, and both knew themselves carnal and were ashamed, and were driven forth from paradise, eve kept the branch of the tree of life which she had plucked, and planted it and it grew to a tree with branches and leaves white in token that eve was a virgin when she planted it. sitting one day beneath the tree, god commanded them to know one another carnally, and when they were ashamed to set about such foul work sent darkness over them. abel was thus begotten, and the tree of life turned green. afterwards cain slew abel underneath that same tree and it turned red. at the deluge it remained unharmed and lasted till solomon's time. whilst the wise king was pondering over the malice of his wife and of all women, a voice told him a woman of his line should bring men more joy than her sex had caused sorrow, and that a virgin knight should be the last of his lineage. his wife, whom he consults as to how he shall let this knight know he had foreknowledge of his coming, advised the building of the ship, and the taking of david's sword to be fitted with a new hilt of precious stones, and a new pommel and scabbard, and placed in the ship together with solomon's crown on a rich bed; she furthermore had three spindles made from the tree of life and from trees grown from it. and when all was ready solomon saw in dreams angels coming from heaven and putting the different inscriptions on the sword and ship. (38) the story speaks now of other things. new hangings had not been put on the sword, this was to be done by a damsel. perceval's sister supplies hangings made of her own hair, and names the sword "the sword of strange hangings," and the scabbard "memory of blood," and galahad girds on the sword. (39) on the morrow they set sail and come to castle carchelois, in the march of scotland, the inmates whereof attack them but are all slain. galahad is sorry for those he has killed, but a priest tells him they are heathens, and he has done the best work in the world, as the three knights who held the castle had ravished their own sister and wounded their father, count ernous, to death. before the latter dies he urges galahad _to go to the assistance of the maimed king_ (to undertake other adventures).[34] (40) on the morrow they meet a white stag led by four lions; these come to a hermitage, hear mass, the stag becomes a man and sits on the altar, the lions a man, an eagle, a lion, and an ox, all winged. (41) on the morrow perceval takes galahad's sword, which he will wear from henceforth. they come to a castle, the inmates of which demand that perceval's sister should pay the custom of the castle, which is to give a dishful of blood from her right arm. the three companions protect perceval's sister against overwhelming odds till nightfall, when, learning that the blood is asked to heal the lady of the castle suffering from leprosy, perceval's sister sacrifices herself. before dying she gives directions that her body is to be put in a ship and buried in the palace spiritual in sarras. bors then leaves his two companions to succour a wounded knight pursued by a knight and a dwarf;[35] and perceval and galahad, after seeing the castle they had thus left destroyed by fire from heaven in vengeance of the blood of the good maidens which had there been shed, likewise separate. (42) the story returns to lancelot. he is at the water of marcoise, surrounded by the forest and high rocks, but he does not lose faith in god; in obedience to a voice he goes on board a passing ship and finds therein perceval's sister, whose story he learns from the letter at her head. after a month's journeying a knight joins them who proves to be galahad, and they pass together half a year achieving marvellous adventures. after easter, at the new time when the birds sing their sweet and varied songs, they come to land, and a knight in white arms bids galahad leave his father, which he does. (43) after a month's further wandering on the sea, lancelot comes to a castle guarded by two lions,[36] against whom he would at first defend himself, but is reproved for trusting his strength rather than his creator. entering, he comes to a room wherein are the holy vessel, and a priest celebrating mass; lancelot is warned not to enter, but when he sees that the priest about to raise the body of god has a man put into his hands, he cannot refrain from pressing forward to his aid, but is struck down by a fiery wind and remains fourteen days dumb, foodand drinkless. he finds he is in castle corbenic, and a damsel tells him his quest is ended. king pelles rejoices to see him, at dinner the holy grail fills the tables so that living man could not think of greater plenty; whilst at dinner hector de mares comes to the castle door, but is ashamed to enter, hearing that lancelot is within, and rides off pursued by the reproaches and taunts of those of the castle. lancelot returns to arthur's court, passing on the way the tomb of bandamagus, whom gawain had slain. (44) the story returns to galahad. he comes to an abbey wherein is king mordrains, who knows his approach, and asks that he may die in his arms; galahad takes him on his breast, mordrains dies and all his wounds are found healed. (45) galahad cools the boiling fountain by putting his hand in it. (46) galahad delivers from the tomb where he had been burning three hundred and fifty-four years his relative, symeu, who thus expiated his sin against joseph of arimathea. (47) galahad rides five years before he comes to the _house of the maimed king_ (the court of king peleur), and during all the five years perceval bears him company, and within that time they _achieve the great adventures of the kingdom of logres_ (cast out the evil adventures of the island of britain). (48) one day they met bors, who in the five years had not been in bed four times. the three come to _castle corbenic_[37] (the court of king peleur) _where they are greeted by king pelles, and where eliezer, king pelles' son, brings the broken sword with which joseph had been pierced through the thighs; bors cannot rejoin the pieces, perceval can only adjust them together, galahad alone can make the sword whole, and it is then given to bors_. (50) at vesper-time a hot wind strikes the palace, and a voice orders all unfit to sit at christ's table to depart, as the true knights were to be fed with heaven's food. all leave save _king pelles, eliezer, his son, and his niece, the most religious maid on the earth_ (a young maiden); to them enter nine knights[38] and salute galahad: three are from _gaul_ (wales), three from ireland, three from denmark. _then four damsels bring in on a wooden bed a man, crowned, in evil plight, who greets galahad as his long-expected deliverer._ a voice orders out of the room him who has not been a companion of the quest, and straightway _king pelles and eliezer and_ the damsel depart. from heaven comes a man clad like a bishop and borne in a chair by four[39] angels, who place him before the table upon which stands the holy grail. upon his forehead is written that he was _joseph_ (son of joseph of arimathea) first bishop of christendom, whereat they wonder, as they know that man lived three hundred years before. he kneels before the altar and opens the door of the _ark_ (chamber), and four angels[39] issue, _two bearing burning lights, the third a cloth of red samite, the fourth a lance bleeding so hard that the drops run into a box he holds in his other hand_ (two with torches, the third with the lance, the fourth holding the box into which the blood drops); the candles are placed on the table, the cloth is placed on the holy vessel so that the blood fell into it. joseph then celebrates the sacrament, and on his raising the wafer, as it were a child descends from heaven and strikes itself into the wafer, so that it takes man's form. joseph then kisses galahad and bids him be fed by the saviour's own hand, and vanishes. but there comes out of the holy vessel, a man with hands bleeding and feet and body, and says he will reveal his secrets, and give the high food so long desired and toiled for. he gives the sacrament to galahad and his companions, and explains that the grail is the dish of the last supper, and galahad shall see it more fully in the city of sarras, whither it is going, britain being unworthy of it, and whither he is to follow it with perceval and bors; _but as he must not leave the land without healing the maimed king he is to take some of the blood of the lance and therewith anoint his legs_.[40] galahad asks why all may not come with him; but christ says they are twelve who have eaten as the apostles were twelve, and they must separate as the apostles separated. _galahad then heals the maimed king, who goes into an abbey of white monks._ (51) the three companions, after sending messages to arthur's court _through estrois de gariles and claudius, son of king claudas_,[41] coming to solomon's ship, herein they find the holy grail, set sail; on landing bury perceval's sister, heal a cripple to help them carry the grail-table, are cast in prison by king _escorant_ for a year, are fed by the holy grail; at _escorant's_ death galahad is made king, fashions a tree of gold and precious stones over the grail and prays before it every morning as do his companions. (52) on the anniversary of galahad's crowning the three see before the holy vessel a man clad like a bishop, who begins mass and calls galahad to see what he has so longed to see, and at the sight galahad trembles very greatly, and he thanks god for letting him see that which tongue may not describe nor heart think, and he begs that he may pass away from this earthly life to the heavenly one. the bishop then gives him the body of god, and reveals himself as josephus, son of joseph of arimathea. galahad kisses perceval and bors, and sends greetings to lancelot through bors, his soul then leaves his body and angels take it away. a hand from heaven then comes to the vessel and takes it and the lance, and bears it heavenwards, so that since there was no man bold enough to say he has seen the holy grail (except gwalchmai once). (52) _galahad's body is buried. perceval goes into a hermitage, where bors stays with him for a year and two months; perceval dies, and is buried by bors in galahad's tomb; bors left alone in a place as strange as babylon, sets sail for britain, and comes to camelot, when all are greatly joyed to see him; he tells the adventures of the holy grail; they are written down and kept in the abbey of salisbury, and from these master walter map drew to make his book of the holy grail for the love of king henry his lord, who had the story translated from latin into french. the story now is silent and tells no more concerning the adventures of the holy grail._[42] =grand st. graal.=--(1) the writer salutes all who have faith in the holy trinity. he does not name himself for three reasons: lest his declaration that he received the story from god himself be a stumbling block; lest his friends pay less honour to the book if they know the author; lest if he have made any blunder all the blame fall upon him. (2) in the year 717 after the passion of christ, as the writer lies in his hut in one of the wildest parts of white britain, on good friday eve and doubts of the trinity, christ appears to him and gives him a little book not larger than a man's palm, and this book will resolve all his doubts; he himself has written it, and only he who is purified by confession and fasting may read it. on the morrow the writer opens it and finds therein four sections, headed each as follows: this is the book of thy lineage; here begins the book of the holy grail; here is the beginning of the terrors; here begin the marvels. as he reads lightning and thunder come and other wonders. on good friday, as he is celebrating the service, an angel raises him in spirit to the third heaven, and his doubts concerning the trinity are set at rest. when his spirit returns to his body he locks up the book; but on easter sunday, when he would read further, finds it gone; a voice says he must suffer to have the book back again, must go to the plains of walescog, follow a wonderful beast to norway, and there find what he seeks. he obeys, the beast leads him first to a hermit's, then past the pine of adventures to a knight's castle, on the third day to the queen's lake and a nunnery. after exorcising a hermit possessed of the devil, he finds the book, and on his return christ commands him to make a fair copy before ascension day. he sets to work at once, on the fifteenth day after easter.[43] the book begins as follows: few believe on christ at his crucifixion, among whom is joseph of arimathea, as the holy scripture of the grail testifies. he is in all things a good man. he lives in jerusalem with his wife and a son, josephes (not the same josephes who so often quotes the scripture, but not less learned than he), he it was who passed his father's kin across sea to white britain, since called england, without rudder or sail, but in the fold of this shirt. joseph, having much loved the lord, longs after his death to possess somewhat having belonged to him; goes to the house of the last supper, and carries off the dish wherein he had eaten. having been a knight of pilate's for seven years, he craves a boon of him, which is christ's body. pilate grants it; joseph descends the body from the cross, places it in a sepulchre, and, fetching the dish from his house, collects in it the blood flowing from the body,[44] and finishes laying the body in the tomb. the jews hear of this, are angered, seize joseph, throw him into prison in the most hideous and dirtiest dungeon ever seen, feed him at first on bread and water, but when christ is found to have arisen, caiaphas, joseph's jailor, lets him starve. but christ brings the holy dish that joseph had sent back to his house with all the blood in it. joseph is overjoyed. christ comforts him, and assures him he shall live and carry his name to foreign parts. joseph thus remains in prison. meanwhile his wife, though often pressed to marry, refuses until she shall have had sure tidings of her husband; as for his son he will only marry holy church. (3) forty years go by; after christ's death tiberius cæsar reigned ten years, then caius, one year; then claudius, fourteen years; then noirons, in whose reign s.s. peter and paul were crucified, fourteen years; then titus, and vespasian, his son, a leper. the freeing of joseph befalls in the third year of titus' reign and in this wise: titus has vainly sought a leech to heal vespasian. at last a strange knight from capernaum promises his help and tells how he in his youth had been healed of the leprosy by a prophet. the emperor on hearing this sent to judea to seek out that prophet; his messenger comes to felix, and orders him to have proclamation made for aught christ has touched; hereupon an old woman, marie la venissienne, brings the cloth upon which the saviour's likeness had painted itself when she wiped his face. the messenger returns to rome with this cloth and the mere sight of it heals vespasian, who straightway resolves to avenge christ's death. he goes to jerusalem, joseph's wife appears before him, accuses the jews of having made away with her husband; none of the jews know where he is save caiaphas, who reveals the secret on condition that he is to be neither burnt or slain. vespasian himself goes down into the prison and finds it as light as though one hundred candles had burnt in it. he tells joseph who he is, whereat the latter wondered, not thinking he had been longer than from friday to sunday, not once had it been dark. a voice tells joseph not to fear, and that he will find the holy vessel at his home. joseph returns to jerusalem with vespasian, and points out to him the abettors of christ's death, whom vespasian has burnt. caiaphas is set adrift in a boat. (4) the night before vespasian returns to rome, christ appears to joseph and commands him to go forth and fill foreign lands with his seed; he must be baptised, and must go forth without money or aught but the dish; all heart can want or wish he shall have, all who accompany him must be baptised likewise. joseph is baptised by st. philip, then bishop of jerusalem, as is also vespasian, concerning whom the story is now silent. (5) joseph preaches to his friends and relatives and converts seventy-five of them. they leave jerusalem and come to bethany, where the lord appears to joseph, promises him aid as once to the jews in the wilderness, commands him to make a wooden ark for the dish, which he is to open when he wants to speak to him, but no one is to touch it save joseph and his son josephes; joseph does as commanded, his troop is miraculously fed, and on the eleventh day they come to the town of sarras, between babilone and salavandre, whence the saracens have their name, and not from sara. (6) joseph and his seventy-five companions enter the city and go to the temple of the sun, to the seat of judgment, where the saracens are assembled with their lord, evalach the unknown: he had been a man of prowess in his youth, but was now old; seven days before, the egyptians had beaten his army, and the council is now devising how vengeance may be taken therefor. joseph is greatly joyed at these events, and when the council advises peace assures the king of victory, but he must destroy his images and believe on him who died on the cross. evalach asks how one who could not save himself could save another. joseph, in answer, tells of christ's birth, life, death, descent into hell, resurrection, ascension, and of the sending of the holy ghost. evalach cannot understand either the incarnation or the trinity, and although joseph explains that the virgin conceived by the overshadowing of the holy ghost through her ear, and that her virginity was no more hurt than is water when a sunbeam enters it, remains stubborn and calls his learned men to his aid, but joseph confounds these, and evalach lodges the christians for the night and gives them good beds. (7) evalach dreams of a tree-stock whence spring three equal trunks and though three yet are truly one, also of a room with a secret door of marble, through which a child passes without opening it; a voice tells him this is a type of the miraculous conception of christ. (8) meanwhile, joseph, unable to sleep, prays for comfort and adjures the lord by all his mercies to help evalach; he is told by a voice he shall be sent for to explain the king's dream. joseph then goes to sleep with his wife, helyab, but not as lustful folk do, for there was nothing between them till the lord commanded the begetting of galahad, and then, so full of love to the saviour were they that they had no desire. from galahad came the high race which honoured the land of white britain, now called england. (9) the morrow morning joseph and his company worship before the ark (now the place wherein they were had been called the spiritual palace by daniel) when a soft sweet wind comes and the holy ghost descends and christ speaks and urges all to love him; he tells josephes to draw near and take charge of his flesh and blood; josephes opens the door of the ark and sees a man all in red, and with him five angels, each six winged, all in red, each with a bloody sword in his left, and in their rights severally, a cross, nails, lance, sponge, and scourge; josephes sees christ nailed to the cross, and the blood running down from his side and feet into the dish; he would enter the ark but angels restrain him. joseph, wondering at his son's state, kneels before the ark and sees therein an altar covered with white cloths, under which is a red samite one, covering three nails, a lance head all bloody, and the dish he had brought, and in the middle of the altar an exceeding rich vessel of gold and precious stones; seven angels issue from the ark with water and watering pot (2), gold basins and towels (2), and gold censers (3), an eighth carrying the holy dish, a ninth a head so rich and beautiful as never mortal eye saw, a tenth a sword, three more with tapers, lastly jesus. the company of angels go over the house sprinkling it with holy water, because it had heretofore been dwelt in by devils. christ tells josephes he is to receive the sacrament of his flesh and blood, and be made sovran shepherd over his new sheep; bishop's vestments are brought out of the ark. josephes is seated in a chair, which afterwards made a saracen king's eyes fly out of his head, is consecrated, an angel keeps the holy oil wherewith all kings of britain were anointed till the time of uther pendragon, of whom none of the many that have told his history have rightly known why he was so called; the meaning of the episcopal vestments is explained to josephes, and his duties set forth. (10) josephes then goes into the ark and celebrates the sacrament using christ's words only, whereat bread and wine become flesh and blood, and in place of the bread a child, which, though as bidden, he divides into three parts yet is eaten as one whole; an angel puts patina and chalice into the dish; joseph and his company receive the sacrament in the form of a child; christ bids josephes celebrate the sacrament daily; tells him that he and joseph are to go with evalach's messengers now nigh at hand. leucans, josephes' cousin, is appointed guardian of the ark. (11) joseph and his son go before the king and overcome all the heathen clerk's objections; josephes tells evalach he will be given over to his enemies for three days, and shall only escape by believing on christ; the heathen idols are smashed by a devil at the compelling of josephes' two angels. a messenger brings the news that king tholomes has entered and is capturing the land, and he will not rest till he be crowned at sarras. josephes tells the king this ill-hap is to mind him of his lowly origin, he is son of a shoemaker in an old city of france, meaux, and was one of a tribute of one hundred youths and one hundred maidens claimed by augustus cæsar from france, as here dwelt a prouder folk than elsewhere, and the two daughters of the count of the town, sevain, were among the tribute, and evalach was among their servants. when felix was named governor of syria by tiberius he had taken evalach with him, and held him in high honour until one day, angry with felix's son, evalach slew him and had to fly, after which he entered the service of tholome cerastre, king of babylon, who had given him the land he now ruled. josephes further explains the king's dreams, and when the latter declares himself willing to believe, asks for his shield, upon which he fixes a red cross and tells him to look on it in his need and pray to god and he shall be saved. (12) evalach marches with his army against tholomes, is joined by his brother-in-law, seraphe (whom he thought hated him most of any man in the world) at the queen's entreaty; numerous combats ensue between the two armies; seraphe performs prodigies of valour; evalach is taken prisoner, and in his need looks on the shield, sees thereon christ crucified, prays to god for help, a white knight appears, overcomes tholomes, who is taken prisoner, and evalach's army is victorous. (13) meanwhile josephes, remaining in sarras, has been counselling queen sarraquite, secretly a christian, since her mother was cured of a bloody flux, and since christ appeared to her when she was afraid of the hermit her mother had led her to for baptism because he had such a long beard; she dares not avow her faith for fear of her husband. josephes tells her of the battle which has taken place and of the white knight. (14) evalach and seraphe return; the king asks at once after the christians, and learns that he owes his victory to the lord to whom also seraphe owed his strength in battle; the shield is uncovered, a man with a wounded arm is healed by it, and then the cross vanishes; seraphe turns christian, is baptised and receives the name nasciens, he is straightway healed of his wounds, exhorts evalach to believe, and tells of tholomes' death. evalach is baptised, and re-christened mordrains, or slow-of-belief. after baptising the town and destroying all images, josephes leaves three of his companions in charge of the grail ark, and goes with the rest to orcanz, turns out of an image a devil who had slain tholomes, and converts more of the heathen folk. (15) meanwhile mordrains has ordered his people to be baptised or to leave his land; many take the latter course and are met outside the town by a devil who wounds them grievously, whereupon josephes hurries to their aid, but is met by an angel with a lance and smitten through the thigh for having left his baptising work to trouble himself about contemners of god's law, and the mark of the wound should stay with him all his life, and the iron spear head remain in the wound so that ever after he limped, and he had later to smart for it, as the tale will show in due season. many more people are converted, bishops are left in the land and holy relics at sarras. (16) josephes brings mordrains, sarraquite, and nasciens to the holy shrine, and shows them the vessel wherein is christ's blood. nasciens thinks he has never seen aught to match it, and he gives it a name that since it has never lost. for, says he, nothing he had seen before but somewhat displeased him (li degraast), but this pleases him (li grée) entirely; he further tells how once when a young man, hunting, as he stood deep in thought a voice made itself heard, saying "thou shall't never accomplish what thou thinkest on until the wonders of the grail are disclosed," and he knows now this must be the grail as every wish of his heart is accomplished. and he draws nearer and lifts the vessel's lid and looks therein, but straightway falls to trembling, feeling he can no longer see. and he knew that the blindness was to punish his curiosity, and turning to josephes tells him that the iron shall not be drawn out of that wound inflicted by the angel at orcanz, nor he himself recover his sight until josephes, wounded, himself comes to draw out the iron. so they stand lost in thought, till a voice is heard, "after my vengeance my healing" and an angel appears, touches josephes' thigh with the lance shaft, whereupon the head comes out, and from it drop great drops of blood which the angel collects in a vessel, and wherewith he anoints josephes' wound, making it whole, and nasciens' eyes, restoring to him his sight. and the angel tells them that the meaning of the lance is that of the beginning of the wonderful adventures which shall befall in lands whither god purposes leading them; when the true knights should be separated from the false ones, and the earthly knighthood become a heavenly one. and at the beginning of those adventures the lance would drop blood as then, but beforehand none; and then wonders would happen all over the world where the lance was, great and terrible wonders, in recognition of the holy grail and of the lance; and the marvels of the grail should never be seen save by one man alone; and by the lance wherewith josephes was struck should but one other man be struck, and he a king of josephes' kin, and the last of the good men; he should be struck through the two thighs, and only healed when the grail wonders were disclosed to the good knight, and that one should be last of nasciens' kin. thus, as nasciens was the first to behold the wonders of the grail, that one should be the last; so saith the true crucified one, adding, "upon the first and last of my new ministers will i spend the vengeance of the adventurous lance in token of myself having received the lance stroke whilst on the cross." and so many days as josephes had born the lance head in his wound so many days should the marvellous adventures last. now these days (_years_)[45] were twenty-two. (17) josephes explains mordrains' vision, and makes him destroy the image of a woman he had kept in a secret chamber, known, so he thought, only to himself. (18) josephes and his company go forth from sarras, but the tale tells nothing of them in this place, but keeps straight on. on the following night mordrains dreams that, sitting in sarras at table, of a sudden a thunderbolt strikes crown from his head and the first mouthful from his lips; a great wind carries him up into a far land where he is fed by a lion and lioness, and after a while an eagle carries off nasciens' son to a land whereof the inhabitants bow down before him, and out of this nephew's belly comes a great lake giving rise to nine streams, eight of equal breadth and depth, the ninth as wide and deep as the remainder put together, and rushing and turbulent, and at first foul and muddy, but afterwards clear and pure as a precious stone; then comes down from heaven a man in likeness of one crucified, who bathes hands and feet in the lake and eight streams, but in the ninth his whole body. (19) mordrains tells his vision to nasciens and confesses to former treacherous and jealous feelings he had against him; they seek counsel of the priests, but none can expound the vision, and as they sit together a great tumult is heard and the sound of a horn announcing "the beginning of dread," and they fall senseless to the ground; but mordrains is caught up by the holy ghost and borne off. (20) meanwhile nasciens is accused by kalafier, a christian-hater, of having made away with mordrains, and is cast into prison with kalafier for gaoler. (21) meanwhile mordrains has been carried off by the holy ghost to an island lying between babylon, scotland, and ireland, a high land from which the western sea can be looked over as far as spain; it was once a pirates' lair, but pompey drove them thence. to mordrains comes a noble man who gives his name as tout-entour, comforts him, and exhorts him to steadfastness in the faith; when he leaves a fair woman appears and tempts the king, who luckily does not pay heed to her, and well for him, as he learns from the noble man that she is lucifer in disguise. he is assailed by many temptations; storm, thunder, and lightning affright him; the wonderful bird phoenix attacks him and snatches the bread from his lips; lucifer again visits him and shows him nasciens' dead body, but it is only an invention; finally, all these trials withstood, the noble man comes again and expounds the dream of the nine streams: the lake is a son of nasciens, from whom descend nine kings, all good men and true, but the ninth surpassing all in every virtue; he is the knight to whom the wonders of the grail shall be shown, and christ shall bathe himself wholly in him. (22) meanwhile nasciens has been kept in prison together with his son, celidoine (heaven-given) by kalafier. but a miraculous hand appearing from out a cloud strikes off nasciens' fetters, and carries him out of the dungeon; kalafier pursues but is struck down by the hand; on his death bed he orders that celidoine be cast from the battlements, but nine hands bear him up in mid air, whilst kalafier, slain by fire from heaven, goes to eternal death. sarraquite, overjoyed to hear of her brother's escape, sends out messengers to meet them. meanwhile nasciens' wife, flegentyne, has set out in search of her husband accompanied by the old knight, corsapias, and his son, helicoras. (23) now nasciens has been carried fourteen days journey off to the turning isle (concerning which many wonders are told); all of these things are true, as christ himself has written the book of the holy grail, and he never wrote aught else save the lord's prayer for the disciples and the judgment upon the woman taken in adultery. and no man is bold enough to say that since the resurrection christ wrote aught else save this "haute escripture del s. graal." (24) a ship comes to nasciens' isle which he would enter but for words warning him against it unless he be full of faith. however, crossing himself he enters [and finds therein the same wonders as those described in queste, inc. 35, 36, 37, viz.:--the sword and the three spindles, precisely the same story about which is told as in the queste]. (25) nasciens deeming there must be magic in this, the ship splits in twain, and had well nigh drowned him, but he regains the isle swimming, and on the morrow an old man comes in a ship and gives him an allegorical explanation of what has befallen him. (26) meanwhile celidoine, carried off by the hands to the land of the heathen king label, wins his favour by expounding a dream, converts him, but at his death is cast adrift by the heathen barons in a boat with a lion, and after three days comes to nasciens' island. (27) the two rejoice on their meeting, and leave the island together in solomon's ship, come after four days to another island, where nasciens, attacked by a giant, seizes solomon's sword but it breaks in his hand, nevertheless, with another sword he overcomes the giant. he chides solomon's sword, but celidoine says it is some sin of his made it break. thereafter they see a ship approaching wherein is mordrains. there is rejoicing between the three, and much telling of past adventures. nasciens shows the broken sword to mordrains, who, taking it in his hands, joins it together, whereupon a voice bids them leave the ship; nasciens, not obeying fast enough, is wounded in the shoulder by a fiery sword in punishment of his having drawn solomon's sword. (28) the messengers sent out by sarraquite in search of nasciens have, meantime, had many adventures, have come across the daughter of king label, suffered shipwreck, and been thrown upon a desert isle formerly the home of the great physician, ypocras (of whom a long story is told how he was tricked by a roman lady), been tempted in divers fashions, but at last they are led to mordrains, nasciens, and celidoine. (29) on the third night a priest clad in white comes walking on the sea, heals nasciens' wound, and sends off celidoine in another ship. the remainder come to land, mordrains and sarraquite are reunited; nasciens' wife, flegentyne, is sent for; and label's daughter is christened by petrone, a holy man and kinsman of joseph. she was after celidoine's wife, as my lord robert of borron testifies, who translated this history from latin into french after the holy hermit to whom our lord first gave it. (30) nasciens sets forth in search of his son, his knights follow on his track, and two are struck dead for their sins. nasciens comes again to solomon's ship, is tempted by the devil in the shape of a fair damsel, goes on board the ship and dreams as follows:--celidoine is in the promised land with all those who had left sarras; he, nasciens, shall go thence likewise and never depart thence, nor shall the ship until it take back the last of his line to sarras, together with the holy grail, and that shall be after three hundred years; and thereafter celidoine leads before him nine persons, all in guise of kings, save the eighth who was like a dog, and the ninth turns into a lion, and at his death the whole world mourns over him. and the names of these, nasciens' descendants, are: celidoine, marpus, nasciens, alains li gros, ysaies, jonans, lancelot, bans, lancelot, like unto a dog until his end, galahad, foul at the source, but afterwards clear, in whom christ shall bathe himself wholly, and who shall end all the adventures. on the morrow it is explained to nasciens that the eighth of his descendants likens a dog on account of his sins, and the ninth is foul at the beginning as engendered in fornication and not as holy church wills. (31) the story, after touching on flegentyne, who retires to her own land, returns to joseph, who, with his son, josephes, and his companions, has been wandering about. joseph is ordered by a voice from heaven to beget a son, whose name shall be galaad. at length the company comes to the sea shore and laments that it has no ships; joseph rebukes them, and says those may pass who have kept chaste, whereupon four hundred and sixty come forward to confess their lechery. josephes is told to put forward the grail-bearers, to take the shirt off his back, and having spread it on the water, all the pure companions shall find place on it. this happens, and all find place save symeu and his son, who are not as they should be, and who sink and are well nigh drowned. the chosen company arrive on the morrow in great britain, then full of saracens and infidels. josephes then prays for the remainder of the company; a heavenly voice says they shall come in good time, and that this is the promised land in which they shall multiply and become the worthiest race anywhere. (32) meantime nasciens has been led in solomon's ship to those of joseph's followers who had been left behind, as the history of the holy grail testifies. after being warned against fresh falling into sin they are brought over to joseph, and are fed with as much meat as they could want. but the fifth day the company, not having eaten for a day, come to the tent of a poor woman, wherein are twelve loaves about which they dispute. josephes, referred to, breaks each loaf in three, and having placed the holy grail at the head of the table by its power the bread suffices for more than five hundred people. (33) hereafter the company comes to castle galafort, where celidoine is found disputing with the saracen wise men. the christians are well received by ganort, and shortly afterwards he and his people are baptised, one hundred and fifty who refuse being drowned. over their bodies a tower is built, the tower of marvels, and thereafter, it is prophesied, a king named arthur should reign, and from one blow of a sword adventures should arise, lasting twelve years, until the last descendant of nasciens should end them, and till that time no knight of arthur's house should enter the tower without having to fight as good a man as himself; thus should it be till he who was to end the adventures appeared. so they build the tower, and it lasts until lancelot destroys it, as the "tale of arthur's death" relates. (34) joseph's wife bears a son, who receives the name of galahad, of the castle of galafort. (35) the king of northumberland, hearing of ganort's conversion, summons him to the court, and on his refusal attacks him, but is defeated and slain by the christians. (36) josephes, his father, and one hundred and fifty of the christians, leaving galafort, come to norgales, and are thrown into prison by king crudel, who says, "let them be for forty days, and see if their vessel will feed them." our lord comes to comfort them, and bids them be of good cheer, he will send an avenger to slay these dogs. (37) our lord, in the likeness of one crucified, then appears to mordrains, bids him set forth with wife and children and king label's daughter and nasciens' wife and go to great britain, there to avenge him on king crudel. mordrains hearkens, and shortly after sets forth with all his household, leaving his land in charge of duke ganor. on the way a devil carries off the captain of the ship, who had lusted after queen flegentyne. they arrive in britain and rejoin their friends; great is the joy; nasciens' queen is like to have died of joy, and swoons twelve times. (38) mordrains sends word to crudel to set the christians free, and on his refusal marches against, overthrows, and slays him, but is grievously wounded, though he suffers no pain. josephes and his companions are freed, and thanksgivings are made before the grail. on the morrow, as josephes is officiating before the holy vessel, mordains presses near to see it, in spite of a warning voice; he loses his sight and the power of his body; he confesses his folly, but prays he may not die till the good knight's coming, the ninth of nasciens' descendants. a voice promises him this, and that when the good knight comes he shall recover his sight and his wounds be healed; but three hear this promise beside mordrains himself, joseph, josephes, and nasciens. (39) mordrains is brought to galafort, where celidoine marries king label's daughter and begets a son, nasciens. mordrains then, after giving his wife and shield into nasciens' keeping, retires to a hermitage, and builds a monastery of the white monks, and stays there till perceval sees him and galahad, too, as the "tale of the holy grail" tells. (40) josephes leaves galafort, and, coming to camelot, converts many of the people, whereat king agrestes, being grieved, is baptised with false intent, and after josephes' departure persecutes the christians, and is punished by madness and death. josephes returning, buries the martyrs, whose blood had blackened a cross, which keeps the name of the "black cross," till the good knight, lancelot of the lake's son comes. (41) josephes comes to a hill called hill of the giant; 'tis a friday, and brons is sitting next him at the grail-table, but between the two is space for a man to sit, and brons, josephes' kinsman, asks him why he does not invite some one to fill it. josephes answers, only he who is a holier man than any present can fill that place, as it typifies christ's seat at the last supper, and is empty waiting his coming, or whom he shall send. such of the company as are in mortal sin take this saying as presumption and fable, and moys declares his willingness to sit in it if his companions will ask josephes' leave. they do so, and though josephes minds them how moys might hardly come to britain, and though he solemnly warns moys himself, he gives his leave. moys takes the seat, and at once seven flaming bands from heaven seize upon him and carry him off to a far place burning like a dry bush. the people repent, and, in answer to their enquiries, josephes tells them the day shall come when they shall know where moys is. (42) after the meal josephes, at brons' request, has the latter's twelve sons up before him, and asks them whether they will be wedded or not. eleven choose wedding, but the twelfth virginity and the service of the holy grail. josephes, overjoyed, having married the other eleven, appoints him guardian of the grail at his death, and he might leave the guardianship afterwards to whom he would. (43) josephes and his companions pass through britain converting the heathen. now the grail only gives food to such as are not in sin, and once as the troop is encamped by a lake, peter, a kinsman of josephes', bears it through the ranks, and all are fed with the best food, save the sinners; these complain, and beg josephes to pray for them, whereupon he bids brons' youngest son, the same he had chosen as grail-keeper, alains le gros (not that alains, celidoine's son, _he_ was king and wore a crown, but this one never) take the net from the grail-table and fish with it in the pond. alains does so and catches one fish, a big one, but say they, 'twill not be enough; however, alains, having shared it in three, and having prayed it might suffice, all are fed. alains is called in consequence the rich fisher, and all the grail-keepers after him bear this name, but they were more blessed than he, being crowned kings whereas he never wore crown. (44) joseph, leaving his companions, comes into the forest of broceliande, meets a saracen who would lead him to his sick brother, but is himself slain by a lion. joseph is thrown in prison and wounded in the thigh by the men of the sick knight's castle, but, obtaining leave to visit the sick knight, heals him, and brings back to life the saracen slain by the lion; both brothers are baptised; a fragment of the sword remaining in the wound, joseph draws it out, and laying it with the remainder of the sword prophecies it shall not be made whole till he come who shall achieve the adventures of the holy grail. (45) joseph, returning to his companions, finds them in doubt as to how they shall cross a great water, they pray for guidance, and a white hart appears, followed by four stags, and leads them across, all save chanaan, who crosses later in a fisherman's boat. josephes, in answer to alain and pierron, explains the hart and lions as christ and the evangelists, and christ would appear in that wise afterwards to arthur, mordred, and lancelot. (46) the christians come to a house where burns a great fire, out of which is heard a lamentable voice; it is that of moys; at josephes' prayer rain falls from heaven and quenches half the flames, but he may not be wholly delivered until the good knight, galahad, come. (47) the christians come into the land of king escos, whence scotland has its name. the holy grail refuses meat to chanaan and to symeu, moys' father, whereat enraged, symeu attacks pierre and wounds him, and chanaan slays his twelve brethren. symeu is carried off by devils, whilst chanaan's grave bursts out in flames, which may not quench till lancelot come. (48) meanwhile pierre's wound having become worse, he is left behind with a priest, who leads him to the sea shore, and, at his request, places him in a boat; this carries him to the isle of the heathen king, orcanz, whose daughter finding him on the sea shore dying, has pity on him and tends him secretly till he is healed. her father requires a champion, pierre offers himself, conquers, converts, and baptises orcanz, who takes the name lamer, and marries his daughter, and king luces comes to the wedding and is overjoyed. from him came gauvain, son of king lot of orcanie. mordred was no true son of lot's, but of arthur's. gauvain is thus of the seed of joseph of arimathea. (49) josephes after fifteen years' wanderings comes back to galafort, and finds his brother galahad grown up; by josephes' advice the men of hocelice take galahad for their king, and he became the ancestor of ywain, son of urien. once whilst riding he comes to symeu's fiery grave, which may not be quenched till galahad, the good knight, comes. at galahad's death he is buried in an abbey he founds to allay symeu's pains, and the tombstone of his grave may not be lifted until by lancelot. (50) joseph dies shortly after galahad's crowning, and josephes, feeling death near, pays a last visit to mordrains, who begs for a token from him. josephes asks for the king's shield, and with blood gushing from his nose marks on it a red cross, gives it to mordrains, and says no one shall hang it on his neck without rue till galahad do so; the shield is placed on nasciens' tomb. on the morrow josephes dies; his body is carried afterwards into scotland to still a famine, and is buried in the abbey of glays. (51) before his death he has confided the grail to alain. the latter comes with his brethren, one of whom, josue, is unmarried, to the terre foraine, converts the king and people, and marries josue to his daughter. here is the resting-place of the holy grail; a lordly castle is built for it, hight corbenic, which is chaldee, and signifies "holy vessel." at josue's wedding, such is the power of the holy grail, that all present are as filled as if they had eaten the finest meats they could think of. and that night the king, baptized alfasem, sleeping in the castle, beholds the holy vessel covered with crimson samite, and a man all flaming tells him no mortal may sleep where the holy grail rests, and wounds him through both thighs, and bids others beware of sleeping in the palace adventurous. and afterwards many a knight essayed the adventure, but lost his life, till gauvain came, and he, though he kept his life, had such shame and mischance as he had not had for the kingdom of logres' sake. (58) alain and alfasem die; josue becomes king and grail-keeper, and after him aminadap, catheloys, manaal, lambor, all kings and known as the fisher, and lambor fighting with his enemy, bruillant, pursues him to the sea shore, and bruillant finds there solomon's ship and enters it, and finds the sword with which he slays lambor, and this was the first blow struck with that sword in great britain, and such great woes sprang therefrom that no labourers worked, nor wheat grew, nor fruit trees bore, nor fish was found in the waters, so that the land was known as the waste land. but bruillant falls dead for drawing the sword. after lambor, pelleans, wounded in the two thighs in a battle of rome, whence he was always called the maimed king, and he might not heal till galahad the good knight come; and from him descends pelles, and on his daughter does lancelot of the lake beget galahad. (59) nasciens, flegentyne, and sarraquite die on the self-same day. celidoine reigns, and is followed by marpus, he by nasciens, alain li gros, ysaies, jonas, lancelot, bans, lancelot of the lake. here the story ends of all the seed of celidoine, and returns to speak of merlin, which my lord robert of borron thus begins.[46] in making up the slips, the summary of borron's poem dropped out. in order not to disturb the page form, which was fixed before the omission was noticed, it has been inserted after the grand st. graal with a subpagination. =robert de borron's poem: joseph of arimathea.=--(1) before christ's coming all folk went to hell, but he came born of a virgin that he might bring them out of hell. he took flesh what time judæa was under rome and pilate governed it. now a soldier of pilate's loved christ but dared not show it. of christ's few disciples one was bad, his chamberlain, and he betrayed him to the jews. (2) on thursday jesus gathers his disciples; judas' question, the washing of the feet, the kiss of betrayal follow. when the jews carry off jesus, one of them takes the very fair vessel wherein he made his sacrament, and gave it to pilate, who keeps it till he learns jesus' death. (3) joseph is angry hereat, and claims pay for his and his five knights five years' free service, and his pay is christ's body. pilate grants it him, and joseph hastens to the cross, but the guards deny him, whereon he complains to pilate, who sends nicodemus to see he obtain it, and also gives joseph the vessel. (4) joseph and nicodemus descend the body, and wash it, which makes the blood flow afresh. joseph puts the blood in the vessel, wraps the body in a fine cloth and entombs it. the descent into hell and the resurrection follow. (5) the jews are incensed against joseph and nicodemus; the latter escapes, but joseph is thrust into a horrible and dark prison. to him christ appears with his vessel, in a great light, and instructs joseph, telling him for his love to him he shall have the symbol of his death and give it to keep to whom he would; he then gives joseph the great, precious vessel wherein is his holiest blood. joseph wonders, having hidden it in his house. joseph is to yield the vessel to three persons only, who are to take it in the name of the trinity. no sacrament shall ever be celebrated but joseph shall be remembered. but joseph must be taught concerning the sacrament; the bread and wine are christ's flesh and blood, the tomb is the altar; the grave-cloth the corporal, the vessel wherein the blood was put shall be called chalice, the cup-platten signifies the tombstone. all who see joseph's vessel shall be of christ's company, have fulfilment of their heart's wish and joy eternal. (_the author adds_: i dare not, nor could not, tell this but that i had the great book wherein the histories are written by the great clerks, therein are the great secrets written which are called the graal.) christ leaves joseph, who remains in prison, no man heeding him (6) until, when vespasian, the emperor's son, was a leper, a pilgrim comes to rome and tells of christ's cures, and lays his head vespasian could be cured could anything of christ's be brought to rome. the emperor sends messengers, who hear pilate's story of the crucifixion and about joseph. the jews are called together, and one tells of verrine, who is brought before the messengers, and she relates how she wiped christ's face and thus got the likeness of him. they take her to rome, vespasian is healed, and sets forth to revenge christ's death. he kills many jews, burning some. one jew offers to find joseph, and tells the story of his imprisonment. vespasian is let down into the prison and finds joseph alive, who, to his amazement, welcomes him by name, and reads him a lecture on biblical history and christian faith. vespasian is converted, and sells the jews at the rate of thirty for a penny. (7) joseph exhorts his kin, among them his sister, enygeus, and brother-in-law, hebron. they agree to believe, and to follow him. he sets off with them and they dwell for long in far-off lands. for awhile things go well, but then all the host does turns to naught; 'tis on account of carnal sin. the host complains to hebron that they and their children die of hunger. (8) hebron reports this to joseph, who goes weeping and kneels before the vessel and asks why his followers suffer? a voice from the holy ghost answers he is not in fault, but he is to set the vessel before the people, and to mind him how he, christ, had eaten with his disciples, and how the false disciple was detected. in the name of that table whereat christ last ate, joseph is to prepare another, and then to call his brother-in-law, brons, and make him go into the water to catch a fish, and the first he catches joseph is to put it on the table, and then to take the vessel, put it on the table, cover it with a towel, and then place hebron's fish opposite it. the people are then to be called, who will soon see wherein they have sinned. and joseph is to sit where christ sat at the last sacrament, with brons at his right. and brons is to draw back one seat, to signify the seat of judas, and the seat thus left empty is not to be filled until enygeus have a child by brons, her husband, and when that child is born there shall be his seat. the people is then to be bidden sit down to the grace of our lord. joseph does all this; part of the people sit, part do not, the sitters are filled with sweetness and the desire of their heart, the others feel nought. one of the sitters, named petrus, asks if they feel nothing, and tells them it is because they are defiled with sin. the sinners then depart, but joseph bids them come back day by day. thus joseph detects the sinners, and thus is the vessel first proved. (9) joseph tells the sinners it severs them from the others, as it holds no company with nor has love towards any sinner. the sinners ask the name of the vessel: it is called _graal_, as it is agreeable to all who see it. now all this is verity, hence we call this the story of the grail, and it shall be henceforth known as the grail. (10) one sinner remains, moyses, a hypocrite (here a gap which can be filled up from the prose versions: moyses seats himself in the empty seat, whereupon the earth opens and swallows him). (11) joseph prays to christ that as he came to him in prison, and promised he would come to his aid when in trouble, so now he would show him what has become of moyses. the voice tells joseph again about the empty seat, and how that the one at joseph's table was not to be filled until the third man come, whom hebron should beget and enygeus bear, and _his_ son should fill the seat. moyses had stayed behind only to deceive, he had his deserts, no more should be heard of him in fable or song until _he_ come who should fill the empty seat. (12) in course of time brons and enygeus have twelve sons and are greatly bothered with them, and ask joseph what is to be done with them. joseph prays before the vessel; eleven will marry, one remain single; this one is alain. joseph is told by the voice when he consults the vessel about this nephew, to relate all about christ's death and about the vessel, to tell alain that from him shall issue an heir who is to keep the vessel; alain is to take charge of his brethren and sisters and go westwards. an angel will bring a letter for petrus to read, telling him to go whither he lists; he will say: the vale of avaron; thither shall he go and wait for the son of alain, and shall not pass away until that one come, and to him shall petrus teach the power of the vessel, and say what has become of moyses, and then may he die. (13) all happens as foretold by the voice; the letter comes for petrus, who declares his intention of departing for the vale of avaron, bidding the host pray god he may never go against his will. alain leaves with his brethren, and, as joseph taught him, preaches the name of jesus christ. (14) petrus stays one day more; it is, says an angel, the lord sends to joseph, that he may see and hear the things of the vessel. the angel continues: the lord knows brons for a worthy man, and 'twas, therefore his will he should go fishing; he is to keep the vessel after joseph, who must instruct him properly especially concerning the holy words which god spake to joseph in the prison, which are properly called the secrets of the grail; brons is to be called the rich fisher from the fish he caught; all the people are to go westwards; brons is to wait for the son of his son, and to give him the vessel, then shall the meaning of the blessed trinity be made known; after the vessel has been given to brons, petrus is to go, as he may then truly say he has seen hebron, the rich fisher, put in possession of the vessel; when all this is done, joseph is to go to perfect joy and life pardurable. (15) on the morrow joseph tells them the angel's message, save the words of christ in the prison, which he tells to the rich fisher alone. the latter is then put in possession of grail and headship; joseph stays three days with him, then the good fisher goes away--in the land where he was born--and joseph remains.[47] master robert de borron should doubtless tell where alain went, hebron's son, and what became of him; what life petrus led, and what became of him; what became of the long-lost moyses; where the rich fisher went, and where he stayed. it were well to assemble these four things, but this no man could do save he had first heard tell the greatest history of the grail, which is all true; and in this time i tell it to my lord walter, never had the great history of the grail been told by mortal man. if god gives me strength i will assemble these four parts if i can find them in a book, meanwhile i must go on to the fifth and forget the four. (then follows the merlin). =robert de borron's poem: merlin.=--(in order to give all the materials for the discussion of birch-hirschfeld's theory of the grail legend in the next chapter, a brief summary of the merlin is added. a full one may be found in birch-hirschfeld, pp. 166, _et seq._) the devil, incensed at christ's victory over him, in revenge begets by fraudful malice upon a virgin, a son, who is to be the wisest of mankind, and to oppose christ's teaching. this is merlin, who at eighteen months is able to save his mother, threatened with the doom of unchastity. afterwards he is brought to king vortigern, to whom he expounds the mystery of the unfinished tower. vortigern is driven from his throne by pendragon, with whom merlin stands in high honour; equally so with his successor, uter pendragon, for whom he builds the round table, leaving one place empty to be filled in the time of uter's successor. he then helps the king to satisfy his passion for yguerne, and takes charge of arthur, their son. when the latter grows up to be a youth he fulfils the adventure of the sword in the anvil, and is proclaimed king. "and i, robert of borron, writer of this book, may not speak longer of arthur till i have told of alain, son of brons, and how the woes of britain were caused; and as the book tells so must i what man alain was, and what life he led, and of his seed and their life. and when i have spoken of these things i will tell again of arthur." (then follows in one solitary ms., the didot-perceval summarised above, p. 28. as will be seen, it does not tell what man alain was, nor does it refer to him at all save in the most passing way). chapter iii. the legend formed of two portions: early history of grail, quest--two forms of each portion distinguished--grouping of the various versions--alternative hypotheses of development--their bearing upon the alleged celtic origin of the grail--closer examination of the various accounts of the grail: the first use made of it and its first possessor; its solace of joseph; its properties and the effect produced by it; its name; its arrival in england; the grail-keeper and his relationship to the promised knight--three different stages in the development of the queste--the work and the qualification of the promised knight--conclusions: priority over early history of quest--chronological arrangement of the versions. the information afforded by the summaries enables us to take a general view of the legend as a whole, and to attempt a more accurate chronological classification of its varying forms. it will have been seen that the legend is formed of two distinct portions: the one dealing with the origin and wanderings (early history) of the grail, the other with its quest. the two portions are found combined in the joseph and didot-perceval and in the grand st. graal and queste considered each as one organic whole. versions a, chrestien and his continuators; c, didot-perceval taken by itself; d, queste; f, wolfram, and g, perceval le gallois, treat only of the quest. versions b, metrical joseph, and e, grand st. graal, only of the early history. but in nearly all the versions, no matter of which portion, references are to be found to the other, and when the versions are carefully examined, it is found that of each portion there exist two entirely different forms. taking the early history first, versions a, b, c, d, e, and g, in so far as they deal with it at all, relate much as follows: the grail is the vessel which our lord used at the last supper, which, given by pilate to joseph, served the latter to receive the blood flowing from the body of the dead christ, sustained him miraculously during his captivity, was, after his release, used by him to test the faith of his followers, and was brought to england by joseph (a, d, e), by brons (b, c), and was finally confided by joseph to his brother-in-law, brons, to be kept until the coming of the latter's grandson (versions b and c), or was left in charge of alain, son of brons, from whom it passed to his brother josue, in whose line it remained until the good knight should come (version e). but f, wolfram makes the grail a vessel of "lapsit exillit" (_i.e._, lapis herilis, or lapsus ex coelis, or lapis electrix), which, after the fall of the rebel angels, was given in charge to titurel and his dynasty, and by them preserved in the grail castle, montsalvatch, guarded by a sacred order of knighthood whom it chooses itself. so far, therefore, as the early history is concerned all the versions, save one, are in the main of the same class, the differences between them being, apparently, ones of development and not of origin. turning now to the quest, two classes are likewise to be distinguished: in the first the hero is perceval, in the second there are three heroes, galahad, perceval, and bors, chief of whom is galahad. to the first class belong versions a, chrestien, etc., c, didot-perceval; f, wolfram; and g, perceval le gallois; whilst d, queste, alone of the versions which recount the quest only, belongs to the other class. it is followed, however, by e, grand st. graal, in so far as the latter has any reference to the quest. in the other early history version, namely b, metrical joseph, the name of the hero who is to achieve the quest is not mentioned, but the indications concerning him agree more closely with the march of the story in c, didot-perceval, than with those of d, queste; it must therefore be ranged in the first class. the main incident in the versions of this class is the hero's visit to the castle of a sick king, his beholding there the grail in company with other relics, his neglect on the first visit to ask the meaning of what he sees, his punishment, second visit to the grail castle, and attainment of his end, whether healing of the sick king or winning of the grail kingship. the two versions, h, peredur, and i, sir perceval, which belong to the grail cycle, though they do not mention the grail, and although i, sir perceval, does not contain the above-mentioned incident, must likewise be placed in this class, as must also the gawain episodes of diu crone. in the second class this main incident is missing, though several of its less important features are present in altogether different connection. the story in d, queste, is largely made up of adventures tallying often detail for detail with those in the early history version, e, grand st. graal, with which it shares similarity in the quest form. whilst each portion of the legend exists in two forms, the great majority of versions in both cases belong to one form. looking for the moment upon d and e as one whole, there is in both cases only one minority-version, viz., for the early history, f, wolfram, for the quest d-e, queste, grand st. graal. and each of these is only in a minority as far as one portion of the legend is concerned, d-e, agreeing with the majority in the early history, and f in the quest. taking the average of all the versions there results what may be called the _joseph of arimathea form_ as the type of the early history; the _perceval form_ as the type of the quest. as a rule, it may be confidently assumed that the larger number of versions represent an older form, an assumption strengthened so far as the early history is concerned by the fact that the minority version, f, wolfram, can historically be proved to be one of the latest in date of all the versions, and, so far as the quest is concerned, by the following considerations:--the minority version, d-e, has three heroes, of whom perceval is second in importance only to the chief hero, galahad, indeed he occupies as large a space in the narrative. this position can be due only to his being the original achiever of the quest. it is obviously inadmissible that seven or eight versions should have conspired to pick out one only, and that one the second, of the three heroes of the queste, and should have made him the sole hero, whilst it is easy to understand that the author of d, queste, dissatisfied for certain reasons with the older forms of the story, yet not daring to alter it so far as to entirely burke the original hero, should have taken the course he did. two alternative hypotheses now naturally suggest themselves. the two parts of the legend may really form one organic whole, although more frequently found asunder than combined, or the one part may be an explanatory and supplementary after-thought. if the first hypothesis be accepted, it is natural to look upon the metrical joseph and the didot-perceval as the first and last parts of a trilogy, which, as presenting the legend in its fullest and most orderly shape, has a claim to being the oldest form of the story, and the main, if not the only, source of all other versions. if, on the other hand, the second hypothesis be exact, if one part of the legend be later than the other, and has been artificially welded into one with it, that version in which this fusion is most perfect, instead of being the earliest is, with greater likelihood, one of the latest forms. how do these alternative hypotheses affect the special object of these studies--the investigation of the alleged celtic element in the grail romances? in this way. if the early history be an integral part of the romance, the probabilities in favour of a purely christian legendary origin for the grail itself are immensely increased, and the utmost the celtic partisan could hope to show was that a christian legend had somehow or other been strongly influenced by celtic popular traditions. but if the reverse be true the probabilities are at once in favour of the christian legendary element being the intruding one, and the chief aim of the celtic partisan will be to disengage the present versions of the quest from the traces left upon them by the early history, and to accumulate as many parallels as possible between the residuum and admittedly genuine celtic tradition. it by no means follows, however, that the acceptance of the second hypothesis involves the acceptance of the celtic origin of the grail. the romance as we have it--quest, early history--may be the fusion of two elements, one of which, the christian legendary, may claim _all_ that is connected with the mystic vessel. were it otherwise our task would be greatly simplified. for the mere fact that what may be called the non-grail members of the cycle, _i.e._, h, peredur, and i, sir perceval, know nothing of the early history, gives no uncertain hint as to which portion of the romance is the original, and which the accretion. two points have then to be investigated--the relationship one to the other of early history and quest; and, if the quest is found to be the older portion, whether the grail really belongs to it, or whether its presence in the various forms of the story as we now have them may not be due to the early history. an examination of the various passages in which the grail is mentioned will furnish material towards settling the first point. such an examination may profitably omit all reference to wolfram, to the prose perceval le gallois, from which little is apparently to be gained respecting the oldest forms of the legend, and to heinrich von dem türlin's version of the gawain episodes. it must also neglect for the nonce the two non-grail members of the cycle (the mabinogi and sir perceval) as their testimony is either of little or of the highest value according as the quest is or is not found to be the oldest portion of the romance. with these exceptions all the versions furnish elements of comparison, though little is to be got, as far as the point under discussion is concerned, from what is apparently the latest section of the conte du graal, gerbert's poem. the consideration of the second point will necessitate comparison of the various quest forms among themselves, and the examination of numerous celtic stories which present analogies with them. _the grail: the first use made of it and its first possessor._ we learn nothing from chrestien respecting the early history of the grail, nor is gautier more communicative if the mons ms. version be followed. the intercalation, a iia, however, and manessier give full details. according to the former: ... c'est icel graal por voir que nostre sires tant ama que de son saint sanc l'anora au jor que il fu en croix mis. (16-19) according to the latter: c'est li vassiaus, ce saciés-vous, ù ens li sains sans présious nostre segnor fu recéus quant de la lance fu férus. (35,017-20) we learn from the former that "josep le fist fère" (v. 22), and that he used it to collect the blood that flowed from each foot of our lord as he hung on the cross (verses 30-39), whilst the latter leaves it uncertain who the first possessor was, and who held the grail to receive our lord's blood. the information given in versions b, is as might be expected, much fuller. b i, metr. jos., which calls it "un veissel mout gent," tells how christ used it, he "feisoit son sacrement" in it; how it was found by a jew, who delivered it up to pilate, by whom it was given to joseph, and by him used to receive the blood which bursts forth again from christ's wounds when the body has been taken down from the cross.--c, didot-perceval: brons, after relating how longis pierced the lord's body as it hung on the cross, says of the grail, "en cest vessel gist le sanc que joseph recueilli qui decoroit par terre" (p. 483).--e, grand st. graal: joseph himself finds the vessel out of which christ had eaten, takes it home, and when he has received the body from pilate, fetches the vessel and collects in it all the blood flowing from the wound he can (i, pp. 23, 24). curiously enough, the very ms. which gives this version has an illustration of joseph sitting under the cross and collecting the blood as it drops from the wounds in side and feet. three different accounts of how the grail came into joseph's possession and to what use he put it thus exist:- (1) the grail is the vessel in which christ's blood was received as he hung upon the cross (pseudo-gautier, manessier, didot-perceval, and an illustration in a ms. of the grand st. graal); joseph had had it made (pseudo-gautier). (2) the grail is the vessel which had been used by christ at the last supper. it is used as a receptacle for the blood of christ after his body has been taken down from the cross (metr. jos.). (3) same as no. 2, with minor alterations, such as that it was joseph who found the holy vessel himself (grand st. graal). _the grail: its solace of joseph._ chrestien and gautier are again silent, but from a iia, pseudo-gautier, we learn that joseph was wont to pray before the grail, that he was, in consequence, imprisoned in a high tower by the jews, delivered thence by the lord, whereupon the jews resolve to exile him with nicodemus, and that sister of his who had a likeness of christ (verses 60-110). manessier, in the mons ms. version, passes this over, but a iiia, has the following important passage:- en une charte orrible et lède fu mis joseph sanz nul arreste; * * * * xl ans ilecques estut c'onques ne menja ne ne but; mais damediex li envoioit le saint graal que il véoit ii foiées ou iii le jor; (v. pp. 153-4.) in the b versions this episode is one of capital importance. b i., joseph is put into prison, because the jews suspect him of having stolen away christ's body. to him in the dungeon, "qui estoit horrible et obscure" (v. 703), appears christ, who hands him the grail, whereat he is surprised, as he had hidden it in a house where none knew of it (v. 860), and addresses him as follows:- en ten povoir l'enseigne aras de ma mort et la garderas et cil l'averunt à garder a cui tu la voudras donner. (847-50) these will be three- joseph, bien ce saras garder, que tu ne le doiz commander qu'a trois persones qui l'arunt. ou non dou père le penrunt et dou fil et dou saint-esprit (871-75) the offices joseph rendered to christ's body were symbolical of the sacrament: the sepulchre is the altar; the sheet in which the body was wrapped the corporal; the vessel in which the blood was received shall be called chalice; and by the patina upon which it rests is signified the tombstone (v. 901-912). finally christ promises joseph that:- tout cil qui ten veissel verrunt, en ma compeignie serunt; de cuer arunt emplissement et joie pardurablement. (917-20) the prose versions repeat this account in the main, but with some important additions, thus: b ii, cangé ms., adds after christ's last words, "lors li aprant jhésu christ tex paroles que jà nus conter ne retraire ne porroit," etc. (i, 227); when christ hands the vessel to joseph, "tu tiens lou sanc as trois personnes en une déité, qui degota des plaies de la char au fil," etc. (i, 225-26); after the description of the grail, "lou graal c'est à dire sor lou caalice."... in c, didot-perceval, the holy ghost, speaking to brons, commands him to reveal to perceval, "icelles paroles segroies qu'il (_i.e._, christ) aprist à joseph en la prison," which, adds the narrator, "je ne vous puis dire ne ne doi" (i, 483). e, grand st. graal: the jews, angry at joseph's having taken christ's body down from the cross, throw him into "la plu hideuse chartre qui onques fust veue" and when they hear of the lord's resurrection propose to starve him; but christ comes to him, brings him for comfort "la sainte esceuele que ostoie en sa maison a tot le sanc qu'il auoit requelli," and comforted him much, and assured him that he should not die in prison but come out safe and sound, and his name be glorified. and joseph "fu en la prison ... tant qu'il demoura xlii ans" (pp. 25-26).[48] here again are three distinct accounts:- (1) that of pseudo-gautier, which merely mentions joseph's devotions to the grail, and does not connect that devotion with any solace during his captivity. (2) that of the b versions, in which christ himself brings the holy vessel to the captive, and connects it with certain promises and recommendations which he makes to him; the vessel shall remain with his seed, but it is to be in charge of three persons, a symbol of the trinity. the services rendered by joseph to christ's body are connected with the mass. the late (prose) drafts of this version insist still more upon the sacramental nature of the grail. (3) the grand st. graal and pseudo-manessier introduce a fresh element--the grail is the material means by which joseph is sustained (forty years according to the one, forty-two years according to the other version) without food or drink. the great importance of the incident in the b versions is most remarkable when contrasted with the comparative indifference displayed by the other versions, and notably by the grand st. graal, which, at the first blush, looks so like a mere amplification of b, still more remarkable the agreement between the prose versions of b, with c, didot-perceval, respecting christ's words to joseph against b i, metr. jos. it is difficult to decide which of the two versions is the older; b i, after christ's words, has the following important passage:- ge n'ose conter ne retreire, ne je ne le pourroie feire, neis, se je feire le voloie, se je le grant livre n'avoie où les estoires sunt escrites, par les granz clers feites et dites: lá sunt li grant secré escrit qu'en numme le graal et dit. which may either have been the reason why the prose versions, followed by the didot-perceval, speak as they do about the secret words, or may be the versifier's excuse for giving those secret words themselves, _i.e._, the explanation of the mysteries of the grail in its relation to the sacrament, in which case the verse would be later than the prose forms.[49] finally, it would seem that pseudo-manessier, a iiia, and the grand st. graal drew their information one from the other or from a common source. _properties and effect of the grail._ in chrestien these seem to be of a purely physical nature; the grail is borne uncovered through the hall at every meal (4,470-79), it feeds the fisher king's father- d'une seule oiste li sains hom quant en ce greal li aporte sa vie sostient et conforte tant sainte cose est li graaus. (7,796-99) the most direct testimony in chrestien to its sacred nature. in gautier, likewise, the physical properties are insisted upon in the following passages:- lors vit parmi la sale aler la rice gréail ki servoit et mist le pain a grant esploit. (20,114-16) moult mangièrent à grant loisir; adonques véissiés servir le gréail moult honestement. (20,142-43) but in verses 28,078-81 a remarkable spiritual effect is attributed to it- car li diables ne deçoit nul homme ki le jor le voie, ne ne le met en male voie por faire pécié creminal. in a iia, pseudo-gautier, the physical side alone is insisted upon- et de quanqu'il lor ert mestiers les fornissoit à tel plenté com s'il n'eust néant cousté; (12-14) et li graaux par tot aloit et pain et vin par tot portoit et autres mès a grant planté. (171-74) manessier makes no special reference to the properties of the grail. in the b versions it is the spiritual power of the grail which is dwelt upon. christ's words to joseph have already been quoted (_supra_, p. 71), and the use which the latter puts the grail to, and which is specially indicated to joseph by the holy ghost, is in accordance with them. the grail is to serve him as a touchstone to distinguish the sinners of his company- car il n'a à nul pecheour ne compaignie ne amour; (2,629-30) whereas to those who have not defiled themselves with sin it brings la douceur, l'accomplissement de leur cueurs tout entièrement; (2,565-67) so that according to them- ... cuers ne pourroit, a pourpenser ne soufiroit le grant delit que nous avuns ne la grant joie en quoi nous suns. (2,609-12) this testing power of the grail is especially brought into play when the vessel is placed on the table in connection with the fish which brons caught, and which won him the name of the rich fisher. c, didot-perceval, has only one reference, "ne il ne covient mie en sa compagnie pechier" (i, 483), agreeing with b and with gautier's lines 28,079-80. in d, queste, we revert to the physical gifts of the grail. "and as soon as it entered the door of the hall the whole court was filled with perfumes ... and it proceeded to every place in the hall. and as it came before the tables it filled them with every kind of meat that a man would wish to have." when it comes in, "every one looked at each other, and there was not one that could say a single word;" when it goes out, "every one recovered his speech" (d ii, pp. 442-43). there is no allusion to a gathering at which the grail is used to test the state of grace of its devotees. e, grand st. graal, shows a curious mixture of the two ideas; the grail feeds its worshippers, but only those who are "de sainte vie," to them it bring "toutes le boines viandes ke cuers d'omme pourroit penser," but "li pecheour n'auoient ke mangier." this version shows itself here, as in so many other passages, one of the latest in date, embodying and reconciling as it does the conceptions of the older versions--conceptions which it is difficult to derive, either from a common source or from one another. if it were not for the solitary phrase of gautier's, lines 28,079, etc. (a passage which affords the strongest proof against the homogeneity of that part of the conte du graal which goes under gautier's name), there would be an unbroken chain of testimony as to the food-giving power of the grail on the part of the earlier a versions, supported by the queste in opposition to the spiritual gifts insisted on by the b and e, grand st. graal, forms. it is in any case difficult to believe that if the writer of the queste, with his strong tendency to mystic allegory, had had before him the highly spiritual presentment of the grail-power found in b, he would have neglected it in favour of the materialistic description he uses. in one point this version differs from all others, the dumbness with which the grail strikes those to whom it appears.[50] _name of grail._ whilst the majority of versions afford no explanation of the name of the grail, b and c attach a curious punning meaning to it, thus b i, metr. jos.: par droit graal l'apelera; car nus le graal ne verra, ce croi-je, qu'il ne li agrée; (2,659-61) and c, didot-perceval, "et por ce l'anpelon-nos graal, qu'il agrée as prodes homes" (p. 483). e, grand st. graal, seems to follow these versions in nasciens' words, "car tout mi pense sont accompli, puis ke ie voi chou qui en toutes choses me plaist et m'agrée" (i, 212). is such a punning explanation more consonant with the earliness or the lateness of the versions in which it is found? if the meaning of "gréal" as cup or vessel was a perfectly well-established one, it is difficult to see why in the first treatment of the subject it should have been necessary to explain the word at all. _arrival of the grail in england._ neither a i, chrestien, nor a ii, gautier, give any indication how the grail came to england; not until we come to a iia, pseudo-gautier, do we learn anything on the subject. it is there related (v. 139-48) how joseph and his companions take ship and sail till they come to the land promised joseph by god--the white isle, namely, a part of england; and how (v. 161-66) joseph, finding that "sa vitaille li falloit," prays god to lend him that grail in which he had collected the holy blood. the prayer is granted and the grail appears and feeds the company. a iii, manessier, simply says that joseph, after leaving sarras, carried the grail about with him, then in a singularly enigmatic passage (the fisher king is speaking):- et, quant il furent départis, il s'en ala en son païs, et tout partout ù il aloit la loi jhésucrist essauçoit. puis vint en cest païs manoir, od lui le saint gréal, por voir. josep qui en dieu se fia icest païs édéfia. (35,123-30) the b versions account is much more elaborate, and demands the most careful analysis. in b i, metr. jos., the first mention of the west is found in christ's words to joseph concerning his nephew, alain, who is to keep the grail, to take charge of his brothers and sisters, and puis s'en ira vers occident es plus loiteins lius que pourra; (3,100-01) further that petrus is likewise to go "ès vaus d'avaron" (3,123), it being added that- ces terres trestout vraiement se treient devers occident. (3,125-26) effectively we learn (v. 3,262, etc.) that alain leads his brothers into strange lands. but the grail remains behind, and in v. 3,353, etc., an angel declares it necessary that all the people should go to the west, that brons should have the vessel, that he should go straight to the west, and that petrus, after seeing the grail safe in brons' keeping, is to go likewise. joseph follows the angel's command, and three days after he has committed the grail to brons' hands. ainsi joseph se demoura. li boens pescherres s'en ala (dont furent puis meintes paroles contées, ki ne sunt pas foles) en la terre lau il fu nez, et joseph si est demourez. (3,455-60) a puzzling passage, as it is difficult to be sure whether line 3,459 refers to the fisher or to joseph, a point of obvious importance, as in the latter case it would indicate that joseph in this version does not go west. on turning to the prose versions, some remarkable variations are found in the corresponding passages; thus b ii, cangé ms. (i, 265) after relating how brons finds wives for his children, adds, "mais ancor estoit la crestientez moult tenue et moult novele en ce païs que l'an apeloit la bloe bretaigne que joseph avoit novellement convertie à la créance de jhésu-christ," words which would seem to indicate that the writer imagined joseph and his company _already_ in england. the corresponding passage to v. 3,445-60 runs thus: ensinc se departirent, si s'en ala li riches peschierres dont maintes paroles furent puis, en la grant bretaigne et ensinc remest joseph et fina en la terre et ou païs où il fu envoiez de par jhésu-crist (275). b iii, didot ms, accentuates the punning reference to avalon in the angel's message to joseph, "come li monde ... va en avalant covient-il que toute ceste gent se retraie en occident" (p. 330). the final passage runs thus: "eynsi se despartirent joseph et bron: et joseph s'en ala en la terre et el pais où il fust nez et ampris la terre" (p. 332). thus the testimony of these versions favours the application of v, 2,459 in metr. jos. to joseph. from c, didot-perceval, we obtain an account similar in parts to that of the b versions, the most direct reference being in the speech of the hermit, perceval's uncle, "biaus niès, sachès que à la table là où joseph fist et je meismes oïmes la voiz de saint esperit qui nos comenda venir en loingteines terres en occident, et comenda le riche péchéor mon père que il venist en cestes parties, là ou li soleil avaloit" (449-50), where the punning reference to avalon is again prominent, and where, apparently, the passage of joseph himself to england is not indicated. an entirely different form of the legend is found in d and e. in the former (d ii, 450) it is briefly stated, "and afterwards it happened to joseph, and joseph his father, and a number of his family with them, to set out from the city of sarras, and they came as far as great britain"; again, p. 467, perceval's aunt relates how when joseph of arimathea came, and his son joseph with him, to great britain, there came with them about 4,000 people, all of whom are fed by ten loaves, placed on the table, on the head of which is the grail. e, grand st. graal, dwells specially upon josephe; he is referred to in i, p. 22, as having passed "le lignage ioseph son père outre mer iusqu'en la bloie bertaigne qui ore a nom engleterre," and ii, 123, etc., gives a full account of how the passage is effected; how the grail-bearers are sent first, and supported through the water by its power; how, when josephe takes off his shirt, and his father joseph puts his foot upon it, it swells until it holds 250 persons. these two accounts agree better with that of a iia, pseudo-gautier, than with any of the others; indeed, a passage in the latter (v. 125-29), which tells how joseph committed the portrait of our lord, made by verrine, to the mercy of the sea, may have given the hint for the miraculous shirt story of the grand st. graal. in this version, too, as in d, queste, we first hear of the passage to england, and then the grail appears at the miraculous feeding of the travellers. the versions thus fall into two clearly-defined groups, joseph being the grail-bearer in the one, brons in the latter. the latter class is represented by the metrical joseph and the didot-perceval alone, if we except the berne ms. form of a portion of the conte du graal, which, in its finish, has obviously copied the metrical joseph. to the former class belong all the other versions. nay, more, one of the prose forms of borron's poems is interpolated, so as to countenance the joseph-account of the bringing of the grail to england. moreover, borron's account of the whole transaction is ambiguous and obscure; at first alain is the destined hero, long passages being devoted to him, and the keeping of the mystic vessel being expressly reserved to him. yet he leaves, quite quietly, nothing more being heard of him, and the same machinery of angelic messages is set in motion for brons, to whom, henceforth, the chief _rôle_ is assigned. does not this show that there were from the outset two accounts of the evangelisation of britain, one, attributing it to joseph, of wider popularity, and followed solely by the majority of the romances, whilst borron, who gave greater prominence to the other account, has maladroitly tried to fuse the two into one? in any case it would be remarkable were the legend of purely christian origin, and were the metrical joseph its earliest form, and source of the other forms, that its testimony on such an important point should be contradicted by nearly every other version. do the foregoing facts throw any light upon the question whether the two sections of the romance are originally independent, and which is the earlier? it is the later forms of the quest alone which mention joseph. but if he be really the older of the two personages to whom, in the early history, the evangelisation of britain is attributed, this would of itself go a long way to proving that the two portions of the romance only came into contact at a late stage of their development, and that the quest is the older. it is otherwise if brons be looked upon as the original grail-bringer; the same causes which led to his exclusion from the other versions of the early history might have kept him out of most versions of the quest, and his presence in one quest version could be claimed as a proof of the homogeneity of the romance. for the present, it is sufficient to mark the fact that what may be called the brons form of the early history is in a minority. _the grail-keeper and his relationship to the promised knight._ in the a versions the grail-keeper is the fisher king, uncle to the hero of the quest, perceval. the relationship is first plainly put in chrestien, where the hermit, speaking to perceval of the grail, says- cil qui l'en sert, il est mes frere ma soeur et soie fu ta mère, et del rice pescéour croi que il est fius à celui roi qui del graal servir se fait. (7,789-94) the origin of his name is fully explained in the passage (v. 4,685-98), which tells of his being wounded in battle by a lance-thrust through his two thighs, of his sufferings, and of his only solace being fishing from a boat. how the grail came into his possession c does not say. gautier has no occasion to mention these facts, but from manessier we learn that joseph, having converted the land, died therein; that the fisher king is of his seed, and that if god wills the grail will never have its dwelling elsewhere than with him (35,130-36); that he, the fisher king, had a brother, goon desert, treacherously slain by partinal, who broke his sword in the murderous act. goon's body and the fragments of the sword being brought by his niece to the fisher king, he wounds himself with them, "parmi les gambes en traviers," and may not be healed until a knight should come to weld the fragments together and avenge his brother's death. pseudo-gautier tells how joseph, dying, prays that the grail may remain with his descendants- si fist il, c'est verité fine, qu' après sa mort n'en ot sésine nus hom, tant fust de son lignage se il ne fu del haut parage. li riches peschéor, por voir, en fu estret et tuit si oir et des suens fu greloguevaus ausi en réfu percevaus. (183-90) manessier disagrees, it will have been noticed, with chrestien respecting the cause of the fisher king's wound, and neither he nor the other continuators of chrestien make any mention of that enigmatic personage the fisher king's father, so casually alluded to by chrestien (v. 7,791-99). perceval according to them is a direct descendant of joseph, brons being as entirely ignored here as in the transport of the grail to england. in the b versions the grail-keeper is brons, and the promised knight is his son or grandson, for a close examination again shows that two varying accounts have been embodied in one narrative. in the passage where the holy ghost, speaking to joseph, tells him of the empty place to be left at the table he is to make, the following lines occur:- cil lius estre empliz ne pourra devant qu' enygeus avera un enfant de bron sen mari, que tu et ta suer amez si; et quant li enfès sera nez, la sera ses lius assenez; (2,531-37) followed closely by the prose versions: b ii, cangé mss., "ne icil leux ne pourra estre ampliz tant que le filz bron et anysgeus ne l'accomplisse" (i, 254); b iii, didot ms., "cist leus ne porra mie estre ampliz devant ce que li fist bron l'ampleisse" (i, 316). but afterwards a fresh account appears; in the second message of the holy ghost, joseph is told: que cist luis empliz ne sera devant que li tierz hons venra qui descendra de ten lignage et istera de ten parage, et hebruns le doit engenrer et enygeus ta sueur porter; et cil qui de sen fil istra, cest liu méismes emplira. (2,789-96) in the corresponding passages both b ii and iii have the following significant addition, "et i. autre (_i.e._, place) avoc cestui qui el nom de cestui sera fondé" (i, 261), "raemplira ce leu et i. autre qui en leu decestu isera fondez" (i, 322), which effectually disposes of m. hucher's attempt (i, 254, note) to harmonise the two accounts by the remark that in the first one "il ne s'agit pas de la table ronde où c'est perceval qui remplit le lieu vide." henceforth the legend follows the second account. to alain, son of brons, is revealed that ... de lui doit oissir un oir malle, qui doit venir. (3,091-92) petrus is to wait for "le fil alein," brons is to wait for "le fil sen fil," and when he is come to give him the vessel and grail (3,363-67). b ii, cangé ms., again makes a characteristic addition to the promise to alain "et si li di que de lui doit issir un oirs masles, à cui la grace de mon veissel doit repairier" (i, 267). c, didot-perceval, follows the second account of b. perceval is son to alain li gros, grandson to brons, the rich fisher king, "et cil rois péchéors est en grant enfermetez, quar il est vieil home et plains de maladies" (i, 418), and nephew to the hermit, "un des fiz bron et frère alein" (i, 448), though curiously enough when he tells brons that he knows him to be father of his father, the latter addresses him as "bieaux niès" (i, 483). in any case whether b and c do or do not afford proof of a nearer relationship than that of grandson and grandfather between the grail-keeper and the achiever of the quest, the chronology which bridges over 400 years in two generations is equally fantastic. in d, queste, no less than three different accounts are to be distinguished, corresponding certainly to three stages in the development of this version due to the influence of other versions of the legend. the earliest is that preserved in d ii, the welsh translation of a now lost french original. the promised knight is galahad, son of lancelot, grandson, on the mother's side, of king pelles (ch. iv). the grail is kept at the court of king peleur (ch. lxvii), the name of which is apparently corbenic (ch. lxiv). the lame king is mentioned by perceval's sister (ch. xlix), as a son of king lambar, who fought with king urlain and slew him, and in consequence of that blow the country was wasted; afterwards (ch. l.) his lameness is set down to his folly in attempting to draw the magic sword, for which, though there was not in christendom a better man than he, he was wounded with a spear through the thigh. she also speaks of him here as her uncle. the grail quest is not connected in any way with the healing of this lame king. in the text printed by furnivall, galahad is first introduced as lancelot's son and pelles' grandson, but when he comes to arthur's court he bids his returning companion, "salues moi tous chiaus del saint hostel et mon _oncle le roi pelles_ et mon _aioul le riche peschéour_." guinevere's ladies, according to this version, prophesy that galahad will heal the lame king. a long account, missing in d i, is given by the hermit to lancelot of his ancestry as follows (p. 120):--celidoine, son of nasciens, had nine descendants, warpus, crestiens, alain li gros, helyas, jonaans, lancelot, ban, lancelot himself, galahad, in whom christ will bathe himself entirely. perceval is son of a king pellehem (p. 182). the lame king is pelles, "que l'on apièle lo roi mehaignié" (p. 188); he is at corbenic when lancelot comes there. when galahad and his companions arrive at his court a sick man wearing a crown is brought in, who blesses galahad as his deliverer. after the appearance of the grail, galahad heals him by touching his wound with the spear. the third account, from the version of the queste printed with the lancelot and the mort artur in 1488, at rouen, by gaillard le bourgeois,[51] makes galahad send greetings to the fisher king and to his _grandfather, king pelles_; it adds to perceval's sister's account of how pelles was wounded, the words, "he was galahad's grandfather;"[52] it adds to the account of lancelot's visit to the grail castle, the words, "this was castle corbenic, where the holy grail was kept." before discussing these differences it is advisable to see what the grand st. graal says on these points. here alain, the fisher king, son of brons, is a virgin, and when josephe commits the grail to his care he empowers him to leave it to whom he likes (ii, 360--39.) in accordance with this alain leaves the grail to his brother josue, with the title of fisher king. josue's descendants are aminadap, catheloys, manaal, lambor (who was wounded by bruillans with solomon's sword, whence arose such a fierce war that the whole land was laid desert).[53] pelleans, wounded in battle in the ankle, whence he had the name lame king, pelles, upon whose daughter lancelot begets galahad, who is thus, on the mother's side, ninth in descent from brons, brother to joseph. galahad's descent is likewise given from celidoine, son of nasciens, as follows: marpus, nasciens, alains li gros, ysaies, jonans, lancelot, bans, lancelot, galahad, who in thus counting celidoine is tenth in descent from nasciens, joseph's companion, (vol. ii, ch. xxxix.) so far the story is fairly consistent, although there is a difference of one generation between father's and mother's genealogy. but ch. 17, in a very important passage, introduces a different account. the angel is expounding to josephe and nasciens the marvels of the lance; to josephe he says, "de cheste lance dont tu as este ferus; ne sera iamis ferus ke vns seus hom. et chil sera rois, et descendra de ton lignaige, si serra li daerrains des boins. chil en sera ferus parmi les cuisses ambedeus," and will not be healed till the good knight come, "et chil ... serra li daerrains hom del lignaige nascien. et tout ausi com nasciens a este li premiers hom qui les meruelles du graal a veues; autresi sera chil li daerrains qui les verra.[54] car che dist li urais crucefis. 'au premier home du precieus lignaige, et au daerrain, ai iou deuise à demonstrer mes meruelles.' et si dist enchore après. 'sour le premier et sour le daerrain de mes menistres nouuiaus qui sont enoint et sacre a mon plaisir, espanderai iou la venianche de la lanche auentureuse'" (i, 216-17), _i.e._, the last of josephe's line shall be the only man wounded by the lance, the last of nasciens' line shall be the deliverer. but according to galahad's genealogy, given above, it is _not_ the last of josephe's line (represented by his cousin josue) who is the wounded king, for galahad himself is as much the last in descent from josephe as from nasciens, and even if we take the words to apply only to the direct male descendants of josue, there is still a discrepancy, as not pelles, but pelleant, his father, is the "roi mehaigniés." if the wounded king were really the last of josephe's line, _i.e._, pelles, galahad would be his grandson, as percival is to brons. taking the two versions d. and e. together, some idea may be gathered from them of the way in which the legend has grown, and of the shifts to which the later harmonisers were put in their attempts to reconcile divergent accounts. in the first draft of the queste, galahad has nothing to do with the lame king, the latter remains perceval's uncle, the very relationship obtaining in chrestien. galahad has supplanted perceval, but has not stepped into the place entirely. the second draft of the queste endeavours to remedy this by clumsily introducing the lame king and his healing, missing in the first draft, into the great grail scene at the end, an idea foreign to the original author of the queste, who, having broken with perceval as chief hero, also broke with the distinctive quest incident as far as the chief hero is concerned. but a strange blunder is committed; the second draft, anxious to make galahad's grandfather both fisher and lame king, actually speaks of pelles as galahad's uncle, in direct contradiction to its own indication. the third draft corrects this mistake, and tries by different explanatory interpolations to confirm the relationship of galahad to the lame king, and the identity of his castle with the grail castle. the author of the grand st. graal now appears on the scene, appropriates the story about king lambar, father to the lame king, percival's uncle, makes him an ancestor of galahad, and gives a name to his son, pelleant (which name creeps back into the second draft of the queste as that of perceval's father), and thus derives galahad on the mother's side from brons, although it escapes him that he thus gives the lie to the prophecy which he puts in the angel's mouth, that it is the last of josephe's seed who is to be lamed by the lance, and that he has not given his lambor fictitious ancestors enough to equalize the genealogies. we are thus led back to the relationship of uncle and nephew as the earliest subsisting between the grail king and the achiever of the quest, and we find in those versions which supplant perceval by galahad a story told of the former's great uncle, king lambar, by no means unlike that told of his uncle in the a versions, and that there, as here, the cause of the woe brought upon the hero's family is one of the magic talismans which the hero is in quest of and by means of which he is to achieve his quest. we further notice that in so far as the early history influences the quest forms, it is the later versions in which its influence is apparent, and it is the joseph, not the brons form, which exercises this influence. not until we come to the grand st. graal, an obvious and bold attempt to embody previous versions in one harmonious whole, does the brons form make itself felt. _work of the promised knight._ in chrestien we can only guess at what the results of the successful achievement of the quest would have been by the reproaches addressed to the hero upon the failure of his first visits to the grail castle; he would have mended all things, and- le bon roi ki est mehaigniés; que tous eust regaengniés ses membres, et tière tenist, et si grans bien en avenist; (4,763-67) many evils will flow from his failure, and the cause of it is the sin he has committed in leaving his mother, who thereupon died of grief (4,768-71); again the loathly damsel reproaches him that the rich king would have been healed of his wound, he would have kept in peace his land, which he never may again, for now dames en perdront lor maris tières en seront essilies, et pucièles deconsellies; orfenes, veves en remanront et maint chevalier en morront. (6,056-60) gautier de doulens gives a vivid description of the effect of gawain's partially successful visit to the grail king; the character of the landscape changes at once- n'estoit pas plus que mienuis, le soir devant, que dex avoit rendu issi com il devoit as aiges lor cors el païs; et tout li bos, ce m'est avis, refurent en verdor trové, si tos com il ot demandé por coi si sainnoit en l'anstier la lance; si devoit puplier li règnes; mais plus ne pupla por tant que plus ne demanda. (20,344-55) all the country folk both bless and curse gawain. sire, mors nous as et garis, tu dois estre liés et maris; car grant aise nos as doné, s'en devons tout mercier dé; et si te devons moult hair pour con que nel vosis öir le greail, por coi il servoit, ne de la joie ki devoit là venir ne poroit nus dire, si en doit avoir duel et ire. (20,357-66) in manessier, when perceval has finally accomplished the quest by the slaying of partinal, and has come for the third time to the grail castle (though even then he only reaches it after long wanderings and lights upon it by chance), news whereof is brought to the king;- li rois, à grant joie et grant feste est maintenant salis en piés et se senti sain et haitiés. (44,622-24) perceval is crowned king after his uncle's death, and reigns for seven years. thus, in the a versions, the healing of the maimed king, and the consequent restoration to fertility and prosperity of his land, such are the tasks to be achieved by the hero of the quest. in the b versions an entirely different series of conceptions is met with. brons, the fisher king, is to wait for his grandson, and to hand him the vessel which he received from joseph. when this is done the meaning of the trinity is to be known--[55] lors sera la senefiance accomplie et la demonstrance de la benoite trinité, qu'avons en trois parz devisée. (3,371-74) besides this, the promised knight is to visit petrus, who may not pass away till he comes, and from whom he is to learn the power of the vessel, and the fate of moys (v. 3,127-36). finally, when he comes he is to fill the empty seat, and to find moys, of whom it is said- de lui plus ne pallera-on ne en fable ne en chançon, devant que cil revenra qui li liu vuit raemplira: cil-méismes le doit trouver. (2,815-19) here the only indication which can possibly be tortured into a hint of the waiting of a sick king for his deliverer is the reference to petrus. it is not a little remarkable that when the latter is leaving for england, he asks for the prayers of the company that he may not fall into sin, and lose the love of god (v. 3320-35) does this presuppose a version in which he _does_ sin, and is consequently punished by disease, from which only the promised knight may heal him? on turning to c, a totally distinct account of what the quest achiever is to do presents itself. he seats himself, it is true, in the empty seat, but it goes nigh with him that he suffers the fate of moys, from which he is only preserved by the great goodness of his father, alain (p. 427). he does not find moys; petrus is not once mentioned by name, nor does perceval visit anyone who may not die till he come, and from whom he learns the power of the vessel, saving always the fisher king, for the references to whom see _supra_, p. 83. this fisher king is "veil home et plains de maladies, ne il n'aura james santé devant un chevalier que yà à la table ronde aserra, sera prodons vers deu et vers sainte eglise et ait fait tant d'armes que il soit le plus alosez del monde. et lors vendra à la maison au riche roi péchéor et quant il aura demandé de quoi li graus sert, tantost sera li roi gariz de de sa'nfermeté et cherront li enchentement de bretaigne et sera la prophétic accomplie" (p. 419). again, p. 427 "li riches rois péchéors est chéuz en grant maladie et en grant enfermeté, ne il peust morir devant que uns de xxx chevalier, qui ci sunt asis, ait tant fait d'armes et de chevalerie qu'il soit li mieudres chevalier del monde." again, p. 427, "et quant il (_i.e._, the fisher king) sera gariz, si ira, dedanz li iii jorz, de vie à mort, et baillera à celui chevalier, le vesseau et li aprendra le segroites paroles qui li aprist joseph; et lors ampliz de la grace du sainct esprit et cherront li enchentement de la bretaigne et les afaires." again, when perceval has come for the second time to the fisher king's, and has asked the question and learnt the secret words, he remained there "et moult fust prodons et chéirent les enchentement de la terre de bretaigne et par tout le monde." here, then, are the sick king, the mysterious question, the healing, and the effect upon the land (note how the enchantments of britain are insisted upon), as in the a versions. the only points of contact with b are that brons is like petrus in not being able to die till perceval come, and that his infirmity seems to be ascribed mainly to his age, and not to a wound, which at first sight seems to agree better with the vague indications of b than with the positive statement of a. two accounts, each fairly definite and consistent, are thus forthcoming respecting the object of the quest, the one represented by a and c, the other by b. what light is thrown upon the matter by the remaining versions, and which of these two accounts do they support? neither from the queste, d, nor from the grand st. graal, e, can any clear conception of the quest be gathered. both have a great deal to say about the adventures and the wonders of the grail, but absolutely nothing comes of the achievement so far as the grail itself, or as galahad and his two companions are concerned. it goes to the east, they with it, they become hermits and die. but in proportion as the main object of the quest becomes less definite, the number of secondary objects increases. in d, queste, galahad is to achieve the adventure of the seat perillous (ch. iii, iv); he is to wear the shield left by joseph to mordrains (ch. x); he is to release from life mordrains himself, struck with blindness for approaching too near the grail (ch. xxiii); he (according to the second draft of the queste), is to release king pelles (his grandfather, according to draft 3), wounded through both ankles for trying to draw the sword; he is to release simei, burning in a fiery grave for that he once sinned against joseph of arimathea (ch. lxvi). to this sufficiently long list the grand st. graal adds the resoldering of the sword broken by joseph--"ha espée, iamais ne sera resaudée deuant ke chil te tenra qui les hautes auentures del saint graal devra asoumir" (ii, 264); the delivery of moys from out the furnace where he burns, not for always "ains trouuera enchore merchi et pardon. mais che qu'il a mesfait, espanira il en tel manière qu'il en sera en fu iusc' a tant ke li boines chiualiers uenra" (ii, 277). moys likewise speaks of galahad as one who "achieura les auentures de la grant bertaigne" (ii, 279-80). finally, pelleur wounded (mehaigniés de ii cuisses) "en vne bataille de rome" is to be released, "il ne peut garir de la plaie deuant ke galaad, li tres boins chiualers, le vint visiter. mais lors sans faille gari il" (ii, p. 373). the queste knows nothing of petrus, but in the grand st. graal he turns up at the end in the same casual way as brons, and converts king luces (ii, 3356-3), _i.e._ is thus brought into connection with geoffrey of monmouth's form of the conversion of britain legend. the foregoing statement confirms all that has previously been urged as to the lateness of both queste and grand st. graal. the author of the former again shows himself a daring, but not over skilful, adapter of older legends, the author of the latter an unintelligent compiler, whose sole aim it is to lengthen out his story by the introduction of every incident he can lay his hands upon. but although late, they may nevertheless throw light upon the question which, of the two strongly differentiated accounts of the object of the grail quest which have been noted, has the better claim to be looked upon as the older one. the conte du graal and the didot-perceval agree, as has been seen, against the metrical joseph, in making the main object of the grail-seeker the healing of a maimed or the release from life of a supernaturally old king. this _motif_, it is not too much to say, is the pivot upon which in the conte du graal all turns; in the metrical joseph it is barely hinted at. the queste, if looked at closely, is found to bear witness to the conte du graal form. as is seen from the summary (_supra_, p. 41, inc. 12) it has the very incident upon which so much stress is laid in chrestien's poem, the visit to the sick king, the omitted question, the consequent misfortune. true, all this has been transferred from the original hero, perceval, to the father of the new hero galahad, and, true, the final object which the queste proposes, in so far as it proposes any definite object, to its grail-seeker is of a different character. but the fact that this object is not stated in the same way as in the metrical joseph, whilst that found in the conte du graal _is_ embodied though in a different connexion, points unmistakably to what may be called the healing _motif_ as the older one. here, again, the metrical joseph is in a minority, and it is not even followed by that very version, the didot-perceval, which has been ascribed to the same author, and claimed as an integral portion of the same trilogy.[56] _qualifications of the promised knight._ neither chrestien, gautier, nor manessier lay any stress upon special qualifications in the quest-hero for the achievement of his task. in chrestien, as already stated, (_supra_, p. 87), it is exclusively the sin of which perceval has been guilty in leaving his mother which prevents his achieving the quest at his first visit to the grail castle (v. 4,768-71 and 7,766-74), whilst the continuator makes no attempt at any explanation of the hero's repeated failures. not until gerbert does a fresh _motif_ show itself in the poem, but then it is a remarkable one; if perceval has been hitherto unable to attain the goal he has so long striven for, it is because he has been unfaithful to his first love, blanchefleur (vi, p. 182); he must return and wed her before he is fit to learn the full secret of the grail.[57] the other quest versions are on this point in striking contrast to chrestien. the words of c, didot-perceval, have already been noted, (_supra_, p. 89). again the damsel, reproaching the hero after his first failure, addresses him thus:--"mès je sai bien por quoi tu l' ás perdu, por ceque tu ni es pas si sage ne si vaillant, ne n'as pas fet tant d'armes; ne n'ies si prodons que tu doies avoir le sanc nostre (sire) en guarde" (p. 467). it is significant to note in this connection that it is only after perceval has overcome all the best knights of the round table, including gawain (the companion hero, as will be shown later, of the oldest form of the story), and thereby approved himself the best knight of the world, that merlin appears and directs him to the grail castle.[58] the talk about holy church would seem to be an addition, and the original ideal a purely physical one. in the queste the qualification of the hero has become the main feature of the legend, the pivot upon which everything turns. the one thing necessary is that the hero should be a virgin, and the story is one long glorification of the supreme virtue of chastity. yet even here the warlike deeds of galahad are dwelt upon in a way that points to a different ideal. traces, though slight ones, may be found in c, didot-perceval, of the importance attached to the chastity of the hero; thus his hermit uncle admonishes him, "ne vous chaille de gésir aveuc fame, quar cest un peché luxurious et bien sachiez, que la pichié que vous avez fait, vous ont neu à trover la maison bron," and in the adventure with the damsel of the hound, although he had (p. 440) solicited her favours, and she had promised them if he brought her the head of the white stag, yet (p. 470) when he returns to her and she offers herself to him, he pleads his quest as a reason for not even passing one night with her. in gautier de doulens, on the contrary, everything passes in accordance with the orthodox custom of the day--when knights were as punctual in demanding as ladies scrupulous in granting the fulfilment of such bargains. but here, again, references to chastity seem to be additions, and rather unskilful ones, whilst in the queste they are the vital spirit of the story. what results from the foregoing is much as follows:-the perceval form of the quest is certainly the older of the two, and underlies in reality the galahad form. when cleared from the admixture of christian mystic elements it appears as a coherent and straightforward story, in which nothing necessarily presupposes the early history. the influence of the latter is, however, distinctly traceable. as far as chrestien himself is concerned, nothing can be asserted with certainty as to the origin, extent, and nature of that influence; in the case of his continuators it can be definitely referred to that form of the early history which is represented by the queste and the grand st. graal (save in the solitary instance of the berne fragment of gautier de doulens). the later in date the sections of the conte du graal, the more strongly marked is the influence of the early history, and _pari passu_ the increasing prominence given to the christian mystic side of the grail. of the early history two forms can be distinguished. in the one, joseph and the group of persons whom he converts in the east are made the means of bringing christianity to britain. the grail is dwelt upon almost solely in its most material aspect. this form is closely connected with the galahad quest, and its chronology has been elaborately framed to correctly bridge over the difference in time between the apostolic and arthurian ages. it has also affected, as remarked above, the later versions of the perceval quest. the second or brons form knows nothing of the companions of joseph, who is only indirectly the means of the conversion of britain, the real evangelists being kinsmen of his who bear decided celtic names. these kinsmen are related as grandfather and father (or simply father or uncle), to a hero whose exploits are to be dealt with in a sequel. there is strong insistence upon the spiritual character of the grail, which is obviously intended to play an important part in the promised sequel. no traces of this form are to be found in any version (saving always the above-mentioned fragment of gautier), until we come to the grand st. graal, with which such portions as do not conflict with the joseph form are embodied. the didot-perceval, although formally in contact with the brons early history, is not really the sequel announced in that work. it differs profoundly from it in the most essential feature of the story, the nature of the task laid upon the hero. upon examination this appears to be of the same nature as that of the conte du graal, with a seasoning of the christian mystic element. it was, however, _intended_ for a sequel to the metrical joseph, a fact which may be taken as a proof that borron never completed his plan of a joseph-merlin-grail trilogy of which we possess the first two parts. the first of the two points marked for investigation at the outset of this chapter may thus be considered settled. the quest is originally independent of and older than the early history. and although in no instance can the versions of the former be said to be entirely free from the influence of the latter, yet in the older forms the traces are such as to be easily separated from the primitive elements of the story. the versions which have been examined may now be arranged in the following order:- (1) chrestien's portion of the conte du graal. the oldest form of the perceval quest, but presupposing an early history. (2) gautier de doulens followed chrestien, in all probability, almost immediately. even less can be gathered from him than from chrestien respecting the earliest form of the early history, but this is probably represented by (3) pseudo-gautier, which in all likelihood gives the outline of the work made use of by queste and grand st. graal. pseudo-gautier is almost certainly some years later than gautier, as the berne ms. scribe found it necessary to seek for information in (4) borron's poem, probably written towards the end of the twelfth century, but which for some reason remained unknown for a time, although it afterwards, as evidenced by the number of mss., became popular. there is every reason to believe that borron knew nothing of any other early history. his work, as we have it, is abridged and arranged. meanwhile (5) queste had appeared. the author probably used the same early history as pseudo-gautier. he knew the conte du graal, and wrote in opposition to it with a view to edification. he certainly knew nothing of borron's poem, or he could not have failed, with his strong mystical tendencies, to dwell upon the spiritual and symbolic character of the grail. (6) the grand st. graal, an earlier draft of the work, now known under that title. probably an enlarged version of the hypothetical original early history; wanting all the latter portions relating to brons and his group, which were added to it when borron's poem became known. this work must have appeared before 1204 (in which year it is referred to by helinandus), and, as chrestien wrote his poem about 1189-90, it follows that at least half-a-dozen works belonging to the grail cycle came out in the last twelve years of the twelfth century. (7) manessier and (8) gerbert brought out independent endings to the conte du graal from 1216 to 1225. it was probably shortly after this time that borron's poem became known, and that it was incorporated with the grand st. graal, which assumed the shape under which it has come down to us. (9) the didot-perceval is probably the latest in date of all the members of the cycle. before proceeding to examine our second point, which is whether the grail itself really belongs to the original form of the quest, or has been introduced into the quest versions from the early history, it will be advisable to summarise the opinions and researches of previous investigators. light will thus be thrown upon many points of interest which have not received special examination in these pages. a theory of the origin and development of the cycle, which is in many respects directly opposed to the conclusions we have reached, will also be fully set forth, and an opportunity will thus be given for testing by adverse criticism the soundness of our method of investigation, and of the results to which it has led us. chapter iv. sketch of the literature connected with the grail cycle. villemarqué--halliwell--san marte (a. schulz)--simrock--rochat- furnivall's reprint of the grand st. graal and of borron--j. f. campbell--furnivall's queste--paulin paris--potvin's conte du graal--bergmann--skeat's joseph of arimathea--hucher: grail celtic, date of borron--zarncke, zur geschichte der gralsage; grail belongs to christian legend--birch-hirschfeld develops zarncke's views: grand st. graal younger than queste, both presuppose chrestien and an earlier queste, the didot-perceval, which forms integral part of borron's trilogy; mabinogi later than chrestien; various members of the cycle dated--martin combats birch-hirschfeld: borron later than chrestien, whose poem represents oldest stage of the romance, which has its roots in celtic tradition--hertz--criticism of birch-hirschfeld. monsieur th. de la villemarqué's researches form a convenient starting point, both on account of the influence they exercised upon later investigation, and because he was the first to state with fulness and method the arguments for the celtic origin of the legend. they appeared originally in the volume entitled "contes populaires des anciens bretons précédés d'un essai sur l'origine des épopées chevaleresques de la table ronde" (paris, 1842), and comprising a french translation of the mabinogion of geraint and peredur, with introductory essays and detailed explanatory notes. the translation of peredur is preceded by a study of chrestien's poem, in which the following conclusions are stated: the grail is celtic in origin, the french term being equivalent to the welsh _per_, and having a like meaning, basin. it is the druidic basin alluded to by taliessin, the same which figures in the mabinogi of branwen, which appears in the oldest folk-tales of brittany, and which is sought for in the twelfth century mabinogi by peredur, _i.e._, the basin-seeker. the original occult character of the druidic basin, and of the lance, the bardic symbol of undying hatred to the saxon, disappears in the mabinogi, the tone and character of which are purely romantic. composed among a people comparatively unused to the chivalrous ideal, it breathes, however, a rude and harsh spirit. but such as it is, it forms the groundwork of chrestien's poem. comparison between the two demonstrates the simple character of the welsh romance, and shows how the french poet sought to transform it by an infusion of feudal courtliness and religious mysticism. in its last stage of development the story reverts to its pristine, occult, and mystic character. much of what m. de la villemarqué says is sound and telling; but, unfortunately, although well aware that the french poem is the work of three men and not of one, he yet treats it as an organic whole, and thus deprives the larger part of his comparison of all value. moreover, he supports his thesis by arguments based upon a breton poem (the story of which is similar to that of perceval's youth), ascribed without the shadow of evidence to the end of the tenth century. in 1861 m. de la villemarqué reprinted his work with extensive additions, under the title of "les romans de la table ronde et les contes des anciens bretons." the section summarised above remained substantially unaltered, but considerable extension was given to the author's views concerning the mode of development of the romances. the points chiefly insisted upon are: the similarity of metre between the welsh poem and the french metrical romances; the delight of the plantagenet kings in the welsh traditions and the favour showed them; and the early popularity of the welsh and breton singers. villemarqué's last word upon the subject is that the welsh storytellers received from the ancient bards a pagan tradition, which, changed in character and confounded with the mystery of the sacrament, they handed on to the romance writers of northern france and germany, who gave it a fresh and undying life. villemarqué's views were worked up by mr. baring gould in his essay on the sangreal ("curious myths of the middle ages," 1867) and in this form or in their original presentment won wide acceptance as the authoritative exposition of the celtic origin of the cycle. in england, mr. halliwell, when editing, in 1844, the thornton sir perceval, derived it from chrestien and his continuators, in spite of the omission of lance and grail, on account of the sequence of incidents being the same. the mabinogi is alluded to as an adaptation of chrestien. the supposition that perceval's nick-name, "le gallois," implies the welsh origin of the story is rejected as absurd. in germany the grail-cycle formed the subject of careful investigation on the part of san marte (a. schulz) for some years prior to 1840. from 1836 to 1842 he brought out a modern german translation of wolfram von eschenbach's parzival, accompanied by an elaborate essay on the genesis of the legend, and in 1841, "die arthur-sage und die mährchen des rothen buchs von hergest." in the latter work a careful analysis of the mabinogi leads to the following conclusions:--locale and persons are purely welsh; tone and character are older than the age of the crusades and knighthood; it may be looked upon with confidence as the oldest known source of the perceval _sage_. in comparing the mabinogi with kiot's (_i.e._, wolfram's) version, stress is laid upon the task imposed upon peredur, which is held to be different in character and independent in origin from the grail quest in kiot. the thornton sir perceval is claimed as the representative of an early breton _jongleur_ poem which knew nothing of the grail story. in the former work wolfram von eschenbach's poem is accepted, so far as its framework is concerned, as a faithful echo of kiot's, the provencal origin of which is proved by its oriental and southern allusions. the provencals may have obtained the peredur _sage_ direct from brittany, they at any rate fused it with the grail legend. their version is an artistic whole, whereas the north french one is a confused string of adventures. chrestien's share in the latter is rightly distinguished from that of his continuators, and these are dated with fair accuracy. robert de borron is mentioned, but as a thirteenth century adapter of earlier prose versions; the grand st. graal is placed towards the middle of the thirteenth century. in analysing the joseph of arimathea form of the legend, the silence of the earlier british historians concerning joseph's evangelisation of britain is noted, and 1140 is given as the earliest date of this part of the legend. the captivity of joseph arises probably from a confusion between him and josephus. there is no real connection between the joseph legend and that of the grail. wolfram's templeisen agree closely with the templars, one of the main charges against whom was their alleged worship of a head from which they expected riches and victuals, and to which they ascribed the power of making trees and flowers to bloom.[59] san marte's translation of wolfram was immediately (1842) followed by simrock's, whose notes are mainly directed against his predecessor's views on the origin and development of the grail legend. the existence of kiot is contested; the _differentia_ between wolfram and chrestien are unknown to provençal, but familiar to german, poetry. the grail myth in its oldest form is connected with john the baptist. thus in the mabinogi the grail is represented by a head in a platter; the head the templars were accused of worshipping has probably the same origin; the genoese preserved the sacro catino, identified by them with the grail, in the chapel of st. john the baptist; chrestien mentions with especial significance, st. john's eve (midsummer eve). the head of st. john the baptist, found, according to the legend, in the fourth century, was carried later to constantinople, where in the eleventh century it is apparently used to keep an emperor from dying (even as of the grail, it is told, no one could die the day he saw it). if wolfram cuts out the references to the baptist, _en revanche_ he brings prester john into the story. the essential element in the grail is the blood in the bowl, symbol of creative power as is the baptist's head, both being referable to the summer equinox. associated with john the baptist is herodias, who takes the place of an old germanic goddess, abundia, as john does of odin or baldur.[60] the essence of the myth is the reproductive power of the blood of the slain god (odin-hackelberend, baldur, adonis, osiris). as the grail may only be seen by those to whom god's grace is granted, so in the german folk-tale the entrance to the hollow mounds wherein lies treasure or live elves is only visible to sunday children or pure youths. thus, too, no man may find the grave of hackelberg (odin). such caves, when entered, close upon the outgoing mortal as the grail castle portcullis closes upon parzival. many of gauvain's adventures appear in german folk-tradition. as to parzival's youth "it cannot be doubted that we have here a variation of the great fool folk-tale (dummling's märchen) found among all people. it is hard to say what people possessing this tale brought it into contact, either by tradition or in writing, with the grail story, but that people would have the first claim among whom it is found in an independent form." the mabinogi explanation of the grail incident is unacceptable, and the mabinogi itself is later than chrestien, as is shown by its foolish invention of the witches of gloucester, and by its misrendering the incident of the dwarves greeting peredur. in the original folk-tale the ungainly hero was _laughed at_, not greeted. the thornton sir perceval may possibly contain an older version of perceval's youth than any found elsewhere. wolfram's poem represents, however, the oldest and purest form of the grail myth, which, originally pagan, only became fully christianised in the hands of the later north french poets. simrock's speculations, though marred by his standing tendency to claim over much for german tradition, are full of his usual acute and ingenious, if somewhat fanciful, learning. his ignorance of celtic tradition unfortunately prevented his following up the hint given in the passage quoted above which i have adopted as one of the mottoes of the present work. in 1855 rochat published ("ueber einen bisher unbekannten percheval li gallois," zurich) selections from a berne ms. containing part of gautier de doulens' continuation of chrestien (v. 21,930 to end, with thirteen introductory and fifty-six concluding original lines, _cf._ p. 19), and entered at some length into the question of the origin and development of the grail legend. the mabinogi, contrary to san marte's opinion, is placed after chrestien. villemarqué's ballad of morvan le breiz is the oldest form of the perceval _sage_, then comes the thornton sir perceval, a genuine popular production derived probably from a welsh original. in spite of what san marte says, the grail incident is found in the mabinogi, and it might seem as if chrestien had simply amplified the latter. on san marte's theory of the (southern) origin of the grail myth, this, however, is impossible, and the fact that the mabinogi contains this incident is a proof of its lateness. up to 1861 all writers upon the grail legend were under this disadvantage, that they had no complete text of any part of the cycle before them,[61] and were obliged to trust largely to extracts and to more or less carefully compiled summaries. in that year mr. furnivall, by the issue for the roxburghe club of the grand st. graal, together with a reprint of robert de borron's poem (first edited in 1841 by m. franc. michel), provided students with materials of first-rate importance. his introductory words are strongly against the celtic origin of the story, and are backed up by a quotation from mr. d. w. nash, in which that "authority who really knows his subject" gives the measure of his critical acumen by the statement that the mabinogi of peredur can have nothing to do with the earliest form of the legend, because "in sir t. malory, perceval occupies the second place to galahad." in fact, neither the editor nor mr. nash seems to have tried to place the different versions, and their assertions are thus of little value, though they contributed, nevertheless, to discredit the celtic hypothesis. san marte, in an essay prefixed to the first volume, repeated his well-known views respecting the source of wolfram's poems, and, incidentally, protested against the idea that the mabinogi is but a welshified french romance. in 1862 the accomplished editor of the "popular tales of the west highlands," mr. j. f. campbell, published in his second volume (p. 152) some remarks on the story of the lay of the great fool, which ended thus, "i am inclined ... to consider this 'lay' as one episode in the adventures of a celtic hero, who, in the twelfth century became perceval le chercheur du basin. he too, was poor, and the son of a widow, and half starved, and kept in ignorance by his mother, but, nevertheless ... in the end he became possessed of that sacred basin, le saint graal, and the holy lance, which, though christian in the story, are manifestly the same as the gaelic talismans which appear so often in gaelic tales, and which have relations in all popular lore--the glittering weapon which destroys, and the sacred medicinal cup which cures." i have taken these words as a motto for my studies, which are, indeed, but an amplification of mr. campbell's statement. had the latter received the attention it deserved, had it, for instance, fallen into the hands of a scholar to whom simrock's words quoted on p. 101 were familiar, there would, in all probability, have been no occasion for the present work. the publication of texts was continued by mr. furnivall's issue, in 1864, for the roxburghe club, of the quête del saint graal from a british museum ms. the opening of twelve mss. from the bibliothèque nationale is likewise given, and shows substantial unity between them and mr. furnivall's text. in 1868 mons. paulin paris published, in the first volume of his "romans de la table ronde," a general introduction to the round table cycle, and a special study upon the metrical joseph and the grand st. graal. a large share of influence is assigned to celtic traditions through the medium of breton _lais_. the early history of the grail is a british legend, and embodies the national and schismatic aspirations of the british church. the date given in the prologue to the grand st. graal, and repeated by helinandus, is accepted as the genuine date of a redaction of the legend substantially the same as that found later in the grand st. graal. the word "grail" is connected with the latin _gradale_, modern gradual, and designated the book in which the tradition was first written down. the grand st. graal is anterior to chrestien's poem, and robert de borron's poem in the first draft preceded the grand st. graal, and was written between 1160 and 1170, but he subsequently revised it towards 1214, as is shown by his alluding, l. 3,490, "o mon seigneur, gauter _en peis_" (where the underlined words are equivalent to the latin _in pace_) to gautier of montbeliard in the past tense. from 1868 to 1870 m. potvin brought out his edition of the conte du graal, and of the prose perceval le gallois from mons mss. in the after-words priority is claimed for the latter romance over all other members of the cycle, and three stages are distinguished in the development of the legend--welsh national--militant christian--knightly--the prose romance belonging to the second stage, and dating substantially from the eleventh century. the lance and basin are originally pagan british symbols, and between the lines of the grail legend may be read a long struggle between heretic britain and orthodox rome. the perceval form of the quest is older than the galahad one. the joseph of arimathea forms are the latest, and among these the grand st. graal the earliest. conclusions as paradoxical as some of these appear in dr. bergmann's "the san grëal, an enquiry into the origin and signification of the romance of the s. g.," edinburgh, 1870. the idea of the grail is due entirely to guyot, as also its connection with the arthurian cycle. chrestien followed guyot, but alters the character of the work, for which he is reproved by wolfram, who may be looked upon as a faithful representative of the earlier poet. chrestien's alterations are intended to render the poem more acceptable in knightly circles. on the other hand walter map found guyot too secular and heretical, and wrote from a purely ecclesiastical standpoint the latin version of the legend in which the grail is associated with joseph of arimathea. this version forms the basis of robert de borron, author of the grand st. graal and of the continuators of chrestien. although bergmann denies the celtic origin of the grail itself, he incidentally accepts the authenticity of the mabinogi of peredur, and admits that the whole framework of the story is celtic. in the endeavour to prove the paradox that one of the latest, most highly developed, and most mystic of all the versions of the legend (viz., wolfram's) really represents the common source of them all, bergmann is compelled to make the most gratuitous assumptions, as a specimen of which may be quoted the statement that the _roi-pecheur_ is originally the _sinner_ king, and that it is by mistake that the north french _trouvères_ represent him as a _fisher_. bergmann's views passed comparatively unnoticed. they are, indeed, alluded to with approval in professor skeat's edition of joseph of arimathea, a fourteenth century alliterative abridgement of the grand st. graal (e. e. text soc., 1871). in the editor's preface the glastonbury traditions concerning the evangelisation of britain by joseph are taken as a starting point, two parts being distinguished in them, the one _legendary_, tallying with william of malmesbury's account, and, perhaps, of considerable antiquity, the other _fabulous_, introducing the personages and incidents of the romances and undoubtedly derived from them. some twenty years after the publication of the "historia britonum" walter map probably wrote a latin poem, from which robert de borron, the grand st. graal, and, perhaps, the other works of the cycle were derived. "grail" is a bowl or dish. chrestien may have borrowed his conte du graal from map; the "quest" is probably an after-thought of the romance writers. speculations such as these were little calculated to further the true criticism of the grail cycle. some few years later, in 1875, the then existing texts were supplemented by m. hucher's work, so often quoted in these pages. in an introduction and notes displaying great research and ingenuity, the following propositions are laid down:--the grail is celtic in origin, and may be seen figured upon pre-christian gaulish coins. robert de borron's poem may be called the petit st. graal, and its author was a lord of like-named territory near fontainebleau, who between 1147 and 1164 made large gifts to the abbey of barbeaux, which gifts are confirmed in 1169 by simon, son of said robert. about 1169 robert came to england, met walter map, and was initiated by him into the knowledge of the arthurian romance, and of the legend of the holy grail. between 1170 and 1199 he entered the service of walter of montbeliard and wrote (in prose) the joseph of arimathea and the merlin. at a later period he returned to england, and wrote, in conjunction with map, the grand st. graal. this is shown by ms. 2,455 bibl. nat. (of the grand st. graal): "or dist li contes qui est estrais de toutes les ystoires, sî come robers de borons le translatait de latin en romans, à l'ayde de maistre gautier map." but hélie de borron, author of the tristan and of guiron le courtois, calls robert his friend and kinsman. hélie has been placed under henry iii, who has been assumed to be the henry to whom he dedicates his work; if so can he be the friend of robert, who wrote some fifty years earlier? hélie should, however, be placed really under henry ii. robert wrote originally in prose; the poem contains later etymological and grammatical forms, though it has occasionally preserved older ones; besides in v. 2,817 etc. (_supra_, p. 83) it refers to the deliverance of moys by the promised knight, and thus implies knowledge of the grand st. graal; this passage is omitted by most of the prose versions, thus obviously older. then the poem is silent as to the christianising of britain mentioned by one prose version (c.). we may accept borron's statement as to his having dealt later with the histories of moys and petrus, and as to his drawing his information from a latin original. merlin is the pivot of borron's conception. in comparing the third part of his trilogy (joseph of arimathea, merlin, perceval) with chrestien it must be born in mind that chrestien reproduces rather the english (joseph--galahad), than the french (brons--perceval) form of the quest, and this, although the framework of chrestien and robert's perceval is substantially the same. chrestien's work was probably preceded by one in which the peredur story as found in the mabinogi was already adapted to the christianised grail legend. there are frequent verbal resemblances between robert and chrestien (_i.e._, gautier, hucher never distinguishing between chrestien and his continuators) which show a common original for both. it is remarkable that chrestien should never mention brons, and that there should be such a difference in the stories of the ford perillous and the ford amorous. it is also remarkable that robert, in his perceval, should complain that the _trouvères_ had not spoken of the good friday incident which is to be found in chrestien. m. hucher failed in many cases to see the full significance of the facts he brought to light, owing to his incorrect conception of the development of the cycle as a whole, and of the relation of its component parts one to the other. he made, however, an accurate survey of the cycle possible. the merit of first essaying such a survey belongs to zarncke in his admittedly rough sketch, "zur geschichte der gralsage," published in the third volume (1876) of paul and braune's beitraege.--the various forms may be grouped as follows: (1) borron's poem, (2) grand st. graal, (3) quête, (4) chrestien, (5 and 6) chrestien's continuators, (7) didot ms. perceval, (8) prose perceval li gallois. neither the spanish-provencal nor the celtic origin of the legend is admissible; it has its source wholly in the apocryphal legends of joseph of arimathea, in which two stages may be distinguished; the first represented by the gesta pilati and the narratio josephi, which tell how christ appeared to joseph in prison and released him therefrom; the second by the vindicta salvatoris, which combines the legends of the healing of tiberius with that of titus or vespasian. joseph being thus brought into contact with titus, the space of time between the two is accounted for by the forty years captivity, and the first hint was given of a miraculous sustaining power of the grail. borron's poem is still purely legendary in character; the fish caught by the rich fisher is the symbol of christ; the incident of the waiting for the promised knight belongs, however, not to the original tradition but to a later style of christian mysticism. the grand st. graal and the quête extend and develop the _donnée_ of the poem, whilst in chrestien tone, atmosphere, and framework are profoundly modified, yet there is no reason to postulate for chrestien any other sources than nos. 1-3, the differences being such as he was quite capable of deliberately introducing. as for no. 7 (the didot-perceval) it is later than chrestien and his continuators, and has used both. wolfram von eschenbach had only chrestien for his model, kiot's poem being a feigned source. the legend of the conversion of britain by joseph is no genuine british tradition; william of malmesbury's account of glastonbury is a pamphlet written to order of the norman kings, and incapable of serving as a representative of celtic tradition. the passages therein relating to joseph are late interpolations, disagreeing with the remainder of his work and disproved by the silence of all contemporary writers. zarncke's acute article was a praiseworthy attempt to construct a working hypothesis of the growth of the cycle. but it is full of grave misconceptions, as was, perhaps, inevitable in a hasty survey of such an immense body of literature. the versions are "placed" most incorrectly. the argumentation is frequently marred by _a priori_ reasoning, such as that chrestien, the acknowledged leading poet of the day, could not have copied kiot, and by untenable assertions, such as that bran, in the mabinogi of branwen, the daughter of llyr, is perhaps a distant echo of hebron in robert de borron's poem. he had, however, the great merit of clearing the ground for his pupil, a. birch-hirschfeld, and urging him to undertake what still remains the most searching and exhaustive survey of the whole cycle: "die sage vom gral," etc. as birch-hirschfeld's analysis is at present the only basis for sound criticism, i shall give his views fully:--the grand st. graal, as the fullest of the versions dealing with the early history of the grail, is the best starting-point for investigation. from its pronounced religious tone monkish authorship may be inferred. its treatment of the subject is not original as is shown by (1) the repetition _ad nauseam_ of the same motive (_e.g._, that of the lance wound four times), (2) the pedigrees, (3) the allusions to adventures not dealt with in the book, and in especial to the promised knight. the testimony of helinand (see _supra_, p. 52), which is of first-rate importance, does not allow of a later date for the grand st. graal than 1204. on turning to the queste it is remarkable that though sometimes found in the mss. in conjunction with the grand st. graal it is also found with the lancelot, and, when the hero's parentage is considered, it seems more likely that it was written to supplement the latter than the former work. this supposition is adverse to any claim it may lay to being held the earliest treatment of the subject, as it is highly improbable that the grail legend occupied at the outset such an important place in the arthurian romance as is thus accorded to it. such a claim is further negatived by the fact that the queste has three heroes, the second of whom is obviously the original one of an older version. in estimating the relationship between the grand st. graal and the queste it should be borne in mind that the latter, in so far as it deals with the early history, mentions only joseph, josephe, evelach (mordrain) and seraphe (nascien), from whom descends galahad; that it brings joseph to england, and that it does not give any explanation of the nature of the grail itself. it omits brons, alain, the explanation of the name "rich fisherman," the name of moys, although his story is found in substantially the same shape as in the grand st. graal, and is silent as to the origin of the bleeding lance. if it were younger than and derived from the grand st. graal alone, these points, all more important for the early history than the mordrain episodes would surely have been dwelt upon. but then if the grand st. graal is the younger work, whence does it derive brons, alain, and petrus, all of whom are introduced in such a casual way? there was obviously a previous early history which knew nothing of josephe or of mordrain and his group, the invention of the author of the queste, whence they passed into the grand st. graal, and were fused in with the older form of the legend. there is, moreover, a positive reference on the part of the grand st. graal to the queste (vol. ii., p. 225). the author of the queste introduced his new personages for the following reasons: he had already substituted galahad for the original hero, and to enhance his importance gives him a fictitious descent from a companion of joseph. from his model he learnt of joseph's wanderings in the east, hence the eastern origin of the mordrain group. in the older form the grail had passed into the keeping of joseph's nephew, in the queste the promised knight descends from the nephew of mordrain; brons, as the ancestor of the original quest hero necessarily disappears in the queste, and his place is in large measure taken by josephe. the priority of the queste over the grand st. graal, and the use of the former by the latter may thus be looked upon as certain. but if mordrain is the invention of the queste, what is the meaning of his illness, of his waiting for the promised knight, of the bleeding lance, and of the lame king whom it heals? these seem to have no real connection with the grail, and are apparently derived from an older work, namely, chrestien's conte du graal. chrestien's work, which ended at v. 10,601, may be dated as having been begun not later than 1189 (_vide_ _supra_, p. 4). its unfinished state accounts for its having so little positive information about the grail, as chrestien evidently meant to reserve this information for the end of the story. but this very freedom with which the subject is handled is a proof that he had before him a work whence he could extract and adapt as he saw fit; moreover we have (prologue, v. 475, etc.) his own words to that effect. with chrestien's account of the grail--a bowl bejewelled, of wondrous properties, borne by a maiden, preceded by a bleeding lance, accompanied by a silver plate, guarded by a king wounded through both ankles (whose only solace is fishing, whence his surname), ministering to the king's father, sought for by perceval, nephew to the fisher king, its fate bound up with a question which the seeker must put concerning it--may be compared that of the queste, in which nothing is known of a question by which the grail kingship may be obtained (although it relates the same incident of lancelot), which knows not of one wounded king, centre of the action, but of two, both of secondary importance (though possibly chrestien's fisher king's father may have given the hint for mordrain), in which the lance is of minor importance instead of being on the same level as the grail. is it not evident that the queste took over these features from chrestien, compelled thereto by the celebrity of the latter's presentment? the queste thus presupposes the following works: a lancelot, an early history, a quest other than that of chrestien's, and finally chrestien as the lame king and lance features show. it thus falls between 1189 (chrestien begun) and 1204 (grand st. graal ended). with respect to the three continuators of chrestien it would seem that gautier de doulens' account of the grail, as found in the montpellier ms., knowing as it does only of joseph, and making the fisher king and perceval descendants of his, belongs to an older stage of development than that of manessier and gerbert, both of whom are familiar with the mordrain group, and follows that of the original version upon which both the queste and the grand st. graal are based. there is nothing to show that gautier knew of the queste, whilst from gautier the queste may have possibly have taken perceval's sister and the broken sword. gautier would thus seem to have written immediately after chrestien, and before the queste, _i.e._, about 1195. as for the date of the other two continuators, the fact of their having used the queste is only one proof of the lateness of their composition (as to the date of which see _supra_, p. 4). it must be noted that whilst in their account of the grail chrestien's continuators are in substantial accord with the queste versions, and yet do not contradict chrestien himself, they add considerably to his account of the lance. this is readily explained by the fact that as chrestien gave no information respecting the origin of either of the relics, they, the continuators, had to seek such information elsewhere; they found all they could wish respecting the grail, but nothing as to the lance, the latter having been first introduced by chrestien, and the queste versions knowing nothing respecting it beyond what he told. thus, thrown upon their own resources, they hit upon the device of identifying the lance with the spear with which jesus was pierced as he hung on the cross. this idea, a most natural one, may possibly have been in chrestien's intent, and _may_ have been suggested to him by the story of the discovery of the holy lance in antioch half a century before. it must, however, be admitted that the connection of the lance with the grail legend in its earliest form is very doubtful, and that celtic legends may possibly have furnished it to chrestien, and indicated the use to which he intended putting it. the analysis, so far, of the romances has resulted in the presupposition of an earlier form; this earlier form, the source or basis of all the later versions of the legend, exists in the so-called petit st. graal of robert de borron. of this work, found in two forms, a prose and a poetic one, the poetic form, _pace_ hucher, is obviously the older, hucher's proofs of lateness going merely to show that the sole existing ms. is a recent one, and has admitted new speech-forms;[62] moreover the prose versions derive evidently from one original. the greater simplicity of the poem as compared with the grand st. graal proves its anteriority in that case; paulin paris' hypothesis that the poem in its present state is a second draft, composed after the author had made acquaintance with the grand st. graal, is untenable, the poem's reference (v. 929 etc.) to the "grant livre" and to the "grant estoire dou graal," written by "nul home qui fust mortal" (v. 3,495-6) not being to the grand st. graal, but having, on the contrary, probably suggested to the writer of the latter his fiction of christ's being the real author of his work. the grand st. graal used the poem conjointly with the queste, piecing out the one version by help of the other, and thereby entirely missing the sequence of ideas in the poem, which is as follows: sin, the cause of want among the people; the separation of the pure from the impure by means of the fish (symbol of christ) caught by brons, which fish does not feed the people, but, in conjunction with the grail, severs the true from the false disciples; punishment of the self-willed false disciple; reward of brons by charge of the grail. in the grand st. graal, on the contrary, the fish is no symbol, but actual food, a variation which must be laid to the account of the queste. in a similar way the two alains in the grand st. graal may be accounted for, the one as derived from the poem, the second from the queste. as far as conception is concerned, the later work is no advance upon the earlier one. to return to borron's work, which consists of three sections; there is no reason to doubt his authorship of the second, merlin, or of the third, perceval, although one ms. only of the former mentions the fact, and it is, moreover, frequently found in connection with other romances, in especial with the lancelot; as for perceval, the silence of the unique ms. as to borron is no argument, as it is equally silent in the joseph of arimathea section. all outward circumstances go to show that borron divided his work into three parts, joseph, merlin, perceval. but, if so, the last part must correspond in a fair measure to the first one; recollect, however, that we are dealing with a poet of but little invention or power of giving unity to discordant themes, and must not expect to find a clearly traced plan carried out in every detail. thus the author's promise in joseph to speak later of moses and petrus seems not to be fulfilled, but this is due to borron's timidity in the invention of new details. what _is_ said of moses does not disagree with the joseph, whereas a later writer would probably follow the grand st. graal account; as for petrus he is to be recognised in the hermit perceval's uncle. there may be some inconsistency here, but borron _can_ be inconsistent, as is shown by his treatment of alain, who at first vows to remain virgin, and afterwards marries. but a graver argument remains to be met; the lance occurs in perceval--now _ex hypothesi_ the first introduction of the lance is due to chrestien. the lance, however, only occurs in two passages, both obviously interpolated. the identity of authorship is evident when the style and phraseology of the two works are compared; in both the grail is always _li graaux_ or else _li veissel_, not as with the later versions, _li saint graaux_; both speak of _la grace dou graal_; in both the grail is _bailli_ to its keeper, who has it _en guarde_; the empty seat is _li liu vit_, not the _siège perilleux_. the central conception, too, is the same--the trinity of grail-keepers symbolising the divine trinity. the secret words given by christ with the grail to joseph in prison, by him handed on to brons, are confided at the end of the perceval by brons to the hero--and there is no trace of the galahad form of the quest, as would inevitably have been the case had the perceval been posterior in date to the queste. as the perceval is connected with the joseph, so it is equally with the merlin; it is remarkable that neither merlin nor blaise play a prominent part in the queste versions, but in borron's poem merlin is the necessary binding link between the apostolic and arthurian ages. again the whole character of the perceval speaks for its being one of the earliest works of the cycle; either it must have used chrestien and gautier or they it; if the former, is it credible that just those adventures which were necessary to supply the ending to the joseph could have been picked out? but it is easy to follow the way in which chrestien used the perceval; having the three-part poem before him he took the third only for his canvas, left out all that in it related to the first two parts, all, moreover, that related to the origin and early history of the grail; the story of the childhood is half indicated in the perceval, and chrestien may have had breton lays with which to help himself out; all relating to the empty seat is left out as reaching back into the early history; the visit to gurnemanz is introduced to supply a motive for the hero's conduct at the grail castle; the wound of the fisher king is again only an attempt of chrestien's to supply a more telling motive; as for the sword chrestien invented it; as he also did the grail-messenger, whose portrait he copied from that of rosette la blonde. the order of the last episodes is altered by chrestien sensibly for the better, as, with him, perceval's doubt comes first, then the good friday reproof, then the confession to and absolution by the hermit; whereas in the perceval the hero after doubt, reproof, and absolution rides off again a-tourneying, and requires a second reproof at merlin's hands. it is easy to see here which is the original, which the copy. chrestien thus took with clear insight just what he wanted in the perceval to fit out his two heroes with adventures.[63] as for borron's guiding conception, his resolve to have nothing to do with the early history made him neglect it entirely; he only cared to produce a knightly poem, and we find, in consequence, that he has materialised all the spiritual elements of his model. gautier de doulens' method of proceeding was much simpler: he took over all those adventures that chrestien purposely left out, and they may be found brought together (verses 22,390-27,390) with but few episodes (perceval's visit to blanchefleur, etc.) entirely foreign to the model amongst them.[64] the perceval cannot be later than gautier, as otherwise it could not stand in such close relationship to the joseph and merlin; it must, therefore, be the source of the conte du graal, and a necessary part of borron's poem, which in its entirety is the first attempt to bring the joseph of arimathea legend into connection with the arthur _sage_. the question as to the origin of the grail would thus seem answered, the christian legendary character of borron's conception being evident; but there still remains the possibility that that conception is but the christianised form of an older folk-myth. such a one has been sought for in celtic tradition. the part played by merlin in the trilogy might seem to lend colour to such an hypothesis, but his connection with the legend is a purely artificial one. nor is the theory of a celtic origin strengthened by reference to the mabinogi of peredur. this knows nought of merlin, and is nearer to chrestien than to the didot-perceval, and may, indeed, be looked upon as simply a clumsy retelling of the conte du graal with numerous additions. a knowledge of the didot-perceval on chrestien's part must be presupposed, as where could he have got the fisher king and grail castle save from a poem which dealt with the early history of the grail, a thing the mabinogi does not do. but, it may be said, chrestien used the mabinogi conjointly with borron's poem. that the welsh tale is, on the contrary, only a copy is apparent from the following considerations:--it mixes up gurnemanz and the fisher king; it puts in the mouth of peredur's _mother_ an exclamation about the knights, "angels they are my son," obviously misread from perceval's exclamation to the same effect in chrestien's poem; _perceval's_ love-trance over the three blood drops in the snow is explained in chrestien by the hero's passion for blanchefleur, but is quite inexplicable in the mabinogi; again, in the welsh tale, the lance and basin episode is quite a secondary one, a fact easily explained if it is looked upon as a vague reminiscence of chrestien's unfinished work; moreover the mabinogi lays great stress upon the lance, which has already been shown to belong to a secondary stage in the development of the legend. again the word graal occurs frequently in old welsh literature, and invariably in its french form, never translated by any equivalent welsh term. as for the name peredur, it is understandable that the welsh storyteller should choose the name of a national hero, instead of the foreign name perceval; the etymology basin-seeker is untenable. there is no real analogy between the grail and the magic cauldron of celtic fable, which is essentially one of renovation, whereas the grail in the second stage only acquires miraculous feeding, and in the third stage healing powers. it is of course not impossible that such adventures in the mabinogi, as cannot be referred directly to chrestien, may belong to a genuine peredur _sage_. the question then arises--was robert de borron a simple copyist, or is the legend in its present form due to him, _i.e._, did _he_ first join the joseph of arimathea and grail legends, or had he a predecessor? now the older joseph legends know nothing of his wandering in company of a miraculous vessel, zarncke having shown the lateness of the one commonly ascribed to william of malmesbury. nor is it likely borron had before him a local french legend as paulin paris (romania, vol. i.) had supposed; would he in that case have brought the grail to england, and left joseph's fate in uncertainty? the bringing the grail to england is simply the logical consequence of his conception of the three grail-keepers (the third of british blood), symbolising the trinity, and of the relation of the arthurian group to this central conception; where the third grail-keeper and the third of the three wondrous tables were, there the grail must also be. what then led borron to connect the sacramental vessel with the joseph legend? in answering this question the later miraculous properties of the grail must be forgotten, and it must be remembered that with borron it is only a vessel of "grace;" this is shown in the history of (moys) the false disciple, which obviously follows in its details the account of the last supper, and of the detection of judas by means of the dish into which jesus dips a sop, bidding the betrayer take and eat. borron's first table being an exact copy of the last supper one, _his_ holy vessel has the property of that used by christ. in so far borron was led to his conception by the story as told in the canonical books; what help did he get from the apocrypha? his mention of the veronica legend and certain details in his presentment of vespasian's vengeance on the jews (_e.g._, his selling thirty for a penny) show him to have known the vindicta salvatoris, in which joseph of arimathea appears telling of his former captivity from which christ himself had delivered him. thus borron knew of joseph's living when vespasian came to jerusalem. from the gesta pilati he had full information respecting the imprisonment of joseph; he combined the accounts of these two apocryphal works, substituting a simple visit of christ to joseph for the deliverance as told in the gesta pilati, and making vespasian the deliverer, whereto he may have been urged by suetonius' account of the freeing of _josephus_ by vespasian (vesp. ch. v.). but why should joseph become the grail-keeper? because the fortunes of the vessel used by the saviour symbolise those of the saviour's body; as _that_ was present at the last supper, was brought to pilate, handed over to joseph, was buried, and after three days arose, so with the grail. compare, too, christ's words to joseph (892, etc.) in which the symbolical connection of the laying in the grave and the mass is fully worked out. thus joseph who laid christ's body in the grave is the natural guardian of the symbol which commemorates that event, thus, too, the grail is the natural centre point of all the symbolism of mass and sacrament, and thus the grail found its place in the joseph legend, ultimately becoming its most important feature. need perceval's question detain us? may it not be explained by the fact that as joseph had to apply twice for christ's body, so his representative, the grail-seeker, had to apply twice for the symbol of christ's body, the grail? but it is, perhaps, best to consider the question and the fisher king's weakness as inventions of borron's, possibly derived from breton sources, the ease with which the hero fulfils a task explained to him beforehand favouring such a view. borron, it must be noticed, had no great inventive power; in the joseph he is all right so long as he has the legend to follow; in the merlin and the perceval he clings with equal helplessness to the breton sagas, confining himself to weaving clumsily the adventures of the grail into the regular arthur legend. the question as to the authorship of the grand st. graal and the queste, the latter so confidently attributed to w. map, may now profitably be investigated. map, who we know flourished 1143-1210 (see _supra_, p. 5), took part in all the political and social movements of his time. if we believe the testimony of the mss. which ascribe to him the authorship of the following romances: (1) the lancelot, in three parts; (2) the queste; (3) the mort artur; (4) the grand st. graal, he would seem to have shown a literary activity quite incompatible with his busy life, when it is remembered how slow literary composition was in those days. nor can it be reconciled with the words of giraldus cambrensis,[65] although paulin paris (rom. i. 472) has attempted such a reconciliation by the theory that the words _dicere_ and _verba dare_ referred to composition in the vernacular, and that map was opposing not his _oratorical_ to gerald's _literary_ activity, but his _french_ to gerald's _latin_ works. against this initial improbability and gerald's positive testimony must be set, it is true, the witness of writers of the time and of the mss. the most important is that of hélie de borron in his prologue to guiron le courtois.[66] after telling how luces de gast was the first to translate from the latin book into french, and he did part of the story of tristan, he goes on: "apriés s'en entremist maistre gautiers map qui fu clers au roi henry et devisa cil l'estoire de monseigneur lancelot du lac, que d'autre chose ne parla il mie gramment en son livre. messiers robers de borron s'en entremist après. je helis de borron, par la prière monseigneur de borron, et pour ce que compaignon d'armes fusmes longement, en commençai mon livre du bret." again in the epilogue to the bret,[67] "je croi bien touchier sor les livres que maistres gautiers maup fist, qui fit lou propre livre de monsoingnour lancelot dou lac; et des autres granz livres que messires robert de berron fit, voudrai-je prendre aucune flor de la matière ... en tel meniere que li livres de monsoingnour luces de gant et de maistre gautier maapp et ciz de monsoingnour robert de berron qui est mes amis et mes paranz charnex s'acourderont au miens livres--et je qui sui appelex helyes de berron qui fui engendrez dou sanc des gentix paladins des barres qui de tous tens ont été commendeour et soingnor d'outres en roménie qui ores est appelée france." now hélie cannot possibly belong to the reign of henry ii (+ 1189) as asserted by hucher (p. 59), as he speaks of map in the past tense (_fu_ clers), and map outlived henry, moreover the mention of romenie proves the passage to have been written after the foundation of the latin empire in 1304. hélie's testimony is thus not that of an immediate contemporary, and it only shows that shortly after map's death the lancelot was ascribed to him. it is, moreover, in so far tainted, that he speaks with equal assurance respecting the great latin book which of course never existed; nor can we believe him when he says that he was the comrade of robert de borron, as this latter wrote before chrestien, and must have been at least thirty years older than hélie, who in the guiron (written about 1220) calls himself a young man. how is it with the testimony of the mss.? those of the lancelot have unfortunately lost their colophon, owing to the queste being almost invariably added; those of the queste show as a rule a colophon such as the one quoted by paulin paris from the bibl. nat., ms. 6,963 (mss. franç ii., p. 361): "maistre gautiers map les estrait pour son livre faire dou saint-graal, pour l'amor del roy henri son seignor, qui fist l'estore translater dou latin en françois." a similar statement occurs in a ms. of the mort artur (bib. nat. 6,782.). both are equally credible. now as the king can only be henry ii (+ 1189) and as the queste preceded the mort artur it must be put about 1185, and chrestien's conte du graal about 1180, an improbably early date when it is recollected that the conte du graal is chrestien's last work. the form, too, of these colophons, expressed as they are in the third person, so different from the garrulous first person complacency with which luces de gast and hélie de borron announce their authorship, excites the suspicion that we have here not the author's own statement, but that of a copyist following a traditional ascription. whether or no map wrote the lancelot, it may safely be assumed that he did not write the queste, or _a fortiori_ the grand st. graal. the tradition as to his authorship of these romances may have originated in geoffrey's mention of the gualterus archidiaconus oxenfordensis, to whom he owed his ms. of the historia regum britanniae. a similar instance of traditional ascription on the part of the copyist may be noted in the mss. of the grand st. graal, the author of which is declared to be robert de borron. the ordinary formulæ (quoted _supra_, p. 5) should be compared with borron's own words in the joseph (_supra_, p. 5) and the difference in form noted. what proves these passages to be interpolations is that the author of the grand st. graal especially declares in his prologue that his name must remain a secret. the colophons in question are simply to be looked upon as taken over from the genuine ascription of borron's poem, and there is no positive evidence as to the authorship of either the queste or the grand st. graal; both works are probably french in origin, as is shown by the mention of meaux in the grand st. graal. as for the date of borron's poem, a _terminus ad quem_ is fixed by that of the conte du graal (1180); and as the poem is dedicated to gautier of montbeliard, who can hardly have been born before 1150, and who must have attained a certain age before he could become robert's patron, it must fall between the years 1170 and 1190. the results of the investigation may be summed up as follows: the origin of the grail romances must be sought for in a christian legend based partly upon the canonical, partly upon the uncanonical, writings. this christian legend was woven into the breton sagas by the author of the oldest grail romance; the theories of provençal spanish, or celtic origin are equally untenable, nor is there any need to countenance the fable of a latin original. chronologically, the versions arrange themselves thus:- (1) between 1170 and 1190 (probably about 1183) robert de borron wrote his trilogy: joseph of arimathea--merlin--perceval. sources: christian legend (acta, pilati, descensus christi, vindicta salvatoris) and breton sagas (brut?). here the grail is simply a vessel of grace. (2) about 1189 chrestien began his conte du graal, the main source of which was the third part of borron's poem. marvellous food properties attributed to the grail; introduction of the bleeding lance, silver dish, and magic sword. (3) between 1190 and 1200 gautier de doulens continued chrestien's poem. main sources, third part of (1) and first part of same for early history--introduction of broken sword. (4) between 1190 and 1200 (but after gautier?) the queste du st. graal written as continuation to the lancelot. sources (1) and (2) (for lance) and perhaps (3). new personages, mordrain, nascien, etc., introduced into early history. (5) before 1204 grand st. graal written, mainly resting upon (4) but with use also of first part of (1). (6) between 1214 and 1220. manessier's continuation of the conte du graal. for the early history (5) made use of. (7) before 1225 gerbert of montreuil's additions to manessier. both (4) and (5) used. (8) about 1225 perceval li gallois; compiled from all the previous versions.[68] that part of birch-hirschfeld's theory which excited the most attention in germany bore upon the relationship of wolfram to chrestien (see _infra_, appendix a). in other respects his theory won very general acceptance. the commendatory notices were, however, of a slight character, and no new facts were adduced in support of his thesis. one opponent, however, he found who did more than rest his opposition upon the view of wolfram's relationship to chrestien. this was e. martin, who ("zeitschrift für d. alterthumskunde," 1878, pp. 84 etc.) traversed most of birch-hirschfeld's conclusions. whilst accepting the priority of queste over grand st. graal he did not see the necessity of fixing 1204 as a _terminus ad quem_ for the latter work as we now have it, as helinandus' statement might have referred to an older version; if the grand st. graal could not be dated neither could the queste. as for the didot-perceval there was nothing to prove that it was either borron's work or the source of chrestien and gautier. birch-hirschfeld's arguments to show the interpolation of the lance passages were unsound; it was highly improbable either that chrestien should have used the perceval as alleged, or that borron, the purely religious writer of the joseph, should have changed his style so entirely in the perceval. moreover, birch-hirschfeld made borron dedicate a work to gautier of montbeliard before 1183 when the latter must have been quite a young man, nor was there any reason to discredit hélie de borron's testimony that he and robert had been companions in arms, a fact incredible had the one written forty years before the other. the work of chrestien and his continuators must be looked upon as the oldest we had of the grail cycle. it was likely that older versions had been lost. a latin version might well have existed, forms such as joseph de barimaschie (_i.e._, ab arimathea) pointed to it. martin followed up this attack in his "zur gralsage, untersuchungen," strasburg, 1880. a first section is devoted to showing that wolfram must have had other sources than chrestien, and that in consequence such portions of his presentment as differ from chrestien's must be taken into account in reconstructing the original form of the romance. the second and third sections deal with heinrich von dem türlin's "die crone," and with the earliest form of the tradition. gawain's second visit to the grail castle, as told of by heinrich (_supra_, p. 26) has features in common with the widely-spread traditions of aged men slumbering in caves or ruined castles, unable to die until the right word is uttered which breaks their spell. this conception differs from the one found in all the other versions inasmuch as in them the wonder-working question releases, not from unnaturally prolonged life, but from sore disease. can a parallel be found in celtic tradition to this sufferer awaiting deliverance? does not arthur, wounded well nigh to death by his nephew modred, pass a charmed life in avalon, whither morgan la fay carried him for his healing, and shall he not return thence to free his folk? the original conception is mythic--the summer god banished by the winter powers, but destined to come back again. the _sage_ of arthur's waiting, often in some subterranean castle, is widely spread, two of the earliest notices (those of gervasius of tilbury, in the "otia imperialia," p. 12 of liebrecht's edition, and of caesarius of heisterbach) connect it with etna--the tradition had followed the norman conquerors of sicily thither--and from sicily it would seem to have penetrated to germany, being first found in german tradition as told of frederick ii. again gerald (a.d. 1188) in the "itinerarium cambriae" (frankfort, 1603, p. 827, l. 48) tells of a mountain chain in the south-east of wales: "quorum principalis cadair arthur dicitur i. cathedra arthuri, propter gemina promontorii cacumina in cathedrae modum se praeferentia. et quoniam in alto cathedra et in ardua sita est, summo et maximo britonum regi arthuro vulgari nuncupatione est assignata." the eildon hills may be noted in the same connection, "in which all the arthurian chivalry await, in an enchanted sleep, the bugle blast of the adventurer who will call them at length to a new life" (stuart glennie, "arthurian localities," p. 60). if the grail king is arthur, the bleeding lance is evidently the weapon wherewith he was so sorely wounded. and the grail? this is originally a symbol of plenty, of a joyous and bountiful life, hence of avalon, that land of everlasting summer beyond the waves, wherein, as the vita merlini has it, they that visit arthur find "planitiem omnibus deliciis plenam." of those versions of the romance in which the christian conception of the grail is predominant, robert de borron's poem (composed about 1200) is the earliest, and in it, _maugre_ the christianising of the story, the celtic basis is apparent: the grail host go a questing avalonwards; the first keepers are brons and alain, purely celtic names, the former of which may be compared with bran; the empty seat calls to mind the _eren stein_ in ulrich von zatzikhoven's lanzelot, whereof (verse 5,178) _ist gesaget daz er den man niht vertruoc an dem was valsch oder haz_. admitting the purely christian origin of the grail leads to this difficulty: the vessel in which christ's blood was received was a bowl, not an open or flat dish like that used in commemoration of the last supper. evidently the identification of the grail with the last supper cup is the latest of a series of transformations. nor can the christian origin of the legend be held proved by the surname of fisher given to the grail-keeper. true, neither chrestien nor wolfram explains this surname, whilst in borron's poem there is at least a fish caught. but if the fish had really the symbolic meaning ascribed to it would not a far greater stress be laid upon it? in any case this one point is insufficient to prove the priority of borron, and it is simpler to believe that the surname of fisher had in the original celtic tradition a significance now lost. birch-hirschfeld's theory supposes, too, a development contrary to that observed elsewhere in mediæval tradition. the invariable course is from the racial-heathen to the christian legendary stage. is it likely that in the twelfth century, a period of such highly developed mystic fancy, an originally christian legend should lose its mystic character and become a subject for minstrels to exercise their fancy upon? in the earlier form of the romance there is an obvious contrast between the task laid upon the grail quester and that laid upon gawain at castle marvellous. the first has suffered change by its association with christian legend; but the second, even in those versions influenced by the legend, has retained its primitive celtic character. the trials which gawain has to undergo may be compared with those imposed on him who seeks to penetrate into the underworld, as pictured in the purgatorium s. patricii, in the visio tnugdali, etc. this agrees well with the presentment of castle marvellous, an underworld realm where dwell four queens long since vanished from arthur's court, and which, according to chrestien (verse 9,388), gawain, having once found, may no longer leave. one of these queens is arthur's mother, whom a magician had carried off, a variant it would seem of the tradition which makes arthur's father, uther, win igerne from her husband by merlin's magic aid. many other reminiscences of celtic tradition may be found in the romances--orgeleuse, whom gawain finds sitting under a tree by a spring, is just such a water fairy as may be met with throughout the whole range of celtic folk-lore, and differs profoundly from the germanic conception of such beings. w. hertz, in his "sage vom parzival und dem gral" (breslau, 1882) following, in the main, birch-hirschfeld, lays stress upon the two elements, "_legend_" and "_sage_" out of which the romance cycle has sprung. he does not overlook many of the weak points in birch-hirschfeld's theory, _e.g._, whilst fully accepting the fish caught by bron as the symbol of christ, he notices that the incident as found in robert de borron, whom he accepts as the first in date of the cycle writers, is not of such importance as to justify the stress laid upon the nickname "rich fisher," by all the _ex hypothesi_ later writers. the word "rich" must, he thinks, have originally referred to the abundant power of conversion of heathen vouchsafed to the grail-keeper, but even robert failed to grasp the full force of the allusion. against birch-hirschfeld he maintains that the connection of joseph with the conversion of britain in all the versions shows that the legend must have assumed definite shape first on british soil, and he looks upon the separatist and anti-papal tendencies of the british church as supplying the original impulse to such a legend. the grail belongs originally wholly to the "legend;" only in the later versions and in wolfram, owing to the latter's ignorance of its real nature, does it assume a magic and popular character. the lance, on the other hand, is partly derived from the celtic _sage_. the boyhood of perceval is a genuine folk-story, a great-fool tale, and had originally nothing to do with the grail, as may plainly be seen by reference to the thornton sir perceval, the most primitive form of the story remaining, the mabinogi, and the modern breton tale of peronnik, deriving directly or indirectly from chrestien. as for the question, although it presented much that seemed to refer it to folk-tradition, as for instance in heinrich von dem türlin's version, where gawain's putting the question releases the lord of the castle and his retainers from the enchantment of life-in-death, yet the form of the question, "je vos prie que vous me diez que l'en sert de cest vessel," shows its original connection with the grail cultus, and necessitates its reference to the "legend." existing versions fail, however, to give any satisfactory account of the question. it is a matter of conjecture whether in the earliest form of the legend (which hertz assumes to have been lost) it was found in the same shape as in the didot-perceval. birch-hirschfeld's theory has already been implicitly criticised in chapter iii. the considerations adduced therein, as well as martin's criticisms and hertz's admissions, preclude the necessity of examining it in further detail. formally speaking, the theory rests upon the assumption that we have borron's work substantially as he wrote it, an assumption which, as shown by the difference in _motif_ between the metrical joseph and the didot-perceval, is inaccurate. again, the theory does not account for the silence of all the other versions respecting brons and that special conception of the grail found in borron's poem. nor does it offer any satisfactory explanation of the mysterious question which birch-hirschfeld can only conjecture to have been a meaningless invention, _eine harmlose erfindung_, of borron's. in fact, only such, portions of the cycle are exhaustively examined as admit of reference to the alleged originating idea, and a show of rigorous deduction is thus made, the emptiness of which becomes apparent when the entire legend, and not one portion only, is taken into account. despite the learning and acuteness with which it is urged, birch-hirschfeld's theory must be rejected, if it were only because, as martin points out, it postulates a development of the legend which is the very opposite of the normal one. we cannot admit that this vast body of romance sprang from a simple but lofty spiritual conception, the full significance of which, unperceived even by its author, was totally ignored, not only, were that possible, by chrestien and his continuators, but by the theologising mystics who wrote the grand st. graal and the queste--aye, and even by the latest and in some respects the most theologically minded of all the writers of the cycle, the author of the prose perceval le gallois and gerbert. we must say, with otto küpp (zacher's zeitschrift, xvii, 1, p. 68), "die jetzt versuchte christliche motivierung ist ganz unglücklich geraten und kann in keiner weise befriedigen." the field is thus clear for an examination of the quest with a view to determining whether the grail really belongs to it or not. the first step is to see what relationship exists between the oldest form of the quest and what have been called the non-grail members of the cycle--_i.e._, the mabinogi of peredur ab evrawc and the thornton ms. sir perceval. as preliminary to this inquiry, an attempt must be made to determine more closely the relationship of the didot-perceval to the conte du graal--whether it be wholly derived from the latter, or whether it may have preserved through other sources traces of a different form of the story than that found in chrestien.[69] chapter v. relationship of the didot-perceval to the conte du graal--the former not the source of the latter--relationship of the conte du graal and the mabinogi--instances in which the mabinogi has copied chrestien--examples of its independence--the incident of the blood drops in the snow--differences between the two works--the machinery of the mabinogi and the traces of it in the conte du graal--the stag-hunt--the mabinogi and manessier--the sources of the conte du graal and the relation of the various parts to a common original--sir perceval--steinbach's theory--objections to it--the counsels in the conte du graal--wolfram and the mabinogi--absence of the grail from the apparently oldest celtic form. in examining the relationship of the didot-perceval to the conte du graal, the sequence of the incidents is of importance. this is shown in the subjoined table (where the numbers given are those of the incidents as summarized, chapter ii), in which the didot-perceval sequence is taken as the standard. -------------------------------------------------------------- didot-perceval. | chrestien. | --------------------------------|-----------------------------| inc. |inc. | 2. perceval sets forth in |11. only after the reproaches| quest of the rich fisher. | of the loathly damsel | | does perceval first set | | forth in quest of the | | grail. | | | 3. finds a damsel weeping over | 8. in so far as finding a | a knight. adventure with | damsel weeping over a | dwarf and the orgellos | dead knight, and (9) for | delande. | overcoming the orgellous | | de la lande. | | | 4. arrival at the chessboard | ... ... ... ... | castle. adventure of the | | stag hunt and loss of the | | hound. | | | | 5. meeting with sister; | ... ... ... ... | instruction concerning the | | grail; vow to seek it. | | | | 6. meeting with, confession |15. _after_ the good friday | to, and exhortation from | incident. | hermit uncle. | | | | 7. disregard of uncle's | ... ... ... ... | exhortations (slaying a | | knight), through thinking | | of damsel of the | | chessboard. | | | | 8. meeting with rosette and | ... ... ... ... | le beau mauvais (the | | loathly damsel). | | | | 9. adventure at the ford with | ... ... ... ... | urbains. | | | | 10. the two children in the | ... ... ... ... | tree. | | | | 11. first arrival at grail | 7. ... ... ... ... | castle. | | | | 12. reproaches of the wayside | 8. in so far as in both the | damsel. | hero is reproached by a | | wayside damsel. | | | 13. meeting with the damsel who | ... ... ... ... | had carried off the stag's | | head and hound, and second | | visit to castle of the | | chessboard. | | | | 14. period (7 years) of despair |15. ... ... ... ... | ended by the good friday | | incident. | | | | 15. tournament at melianz de |13. but told of gawain not | lis. merlin's reproaches. | of perceval. | | | 16. second arrival at grail | ... ... ... ... | castle achievement of quest.| | -------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------- gautier de doulens. -------------------------- inc. ... ... ... ... 9. in so far as a damsel is foundlamenting over a knight. 7 and 8. 12. 12. 12. in so far as a knight is slain, but _before_ the meeting with the hermit. 11. 9. ford amorous; _entirely different adventure_. 20. _one_ child. ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 13 and 18. many adventures being intercalated. ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 22. --------------------------the different sequence in the didot-perceval and chrestien may be explained, as birch-hirschfeld explains it, by the freedom which chrestien allowed himself in re-casting the work; but why should gautier, who, _ex hypothesi_, simply took up from chrestien's model such adventures as his predecessor had omitted, have acted in precisely the same way? if the theory were correct we should expect to find the non-chrestien incidents of the didot-perceval brought together in at least fairly the same order in gautier. a glance at the table shows that this is not the case. in one incident, moreover, the didot-perceval is obviously right and gautier obviously wrong, namely, in his incident 12, where the slaying of the knight before the hero's meeting the hermit takes away all point from the incident. an absolutely decisive proof that that portion of the conte du graal which goes under gautier's name (though it is by no means clear that all of it is of the same age or due to one man), cannot be based upon the didot-perceval as we now possess it, is afforded by the adventure of the ford amorous or perillous, which in the two versions is quite dissimilar. this incident stands out pre-eminent in the didot-perceval for its wild and fantastic character. it is a genuine celtic _märchen_, with much of the weird charm still clinging to it that is the birthright of the celtic folk-tale. it is inadmissible that gautier could have substituted for this fine incident the commonplace one which he gives. if, then, it is out of the question that gautier borrowed directly from the didot-perceval, how are the strong resemblances which exist in part between the two versions to be accounted for? some of these resemblances have already been quoted (_supra_, p. 75), the remainder may be usefully brought together here.[70] first arrival at the castle of the chessboard- didot-perceval. gautier. li plus biaux chasteaux del monde le bel castiel que je vos dis et vit le pont abeissié et la . . . . . porte deffermé (p. 439). et vit si bièles les entrées et les grans portes desfremées (22,395, etc.); the damsel exhorts him not to throw the chessman into the water- votre cors est esmeuz à grant car çou serait grans vilonie (22,503). vilainie faire (p. 440). perceval having slain the stag, sees its head carried off- si vint une veille sor un palestoi une pucièle de malaire grant aléure et prist le brachet vint cevauçant parmi la lande et s'en ala or tot (p. 442). voit le braket, plus ne demande par le coler d'orfrois le prist . . . . . . si s'en aloit grant aléure (22,604, etc.). on perceval threatening to take it away from her by force she answers- sire chevalier, force n'est mie force à faire n'est mie drois droit et force me poez bien et force me poés vos faire (22,640). faire (p. 443). in the subsequent fight with the knight of the tomb, he, overcome- se torna vers le tonbel grant que fuiant vait grant aléure aléure et li tombeaux s'enleva vers l'arket et la sepouture contre moultet chevalier s'en si est entrés plus tost qu'il pot feri enz (p. 444). (22,723, etc.). in the description of rosette (the loathly damsel)- ele avoit le col et les mains plus le col avoit plus noir que fer noires et le vier, que fer... (25,409). (p. 453). when the loathly damsel and her knight come to arthur's court, kay jests as follows:- lors pria (_i.e._, kay) le chevalier biaus sire, par la foi que il devoit, le roi, dites moi, si dex le vos mire, qui li déist où il l'avoit prise et si plus en a en vostre terre, si en porroit une autre tele avoir, une autèle en iroie querre si il l'aloit querre (p. 457). si jou le quidoie trover (25,691 etc.). these similarities are too great to be accidental. it will be noticed, however, that they bear chiefly upon two adventures: that of the chessboard and stag hunt, and that of the loathly maiden. as to the latter, it is only necessary to allude to birch-hirschfeld's idea that rosette is the original of the damsel who reproaches perceval before the court with his conduct at the grail castle, a theory to state which is to refute it. the former adventure will be closely examined in the following section. there is no need to suppose direct borrowing on the part of one or the other versions to account for the parallel in these two incidents; a common original closely followed at times by both would meet the requirements of the case. it is difficult to admit that the author of the didot-perceval used gautier's continuation and not chrestien's original, especially when the following fact, strangely overlooked by both birch-hirschfeld and hucher, is taken into account: perceval on his first arrival at the grail castle keeps silence (as will be seen by a reference to the summary, _supra_, p. 31), because, "li souvenoit du prodome qui li avoit deffandu que ne fust trop pallier," etc. as a matter of fact, the "prodome" had forbidden nothing of the sort, and this casual sentence is the first allusion to the motive upon which chrestien lays so much stress as explaining his hero's mysterious conduct at the grail castle. evidently the didot-perceval, which, to whoever considers it impartially, is an obvious abridgment and piecing together of material from different sources, found in one of its sources an episode corresponding to that of gonemans in chrestien. but its author, influenced probably by the galahad version of the quest, substituted for the "childhood" opening of this hypothetical source the one now found in his version, and the gonemans episode went with the remainder of that part of the story. when the hero comes to the grail castle, the author is puzzled; his hero knows beforehand what he has to do, sets out with the distinct purpose of doing it, and yet remains silent. to account for this silence the author uses the motive belonging to a discarded episode, but applies the words to his hermit, forgetting that he had put no such words into his mouth, and that, attributed to him, the injunction to keep silence became simply meaningless. is the model treated in this way by the didot-perceval chrestien's poem? hardly, for this reason. after the good friday incident occurs the remarkable passage, quoted (_supra_, p. 31), as to the silence of the _trouvères_ respecting it. chrestien gives the incident in full, and the author of the perceval could have had no reason for his stricture, or could not have ventured it had he been using chrestien's work. two hypotheses then remain; the unknown source may have been a version akin to that used by chrestien and gautier, or it may have been a summary abridgment of the conte du graal, in which, _inter alia_, the good friday incident was left out. in either case the presence of the passage in the perceval is equally hard of explanation; but the first hypothesis is favoured by the primitive character of the incident of the ford perillous, and several other features which will be touched upon in their place. the didot-perceval would thus be an attempt to provide an ending for borron's poem by adapting to its central _donnée_ a version of the perceval _sage_ akin to that which forms the groundwork of the conte du graal, its author being largely influenced by the galahad form of the quest as found in the _queste_. if this view be correct, the testimony of perceval (wherever not influenced by borron's poem or the _queste_) is of value in determining the original form of the story, the more so from the author's evident want of skill in piecing together his materials. it will, therefore, be used in the following section, which deals with the relationship of the conte du graal and the mabinogi of peredur ab evrawc. _relationship of the conte du graal and the mabinogi._--as was seen in chapter iv, opinion began with monsieur de villemarqué by accepting the mabinogi as the direct source of the conte du graal, and has ended with zarncke and birch-hirschfeld in looking upon it as a more or less direct copy. the most competent of living scholars in this matter, m. gaston paris, has expressed himself in favour of this opinion in his recent article on the lancelot story (romania, 1886).[71] before dealing with the question as presented in this form, simrock's view, differing as it does from that of all other investigators, deserves notice. he, too, looks upon the mabinogi as derived from chrestien, and yet bases his interpretation of the myth underlying the romance upon a feature, the bleeding head in the dish, found only in it. but if the mabinogi have really preserved here the genuine form of the myth, it must represent an older version than chrestien's, and if, on the other hand, chrestien be its only source, the feature in question cannot belong to the earliest form of the story. simrock's theory stands then or falls in this respect by the view taken of the relationship between the two versions, and need not be discussed until that view has been stated. to facilitate comparison, the incidents common to the two stories are tabulated as under, those of the mabinogi being taken as the standard:- mabinogi. conte du graal. inc. inc. _chrestien._ 1. encounter with the knights. 1. 2. adventure with the damsel of 2. the tent. 3. avenging of the insult to 3 and 4. guinevere; incident of the dwarves; departure from court. 5. arrival at house of first uncle 5. gonemans. (found fishing); instruction in arms. 6. arrival at house of second uncle 7. uncle found fishing; (grail castle). first sight of talismans, grail and lance. the talismans (head in basin and lance). 7. reproaches of foster-sister whom 8. reproached by his cousin; also he finds lamenting over a dead instructed by her about the knight. magic sword. 8. adventure with the damsel of the 6. blanchefleur, gonemant's besieged castle who offers niece. herself to hero. 9. second meeting with the lady of 9. the tent. 10. first encounter with the sorceresses of gloucester, who are forced to desist from assailing hero's hostess. 11. adventure of the drops of blood 10. in the snow. 20. reproaching of peredur before 11. the court by the loathly damsel. 21. gwalchmai's adventure with the 14. lady whose father he had slain. 22. peredur's meeting the knight on 15. hermit, hero's uncle. good friday, and confession to priest. _gautier._ 24. arrival at the castle of wonders inc. 7, 8, and partly 13 and 18. (chessboard castle); stag hunt; loss of dog; fight with the black man of the cromlech. 25. second arrival at the (grail) 22. in so far as gautier ends his castle; achievement of the quest part of the story here with by destruction of sorceresses of the hero's second arrival at gloucester. "thus it is related the grail castle, but no concerning the castle of similarity in the incidents. wonders." the sequence is thus exactly the same in the mabinogi and in chrestien, with the single exception of the blanchefleur incident, which, in the french poem precedes, in the welsh tale follows, the first visit to the grail castle. the similarity of order is sufficient of itself to warrant the surmise of a relation such as that of copy to original. if the mabinogi be examined closely, much will be found to strengthen this surmise. thus, birch-hirschfeld has pointed out that when peredur first sees the knights, and on asking his mother what they may be, receives the answer, "angels, my son"; this can only be a distorted reminiscence of perceval's own exclamation, ... ha! sire dex, merchi! ce sont angle que je voi ci! (1,349-50). as the hero's mother would be the last person to describe thus the knights whom she has done her best to guard her son from knowledge of. again, simrock has criticised, and with reason, the incident of peredur's being acclaimed by the dwarf on his arrival at arthur's court as the chief of warriors and flower of knighthood. in the corresponding incident in chrestien, the hero is told laughingly by a damsel that he should become the best knight in the world, and she had not laughed for ten years, as a fool had been wont to declare. this is an earlier form than that of the mabinogi, and closer to the folk-tale account. thus, to take one instance only, in mr. kennedy's giolla na chroicean gobhar (fellow with the goat-skin) [fictions of the irish celts, p. 23], the hero comes to the king of dublin, as peredur to arthur, clad in skins and armed with a club. "now, the king's daughter was so melancholy that she didn't laugh for seven years, but when she saw tom of the goat-skin knock over all her father's best champions, then she let a great sweet laugh out of her," and of course tom marries her, but not until he has been through all sorts of trials, aye, even to hell itself and back. in chrestien, the primitive form is already overlaid; we hear nothing further of the damsel moved to laughter nor of the prophetic fool; and in the mabinogi it seems obvious that the hailing of the hero, added in chrestien to the older laughter, has alone subsisted. birch-hirschfeld takes exception likewise to the way in which peredur's two uncles are brought upon the scene, the first one, corresponding to gonemans in chrestien, being found fishing instead of the real fisher king, the lord of the castle of the magic talismans, whilst at the latter's, peredur has to undergo trials of his strength belonging properly to his stay at the first uncle's. evidently, says birch-hirschfeld, there has been a confusion of the two personages. again, when peredur leaves his second uncle on the morrow of seeing the bleeding head and spear, it is said, "he rode forth with his uncle's permission." can these words be a reminiscence of chrestien's? et trueve le pont abaiscié, con li avoit ensi laissié por ce que rien nel detenist, de quele eure qu'il venist que il ne passat sans arriest (4,565-69). we shall see later on that in the most primitive form of the unsuccessful visit to the castle of the talismans the hero finds himself on the morrow on the bare earth, the castle itself having vanished utterly. the idea of permission being given to leave is diametrically opposed to this earliest conception, and its presence in the mabinogi seems only capable of explanation by some misunderstanding of the story-teller's model. the blanchefleur incident shows some verbal parallels, "the maiden welcomed peredur and put her arms around his neck." et la damosele le prent par le main débonnairement (3,025-26) et voit celi ajenouillie devant son lit qui le tenoit par le col embraciet estroit (3,166-68). can, too, the "two nuns," who bring in bread and wine, be due to the "il abéies," which perceval sees on entering blanchefleur's town? it may be noticed that in this scene the welsh story-teller is not only more chaste, but shows much greater delicacy of feeling than the french poet. peredur's conduct is that of a gentleman according to nineteenth century standards. chrestien, however, is probably nearer the historical reality, and the conduct of his pair- s'il l'a sor le covertoir mise * * * * ensi giurent tote la nuit. is so singularly like that of a welsh _bundling_ couple, that it seems admissible to refer the colouring given to this incident to welsh sources. another scene presenting marked similarities in the two works is that in which the hero is upbraided before the court by the loathly damsel. in the mabinogi she enters riding upon a _yellow_ mule with _jagged thongs_: in chrestien- sor une _fauve mule_ et tint en sa main destre une escorgie (5,991-2). "blacker were her face and her two hands than the blackest iron covered with pitch." ains ne véistes si noir fer come ele ot les mains et le cor (5,998-99). "and she greeted arthur and all his household except peredur." le roi et ses barons salue tout ensamble comunalment fors ke perceval seulement (6,020-3). in the mabinogi, peredur is reproached for not having asked about the streaming spear; in chrestien "la lance qui saine" is mentioned first although the grail is added. had peredur asked the meaning and cause of the wonders, the "king would have been restored to health, and his dominions to peace." li rices rois qui moult s'esmaie fust or tos garis de sa plaie et si tenist sa tière en pais (6,049-51). whereas now "his knights will perish, and wives will be widowed, and maidens will be left portionless"- dames en perdront lor maris, tières en seront essilies, et pucièles desconsellies; orfenes, veves en remanront et maint chevalier en morront (6,056, etc.). in the "stately castle" where dwells the loathly damsel, are five hundred and sixty-six knights, and "the lady whom he loves best with each," in "castle orguellos" five hundred and seventy, and not one "qui n'ait s'amie avoeques lui." "and whoever would acquire fame in arms and encounters and conflicts, he will gain it there if he desire it." que la ne faut nus ki i alle, qui la ne truist joste u batalle; qui viout faire chevalerie, si là le quiert, n'i faura mie (6,075, etc.). "and whoso would reach the summit of fame and honour, i know where he may find it. there is a castle on a lofty mountain, and there is a maiden therein, and she is detained a prisoner there, and whoever shall set her free will attain the summit of the fame of the world." mais ki vorroit le pris avoir de tout le mont, je quie savoir le liu et la pièce de terre u on le porroit mius conquerre; * * * * a une damoisièle assise; moult grant honor aroit conquise, qui le siège en poroit oster et la pucièle délivrer (6,080, etc.). in this last case certainly, in the other cases probably, a direct influence, to the extent at least of the passages quoted, must be admitted. but before concluding hastily that the welsh story-teller is the copyist, some facts must be mentioned on the other side. thus the incident of the blood drops in the snow, which birch-hirschfeld sets down as one of those taken over by the mabinogi, with the remark that the welsh story contains no trace of a passion as strong as perceval's for blanchefleur, has been dealt with by professor h. zimmer in his "keltische studien," vol. ii, pp. 200. he refers to the awakening of deirdre's love to noisi by similar means, as found in the irish saga of the sons of usnech (oldest ms. authority, book of leinster, copied before 1164 from older mss.) as evidence of the early importance of this _motif_ in celtic tradition. the passage runs thus in english: "as her foster-father was busy in winter time skinning a calf out in the snow, she beheld a raven which drank up the blood in the snow; and she exclaimed, 'such a man could i love, and him only, having the three colours, his hair like the raven, his cheeks like the blood, his body like the snow.'" now the mabinogi says, almost in the same words--the blackness of the raven and the whiteness of the snow, and the redness of the blood he compared to the hair and the skin and the two red spots upon the cheek of the lady that best he loved. in chrestien there is no raven, and the whole stress is laid upon the _three_ drops of blood on the snow, which put the hero in mind of the red and white of his lady's face. as zimmer justly points out, the version of the mabinogi is decidedly the more primitive of the two; and that, moreover, as the incident does not figure at all in what birch-hirschfeld presumes to be chrestien's source, the didot-perceval, the following development of this incident must, _ex hypothesi_, have taken place. in the didot-perceval the hero is once upon a time lost in thought. to explain this, chrestien invents the incident of the three drops of blood in the snow; the mabinogi, copying chrestien, presents the incident in almost as primitive a form as the oldest known one! here, then, the mabinogi has preserved an older form than chrestien, alleged to have been its source in all those parts common to both. nor is it certain that the fact of peredur's undergoing the sword-test in the talisman castle _does_ show, as birch-hirschfeld maintains, that the welsh story-teller confused the two personages whom he took over from chrestien, gonemans and the fisher king. the sword incident will be examined later on; suffice here to say that no explanation is given in the conte du graal of the broken weapon; whereas the mabinogi does give a simple and natural one. but these two instances cannot weaken the force of the parallels adduced above. in determining, however, whether these may not be due to chrestien's being the borrower, the differences between the two versions are of even more importance than the similarities. what are these? the french romances belonging to the perceval type of the grail quest give two versions of the search for the magic talismans, that of the conte du graal and that of the didot-perceval. the latter pre-supposes an early history which, as already shown, cannot be looked upon as the starting point of the legend without postulating such a development of the latter as is inadmissible on _a priori_ grounds, and as runs counter to many well-ascertained facts. the former is not consistent with itself, manessier's finish contradicting chrestien's opening on such an essential point as the cause of the maimed king's suffering. still the following outline of a story, much overlaid by apparently disconnected adventures, may be gathered from it. a hero has to seek for magic talismans wherewith to heal an uncle wounded by his brother, and at the same time to avenge him on that brother. what, on the other hand, is the story as told in the mabinogi? a hero is minded by talismans to avenge the death of a cousin (and the harming of an uncle); it is not stated that the talismans pass into his possession. it is difficult to admit that either of these forms can have served as direct model to the other. if the mabinogi be a simple copy of the conte du graal, whence the altered significance of the talismans? whence also the machinery by means of which the hero is at last brought to his goal, and which is, briefly, as follows? the woe which has befallen peredur's kindred is caused by supernatural beings, the sorceresses of gloucester; his ultimate achievement of the task is brought about by his cousin, who, to urge him on, assumes the form (1) of the black and loathly damsel; (2) of the damsel of the chessboard, who incites him to the ysbydinongyl adventure, reproves him for not slaying the black man at once, and then urges him into the stag hunt; (3) of the lady who carries off the hound and sends him to fight against the black man of the cromlech; "and the cousin it was who came in the hall with the bloody head in the salver and the lance dripping blood." the whole of the incidents connected with the castle of the chessboard, which appear at such length in both the conte du graal and the didot-perceval, but without being in any way connected with the main thread of the story, thus form in the mabinogi an integral portion of that main thread. would the authors of the conte du graal have neglected the straight-forward version of the welsh tale had they known it, or could, on the other hand, the author of the mabinogi have worked up the disconnected incidents of his alleged model into an organic whole? neither hypothesis is likely. moreover the conte du graal and the didot-perceval, if examined with care, show distinct traces of a machinery similar to that of the welsh story. thus in chrestien, perceval, on arriving at the fisher king's, sees a squire bringing into the room a sword of such good steel that it might break in but one peril, and this the king's niece (_i.e._, perceval's cousin) had sent her uncle to bestow it as he pleased; and the king gives it to the hero for- ... biaus frère ceste espée vous fu jugie et destineé (4,345-6). after perceval's first adventure at the grail castle it is his "germaine cousine" (4,776) who assails him with her reproaches; she knows all about the sword (4,835-38) and tells him, how, if it be broken he may have it mended (4,847-59). so far chrestien, who furthermore, be it noted, makes blanchefleur perceval's lady-love, likewise his cousin, she being niece to gonemans (3,805-95). a cousin is thus beloved of him, a cousin procures for him the magic sword, a cousin, as in the mabinogi, incites him to the fulfilment of the quest, and gives him advice which we cannot doubt would have been turned to account by chrestien had he finished his poem. turning now to gautier, in whose section of the poem are to be found the various adventures growing out of the chessboard incident, this difference between the mabinogi and himself may be noted. in the former, these adventures caused by peredur's cousin serve apparently as tests of the hero's strength and courage. the loss of the chessboard is the starting-point of the task, and the cousin reappears as the black maiden. nothing of the sort is found in gautier. true, the damsel who reproaches perceval is in so far supernatural, as she is a kind of water-nix, but it is love for her which induces the hero to perform the task; she it is, too, who lends him the dog, and she is not identified with the "pucelle de malaire" who carries it off (22,604, etc.). but later on perceval meets a knight who tells him that a daughter of the fisher king's (thus also a cousin of perceval) had related to him how a knight had carried off a stag's head and hound to anger another good knight who had been at her father's court, and had not asked as he should concerning the grail, for which reason she had taken his hound and had refused him help to follow the robber knight (23,163, etc.). this makes the "pucelle de malaire" to be perceval's cousin, and she plays the same _rôle_ as in the mabinogi. true, when later on (incident 13) perceval finds the damsel, nothing is said as to her being the fisher king's daughter; on the contrary, as will be seen by the summary, a long story is told about the knight of the tomb, brother to her knight, garalas, and how he lived ten years with a fay. she is here quite distinct from the lady of the chessboard to whom perceval returns later. the version found in the didot-perceval agrees with the mabinogi as against gautier in so far that the hero is in love with the mistress of the castle, and not with the damsel who reproaches him for throwing away the chessmen. this reproaching damsel is not in any way identified with the lady who carries off the hound, who is described as "une vieille," and of whom it is afterwards told "elle estoit quand elle voloit une des plus belles damoiselles du monde. et est cele meismes que mon frère (the brother of the knight of the tomb, who here, as in gautier, is the lover of a fay) amena à la forest," _i.e._, she is the fay herself, sister to the lady of the chessboard castle, who hated her and wished to diminish her and her knight's pride (p. 469). here, again, a connection can be pieced out between the various personages of the adventure; and it appears that the hero is driven to his fight against the knight of the tomb by a fair damsel transformed into a mysterious hag.[72] the mabinogi thus gives one consistently worked-out conception--transformed hag = peredur's cousin--which may be recovered partly from that one of the two discordant versions found in gautier which makes the pucelle de malaire to be the fisher king's daughter, hence perceval's cousin, and connects the stag hunt with the grail incident, partly from the didot-perceval, which tells how the same pucelle de malaire is but playing a part, being when she wills one of the fairest maids of the world. now we have seen that the stag hunt is just one of those portions of the story in which are found the closest verbal similarities between gautier de doulens and the didot-perceval. it is, therefore, perplexing to find that there is not more likeness in the details of the incident. but the similarities pointed out concern chiefly the first part of the incident, and are less prominent in the latter part (the hero's encounter with the knight of the tomb). this, taken together with the difference in the details of the incident just pointed out, strengthens the opinion expressed above, that the didot-perceval and gautier are not connected directly but through the medium of a common source, the influence of which can be seen distinctly in certain portions of either story, and that when this source fails they go widely asunder in their accounts. that such an hypothesis is not unreasonable is shown by the fact that gautier has two contradictory forms of this very story, one of which, that which makes the hound-stealing damsel a daughter of the fisher king, is on all fours with the mabinogi, whilst the other is more akin to, though differing in important respects from, that of the didot-perceval. in this case, at least, gautier must have had two sources, and if two why not more? it may be urged in explanation of the similarities between gautier and the mabinogi, that the author of the latter used gautier in the same free way that he did chrestien, but that getting tired towards the close of his work he abridged in a much more summary fashion than at first. if the comparison of the versions of the stag hunt found in either work be not sufficient to refute this theory, the following consideration may be advanced against it: if the mabinogi derives entirely from the conte du graal, how can the different form given to the grail episode be accounted for?--if it only knew chrestien, where did it get the chessboard adventure from, and if it knew gautier as well as chrestien why did it not finish the grail adventure upon the same lines as it began, _i.e._, partly in conformity with its alleged model? is manessier any nearer than gautier to the mabinogi in the later portion of the tale? the chief points of the story told by him may be recapitulated thus:--the grail damsel is daughter of the fisher king, the damsel of the salver, daughter of king goon desert, his brother (_i.e._, both are cousins to perceval); goon desert, besieged by espinogre, defeats him, but is treacherously slain by his nephew partinal, the latter's sword breaking in the blow. goon's body is brought to the fisher king's castle, whither the broken sword is likewise brought by goon's daughter to be kept until a knight should come, join together the pieces, and avenge goon's death. in receiving the sword the fisher king wounds himself through the thighs, and may not be healed until he be avenged on partinal. perceval asks how he may find the murderer, the blood vengeance (faide = o.h.g. fehde) being on him. perceval fights with partinal, slays him, cuts off his head as token of his victory, returns to the fisher king's castle, lighting upon it by chance, heals the fisher king by the mere sight of the head, which is fixed on a pike on the highest battlements. at the death of his uncle perceval succeeds him as king of the grail castle. here, then, as in the mabinogi, the story turns definitely upon a blood feud; the same act which brings about the death of one relative of the hero, also causes, indirectly, it is true, the laming of another, even as in the mabinogi the same supernatural beings kill peredur's cousin and lame his uncle; the cousin reappears again, bringing the magic sword by whose aid alone the hero can accomplish the vengeance, and uttering the prediction the fulfilment of which will point out the destined avenger. finally, if the mabinogi seems to lay special stress upon the head of the murdered man, manessier lays special stress upon the head of the murderer. now it is quite evident that the mabinogi cannot have copied manessier. it has been alleged that the welsh story-teller, adapting chrestien to the taste of his fellow countrymen, substituted a blood feud for the grail quest, but what reason would he have had for thus dealing with manessier? he had simply to leave out the christian legendary details, which in manessier are, one can hardly say, adapted to the older form of the story, to find in that older form a clear and straightforward account with no admixture of mystical elements. it is impossible to explain the strong general similarity of outline with the equally marked divergences of detail (sorceresses of gloucester instead of partinal, etc.,) except by saying that both, though going back to a common legendary source, are unconnected one with another. the facts thus dealt with may be recapitulated as follows:--there is marked similarity in general outline between the mabinogi and the conte du graal in the adventures common to both; in that portion of the conte du graal due to chrestien there occur, moreover, many and close verbal parallels, and the corresponding part of the mabinogi is told at greater length than the remainder of the incidents common to both works. that which answers in the mabinogi to the grail quest forms a clear and straightforward whole, the main features of which may be recovered from the conte du graal, but in varying proportions from the various sections of that work. thus the indications of this mabinogi talisman quest, the central intrigue, as it may be called, of the tale, are in chrestien of the slightest nature, being confined to passing hints; in gautier they are fuller and more precise, though pointing to a version of the central intrigue different, not only in details but in conception, from that of the mabinogi; in manessier alone is there agreement of conception, although the details still vary. finally, those portions of the mabinogi which are in closest verbal agreement with chrestien contain statements which cannot easily be reconciled with this central intrigue. these facts seem to warrant some such deductions as these. bearing in mind that the mabinogi is an obvious piecing together of all sorts of incidents relating to its hero, the only connecting link being that of his personality, its author may be supposed, when compiling his work, to have stretched out his hand in all directions for material. now a portion of the peredur _sage_ consisted of adventures often found elsewhere in the folk-tale cycles of the great fool and the avenging kinsman--cycles which, in celtic tradition, at least, cover almost the same ground as the one described by j. g. von hahn under the title, "die arische aussetzung und rückkehr-formel." in the original of the mabinogi this portion probably comprised the childhood and forest up-bringing, the visit to arthur with the accompanying incidents, the training by the uncle (who _may_ have been the fisher king), the arrival at the (bespelled) castle, where the hero is to be minded of his task by the sight of certain talismans and of his cousin's head, the reproaches of the loathly damsel, her subsequent testing of the hero by the adventures of the chessboard, stag hunt, etc., the hero's final accomplishment of the task, vengeance on his kindred's enemies, and removal of the spells. there would seem to have been no such love story as that frequently found in stories of the great fool class, _e.g._, in the irish one (_supra_, p. 134). this original was probably some steps removed from being a genuine popular version; the incidents were presented in a way at once over-concise and confused, and some which, as will be seen in the next chapter, the living folk-tale has preserved were left out or their significance was not recognized. what more natural than that the author of the mabinogi in its present form, knowing chrestien, should piece out his bare, bald narrative with shreds and patches from the frenchman's poem? the moment chrestien fails him, he falls back into the hurried concision of his original. his adaptation of chrestien is done with singularly little skill, and at times he seems to have misunderstood his model. he confines his borrowing to matters of detail, not allowing, for instance, chrestien's presentment of the grail incident to supersede that of his welsh original. in one point he may, following chrestien, have made a vital change. it seems doubtful whether the welsh source of the mabinogi knew of a maimed king, an uncle to be healed through the hero's agency; the sole task may have been the avenging the cousin's death. true the "lame uncle" appears at the end, but this may be due to some sudden desire for consistency on the arranger's part. but whether or no he was found in the welsh story preserved in the mabinogi, he certainly played no such leading part as in the conte du graal. the two stories deal with the same cycle of adventures, but the object of the hero is not the same in both, and, consequently, the machinery employed is not quite the same. the present mabinogi is an unskilful fusion of these two variations upon the one theme.[73] light is also thrown by this investigation upon the question of chrestien's relationship to his continuators. birch-hirschfeld's theory that the didot-perceval was the source of chrestien and gautier has already been set aside. apart from the reasons already adduced, the fact that it does not explain from whence manessier got his ending of the story would alone condemn it. it must now be evident that chrestien and two of his continuators drew from one source, and this a poem of no great length probably, the main outlines of which were nearly the same as those of the welsh proto-mabinogi given above, with this difference, that the story turned upon the healing of the uncle and not the avenging the cousin's death. this poem, which seems also to have served, directly or indirectly, as one of the sources of the didot-perceval, had probably departed from popular lines in many respects, and _may_, though this would be an exceedingly difficult question to determine, have begun the incorporation of the joseph of arimathea legend with its consequent wresting to purposes of christian symbolisms of the objects and incidents of the old folk-tale. such an incorporation had almost certainly begun before chrestien's time, and was continued by him. there can be little doubt that he dealt with his model in a free and daring spirit, altering and adding as seemed best to him. this alone explains how manessier, slavishly following the common original, tells differently the cause of the lame king's wound. gautier, who lacked chrestien's creative power, though he often equals him in the grace and vivacity of his narrative, seems to have had no conception of a plan; the section of conte du graal which goes under his name is a mere disorderly heap of disconnected adventures brought together without care for consistency. but for this very reason he is of more value in restoring the original form of the story than chrestien, who, striving after consistency, harmony, and artistic development of his tale, alters, adds to, or retrenches from the older version. gautier had doubtless other sources besides the one made use of by chrestien. this does not seem to be the case with manessier, who, for this portion of the story, confined himself to chrestien's original, without taking note of the differences in _motif_ introduced by his predecessor. what is foreign to it he drew from sources familiar to us, the queste and grand s. graal, from which more than two-thirds of his section are derived. in working back to the earliest form of the perceval-_sage_, mabinogi and conte du graal are thus of equal value and mutually complementary. both are second-hand sources, and their testimony is at times sadly corrupt, but it is from them chiefly that information must be sought as to the earlier stages of development of this legendary cycle. they do not by themselves give any satisfactory explanation of the more mysterious features of the full-blown legend, but they do present the facts in such a way as to put out of court the hypothesis of a solely christian legendary origin. before proceeding further it will be well to see if the english sir perceval has likewise claims to be considered one of the versions which yield trustworthy indications as to the older form of the story. this poem, described by halliwell as simply an abridged english version of the conte du graal, has, as may be seen by reference to ch. iv, been treated with more respect by other investigators, several of whom, struck by its archaic look, have pronounced it one of the earliest versions of the perceval _sage_. it has quite lately been the object of elaborate study by paul steinbach in his dissertation: "uber dem einfluss des crestien de troies auf die altenglische literatur," leipzig, 1885. the results of his researches may be stated somewhat as follows: the two works correspond incident for incident down to the death of the red knight, the chief differences being that perceval is made a nephew of king arthur, that the death of his father at the hands of the red knight is explained as an act of revenge on the part of the latter, that arthur recognizes his nephew at once, and tells him concerning the red knight, and that the burning of the red knight, only hinted at in chrestien's lines- ains auroie par carbonees. trestout escarbellié le mort, etc. (2,328-9). is fully told in the english poem. after the red knight incident the parallelism is much less close. the english poem has incidents to itself: the slaying of the witch, the meeting with the uncle and nine cousins, the fight with the giant for the ring, the meeting with and restoring to health the mother. of the remaining incidents, those connected with lufamour are more or less parallel to what chrestien relates of his hero's adventure with blanchefleur, and that of the black knight, with that of the orgellous de la lande in chrestien. of the 2,288 verses of the english poem the greater part may be paralleled from chrestien, thus:- p. of g. cr. 1-160 485-940 161-188 941-1,206 189-256 1,207-82 257-320 1,283-1,554 321-432 1,555-1,828 433-80 1,829-1,970 481-600 2,091-2,170 {2,055-90 601-56 {2,135-59 {2,171-2,225 657-740 2,268-2,312 741-820 2,313-2,398 1,061-1,108 4,000-4,060 1,109-1,124 5,511-553 1,381-1,540 5,600-5,891 953-1,012} 1,125-1,380} {2,900-3,960 1,541-1,760} {4,088-94 1,761-1,808 4,095-4,150 1,809-1,951 4,865-5,375 the incidents comprised v. 821-952 and 1,953-2,288, being the only one entirely unconnected with chrestien. this general agreement between the two works shows the dependence of the one on the other. but while evidently dependent, the english poem, as is shown by the differences between it and its french original, belongs at once to a less and to a more highly developed stage of the perceval _sage_. the differences are thus of two kinds, those testifying to the writer's adherence to older, probably breton, popular traditions and those due to himself, and testifying to the skill with which he has worked up his materials and fitted portions of chrestien's poem into an older framework. of the first kind are: the statement that perceval meets with three knights instead of five as in chrestien, the english poem agreeing here with the mabinogi; the mention of his riding on a _mare_ and of his being clad in goat-skins, the english poem again agreeing rather with the mabinogi than with chrestien, and showing likewise points of contact with the breton ballads about morvan lez breiz, printed by villemarqué in the barzaz breiz. the combat with the giant may likewise be paralleled from the lez breiz cycle in that hero's fight with the moorish giant. these points would seem to indicate knowledge on the author's part of popular traditions concerning perceval forming a small cycle, of which the departure from, and return to the mother were the opening and closing incidents respectively. this form of the story must have been widely spread and popular to induce the author to leave out as much as he has done of chrestien's poem in order to bring it within the traditional framework. he accomplished his task with much skill, removing every trace of whatever did not bear directly upon the march of the story as he told it. in view of this skill differences which tend to make the story more consequent and logical may fairly be ascribed to him. such are: the making perceval a nephew of arthur, the mention of a feud between the red knight and perceval's father, the combat with the witch arising out of perceval's wearing the red knight's armour, and the other adventures which follow eventually from the same cause, the feature that the ring taken by perceval from the lady in the tent is a magic one, endowing its wearer with supernatural strength, the change made between this ring and his mother's which prepares the final recognition, etc. the original poem probably ended with the reunion of mother and son, the last verse, briefly mentioning the hero's death, being a later addition. to sum up, sir perceval may be looked upon as the work of a folk-singer who fitted into the old breton framework a series of adventures taken partly from chrestien, partly from the same breton traditions which were chrestien's main source, and with remarkable skill avoided all such incidents as would not have accorded with the limits he had imposed upon himself. against this view of steinbach's it might be urged that a writer as skilful as the author of sir perceval is assumed to be could easily have worked chrestien's grail episode into his traditional framework. a more plausible explanation, assuming the theory to be in the main correct, might be found in the great popularity in this country of the galahad form of the quest, and the consequent unwillingness on the author's part to bring in what may have seemed to him like a rival version. steinbach has not noticed one curious bit of testimony to the poem's being an abridgment of an older work, more archaic in some respects than chrestien. when the hero has slain the red knight he knows not how to rid him of his armour, but he bethinks him- ... "my moder bad me whenne my dart solde brokene be, owte of the irene brenne the tree, now es me fyre gnede" (749-52). now the mother's counsel, given in verses xxv-vi are solely that he should be "of mesure," and be courteous to knights; nothing is said about burning the tree out of the iron, nor does any such counsel figure either in chrestien or in the mabinogi, which in this passage has copied, with misunderstandings, the french poet.[74] the use of chrestien by the author of sir perceval seems, however, uncontestable; and, such being the case, steinbach's views meet the difficulties of the case fairly well. it will be shown farther on, however, that several of the points in which the german critic detects a post-chrestien development, are, on the contrary, remains of as old and popular a form of the story as we can work back to. accepting, then, the hypothesis that sir perceval, like the mabinogi, has been influenced by chrestien, what is the apparent conclusion to be drawn from the fact that the former omits the grail episode altogether, whilst the latter joins chrestien's version to its own, presumably older one, so clumsily as to betray the join at once? may it not be urged that chrestien's account is obviously at variance with the older story as he found it? may not the fact be accounted for by the introduction of a strange element into the thread of the romance? this element would, according to birch-hirschfeld, be the christian holy-vessel legend, and it would thus appear that the grail is really foreign to the celtic tradition. let me recapitulate briefly the reasons already urged against such a view. the early history of the grail, that part in which the christian element prevails, must certainly be regarded as later than the quest, to which it could not have given rise without assuming such a development of the romance as is well nigh incredible--the quest versions, moreover, all hang together in certain respects, and point unmistakably to celtic traditions as their source. these traditions must then be examined further to see if they contain such traces of the mystic vessel as are wanting in the mabinogi and the english poem, and as may have given rise to the episode as found in the french romances. as perceval is the oldest hero of the quest, and as the boyhood of perceval, forming an integral part of all the oldest quest versions presents the strongest analogies with the folk-tale of the great fool, it is this tale which must now be examined. chapter vi. the lay of the great fool--summary of the prose opening--the aryan expulsion and return formula--comparison with the mabinogi, sir perceval, and the conte du graal--originality of the highland tale--comparison with the fionn legend--summary of the lay of the great fool--comparison with the stag hunt incident in the conte du graal and the mabinogi--the folk-tale of the twin brethren--the fight against the witch who brings the dead to life in gerbert and the similar incident in the folk-tale of the knight of the red shield--comparison with the original form of the mabinogi--originality of gerbert. one of the most popular of the poetic narratives in the old heroic quatrain measure still surviving in the highlands is the "lay of the great fool" (laoidh an amadain mhoir), concerning which, according to campbell, vol. iii., p. 150, the following saying is current:--"each poem to the poem of the red; each lay to the lay of the great fool; each history to the history of connal" (is to be referred as a standard). this lay, as will be shown presently, offers some remarkable similarities with the central grail episode of the quest romances, but before it is investigated a prose opening often found with it must be noticed. this prose opening may be summarised thus from campbell, vol. iii., pp. 146, _et seq._ there were once two brothers, the one king over erin, the other a mere knight. the latter had sons, the former none. strife broke out between the two brothers, and the knight and his sons were slain. word was sent to the wife, then pregnant, that if she bore a son it must be put to death. it was a lad she had, and she sent him into the wilderness in charge of a kitchen wench who had a love son. the two boys grew up together, the knight's son strong and wilful. one day they saw three deer coming towards them; the knight's son asked what creatures were these--creatures on which were meat and clothing 'twas answered--it were the better he would catch them, and he did so, and his foster-mother made him a dress of the deer's hide. afterwards he slew his foster-brother for laughing at him, caught a wild horse, and came to his father's brother's palace. he had never been called other than "great fool," and when asked his name by his cousin, playing shinty, answered, "great fool." his cousin mocked at him, and was forthwith slain. on going into the king's (his uncle's) presence, he answered in the same way. his uncle recognised him, and reproaching himself for his folly in not having slain the mother with the father, went with him, as did all the people. in my article on the aryan expulsion and return formula among the celts ("folk-lore record," vol. iv.), i have shown that this tale is widely distributed in the celtic heldensage as well as in the celtic folk-tale. before noticing the variants, a word of explanation may be necessary. the term, arische aussetzungs-und rückkehr-formel, was first employed by j. g. v. hahn in his sagwissenschaftliche studien (jena, 1876), to describe a tale which figured in the heroic literature of every aryan race known to him. he examined fourteen stories, seven belonging to the hellenic mythology, perseus, herakles, oedipus, amphion and zethos, pelias and neleus, leukastos and parrhasius, theseus; one to roman mythic history, romulus and remus; two to the teutonic heldensage, wittich-siegfried, wolfdietrich; two to iranian mythic history, cyrus, key chosrew; two to the hindu mythology, karna, krishna. i was able to recover from celtic literature eight well-defined variants, belonging to the fenian and ultonian cycles of irish heldensage (heroes, fionn and cu-chulaind); to irish mythic history, labraidh maen; to the folk-tale still living in the highlands, conall and the great fool; to the kymric heldensage, peredur-perceval, arthur, and taliesin. an examination of all these tales resulted in the establishing of the following standard formula, to the entirety of which it will of course be understood none of the tales answer:- i. hero born- (_a_) out of wedlock. (_b_) posthumously. (_c_) supernaturally. (_d_) one of twins. ii. mother, princess residing in her own country. iii. father- (_a_) god } (_b_) hero } from afar. iv. tokens and warning of hero's future greatness. v. he is in consequence driven forth from home. vi. is suckled by wild beasts. vii. is brought up by a (childless couple), or shepherd, or widow. viii. is of passionate and violent disposition. ix. seeks service in foreign lands. ixa. attacks and slays monsters. ixb. acquires supernatural knowledge through eating a fish, or other magic animal. x. returns to his own country, retreats, and again returns. xi. overcomes his enemies, frees his mother, seats himself on the throne. i must refer to my article for a full discussion of the various celtic forms of this widely-spread tale, and for a tabular comparison with the remaining indo-european forms analysed by j. g. von hahn. suffice to say here that the fullest celtic presentment of the _motif_ is to be found in the ossianic heldensage, the expelled prince being no other than fionn himself. the celtic form most closely related to it is that of the great fool summarised above, the relationship of peredur-perceval with which is evident. in both, the father being slain, the mother withdraws or sends her son into the wilderness; in both he grows up strong, hardy, ignorant of the world. almost the same instances of his surpassing strength and swiftness are given; in the mabinogi by celerity and swiftness of foot he drives the goats and hinds into the goat-house; in the highland folk-tale he catches the wild deer, and seeing a horse, and learning it is a beast upon which sport is done, stretches out after it, catches and mounts it; in sir perceval he sees- ... a fulle faire stode offe coltes and meres gude, bot never one was tame (v. xxi.). and "smertly overrynnes" one.--the great fool then comes to his uncle, in whom he finds the man who has killed his father. sir perceval likewise comes to his uncle, and gets knowledge from him of his father's slayer; in chrestien and the mabinogi no relationship is stated to exist between arthur and the hero. the manner of the coming deserves notice. in the conte du graal, entering the hall the hero salutes the king twice, receives no answer, and, turning round his horse in dudgeon, knocks off the king's cap. in the english poem- at his first in comynge, his mere withowtenne faylynge, kiste the forehevede of the kynge, so nerehande he rade (v. xxxi.). he then demands knighthood or- bot (unless) the kyng make me knyghte, i shall him here slaa (v. xxxiii.). in the great fool the horse incident is wanting, but the hero's address to his uncle is equally curt: "i am the great fool ... and if need were it is that i could make a fool of thee also." the incident then follows of the insult offered to arthur by the red knight. here, be it noted, the mabinogi version is much the ruder of the three, "the knight dashed the liquor that was in the goblet upon her (gwenhwyvar's) face, and upon her stomacher, and gave her a violent blow in the face, and said," &c.; in chrestien the incident is not directly presented, but related at second-hand, and merely that the discourteous knight took away the goblet so suddenly that he spilt somewhat of its contents upon the queen, and that she was so filled with grief and anger that well nigh she had not escaped alive; in sir perceval the knight takes up the cup and carries it off. now it is a _lieu commun_ of celtic folk-tales that as a king is sitting at meat, an enemy comes in mounted, and offers him an insult, the avenging of which forms the staple of the tale. a good instance may be found in campbell's lii., "the knight of the red shield." as the king is with his people and his warriors and his nobles and his great gentles, one of them says, "who now in the four brown quarters of the universe would have the heart to put an affront on the king?"--then comes the rider on a black filly, and, "before there was any more talk between them, he put over the fist and he struck the king between the mouth and the nose." it is noteworthy that this tale shows further likeness to the mabinogi-great fool series, generally, in so far as it is the despised youngest who out of the three warriors that set off to avenge the insult succeeds, even as it is the despised peredur who slays the red knight, and specially in what may be called the prophecy incident. with the exception of the opening incidents, this is the one by which the "formula" nature of the perceval _sage_ is most clearly shown. in the mabinogi it is placed immediately after the hero's first encounter with the sorceresses of gloucester: "by destiny and foreknowledge knew i that i should suffer harm of thee," says the worsted witch. the conte du graal has only a trace of it in the fisher king's words as he hands the magic sword to perceval- ... biaus frère, ceste espée vous fu jugie et destinée (4345-6), whilst in sir perceval a very archaic turn is given to the incident by arthur's words concerning his unknown nephew- the bokes say that he mone venge his fader bane (v. xxxvi.). this comparison is instructive as showing how impossible it is that chrestien's poem can be the only source of the mabinogi and sir perceval. it cannot be maintained that the meagre hint of the french poet is the sole origin of the incident as found in the welsh and english versions, whilst a glance at my tabulation of the various forms of the aryan expulsion and return formula ("folk-lore record," vol. iv.) shows that the foretelling of the hero's greatness is an important feature in eight of the celtic and five of the non-celtic versions, _i.e._, in more than one-third of all the stories built up on the lines of the formula. it is evident that here at least mabinogi and sir perceval have preserved a trait almost effaced in the romance. in the above-mentioned highland tale the incident is as follows: the hero finds "a treasure of a woman sitting on a hill, and a great youth with his head on her knee asleep"; he tries to wake the sleeper, even cuts off his finger, but in vain, until he learns how it was in the prophecies that none should rouse the sleeping youth save the knight of the red shield, and he, coming to the island, should do it by striking a crag of stone upon his breast. this tale, as already remarked, shows affinity to the perceval saga in two incidents, and is also, as i have pointed out ("folk-lore record," vol. v., mabinogion studies), closely allied to a cycle of german hero and folk-tales, of which siegfried is the hero. now siegfried is in german that which fionn is in celtic folk-lore, the hero whose story is modelled most closely upon the lines of the expulsion and return formula. we thus find not only, as might be expected, affinity between the german and celtic hero-tales which embody the formula, but the derived or allied groups of folk-tales present likewise frequent and striking similarities.[75] another highland tale (campbell, lviii., the rider of grianaig) furnishes a fresh example of this fact. here, also, the deeds to be done of the hero were prophesied of him. but these deeds he would never accomplish, save he were incited thereto and aided therein by a raven, who in the end comes out as a be-spelled youth, and a steed, a maiden under spells, and the spells will not go off till her head be off. even so peredur is urged on and helped by the bewitched youth. in other respects, there is no likeness of plan and little of detail[76] to the mabinogi, certainly no trace of direct influence of the welsh story upon the highland one. it may, however, be asserted that all of these tales are derived more or less directly from the french romance. this has been confidently stated of the breton ballad cycle of morvan le breiz (barzaz breiz) and of the breton märchen, peronik l'idiot (souvestre, foyer breton), and i have preferred making no use of either. in the matter of the scotch and irish tales a stand must be made. the romance, it is said, may have filtered down into the celtic population, through the medium of adaptations such as the mabinogi or sir perceval. granted, for argument sake, that these two works are mere adaptations, it must yet follow that the stories derived from them will be more or less on the same lines as themselves. is this so? can it be reasonably argued that the folk-tale of the great fool is a weakened copy of certain features of the mabinogi, which itself is a weakened copy of certain features of the french poem? is it not the fact that the folk-tale omits much that is in the mabinogi, and on the other hand preserves details which are wanting not alone in the welsh tale but in chrestien. if other proof of the independent nature of these tales were needed it would be supplied by the close similarity existing between the great fool opening and the fionn legend. this is extant in several forms, one of which, still told in the highlands (campbell's lxxxii.), tells how cumhall's son is reared in the wilderness, how he drowns the youth of a neighbouring hamlet, how he slays his father's slayer, and wins the magic trout the taste of which gives knowledge of past and to come, how he gets back his father's sword and regains his father's lands, all as had been prophesied of him. another descendant of the french romance it will be said. but a very similar tale is found in a fifteenth century irish ms. (the boyish exploits of finn mac cumhall, translated by dr. j. o'donovan in the transactions of the ossianic society, vol. iv.); cumhall, slain by goll, leaves his wife big with a son, who when born is reared by two druidesses. he grows up fierce and stalwart, overcomes all his age-mates, overtakes wild deer he running, slays a boar, and catches the magic salmon of knowledge. an eighteenth century version given by kennedy ("legendary fictions," p. 216) makes cumhall offer violence to muirrean, daughter of the druid tadg, and his death to be chiefly due to the magic arts of the incensed father. it will hardly be contended that these stories owe their origin to adaptations of chrestien's poem. but in any case no such contention could apply to the oldest presentment of fionn as a formula hero, that found in the great irish vellum, the leabhar na h'uidhre, written down from older materials at the beginning of the twelfth century. the tract entitled "the cause of the battle of cnucha" has been translated by mr. henessey ("revue celtique," vol. ii., pp. 86, _et seq._). in it we find cumhall and tadhg, the violence done to the latter's daughter, the consequent defeat and death of cumhall, the lonely rearing of fionn by his mother, and the youth's avenging of his father. i must refer to my paper in the "folk-lore record" for a detailed argument in favour of the l.n.h. account being an euhemerised version of the popular tradition, represented by the boyish exploits, and for a comparison of the fionn _sage_ as a whole with the greek, iranian, latin, and germanic hero tales, which like it are modelled upon the lines of the expulsion and return formula. i have said enough, i trust, to show that the fionn _sage_ is a variant (a far richer one) of the theme treated in the boyhood of perceval, but that it, and _a fortiori_ the allied folk-tales are quite independent of the french poem. it then follows that this portion of chrestien's poem must itself be looked upon as one of many treatments of a theme even more popular among the celts than among any other aryan race, and that its ultimate source is a breton or welsh folk-tale. the genuine and independent nature of the great fool prose opening being thus established, it is in the highest degree suggestive to find in the accompanying lay points of contact with the grail legend as given in chrestien. three versions of this lay have been printed in english, that edited by mr. john o'daly (transactions of the ossianic society, vol. vi., pp. 161, _et seq._); mr. campbell's (west highland tales, vol. iii. pp. 154, _et seq._) and mr. kennedy's prose version (bardic stories of ireland, pp. 151, _et seq._). o'daly's, as the most complete and coherent, forms the staple of the following summary, passages found in it alone being italicised.[77] _summary of the lay of the great fool._--(1) there was a great fool who subdued the world by strength of body; (2) _he comes to the king of lochlin to win a fair woman, learns she is guarded by seven score heroes, overthrows them, and carries her off_; (c. and k. plunging at once _in medias res_, introduce the great fool and his lady love out walking); (3) the two enter a valley, are meet by a "gruagach" (champion, sorcerer), in his hand a goblet with drink; (4) the great fool thirsts, and though warned by his lady love drinks deep of the proffered cup; the "gruagach" departs and the great fool finds himself minus his two legs; (5) the two go onward, and ("swifter was he at his two knees than six at their swiftness of foot;" c.) a deer nears them followed by a white hound, the great fool slays the deer and seizes the hound; (6) whose owner coming up claims but finally yields it, and offers the great fool food and drink during life; (7) the three fare together (the glen they had passed through had ever been full of glamour) till they come to a fair city filled with the glitter of gold, dwelt in solely by the owner of the white hound and his wife, "whiter than very snow her form, gentle her eye, and her teeth like a flower"; (8) she asks concerning her husband's guests, and, learning the great fool's prowess, marvels he should have let himself be deprived of his legs; (9) the host departs, leaving his house, wife, and store of gold in the great fool's keeping, he is to let no man in, no one out should any come in, nor is he to sleep; (10) spite his lady love's urgings the great fool yields to slumber, when in comes a young champion and snatches a kiss from the host's wife, ("she was not ill pleased that he came," c.); (11) the great fool's love awakening him reproaches him for having slept--he arises to guard the door, in vain does the intruder offer gold, three cauldrons full and seven hundred townlands, he shall not get out; (12) _at the instigation of the host's wife_ the intruder restores the great fool's legs, but not then even will the hero let him go--pay for the kiss he must when the host returns; threats to deprive him of his legs are in vain, as are likewise the entreaties of the host's wife (all this is developed with great prolixity in o'daly, but there is nothing substantial added to the account in c.); (13) finally the intruder discloses that he himself is the host, and he was the gruagach, whose magic cup deprived the great fool of his legs, and he is, "_his own gentle brother long in search of him, now that he has found him he is released from sorcery_." the two kiss (c. and k. end here). (14) the two brothers fare forth, encounter a giant with an eye larger than a moon and an iron club, wherewith he hits the great fool a crack that brings him to his knees, but the latter arising closes with the giant, kills him and takes his club, the two then attack four other giants, three of whom the great fool slays with his club, and the fourth yields to him. the brothers take possession of the giant's castle and all its wealth. there are obvious similarities between the lay and the story found in the mabinogi and the conte du graal. a stag hunt is prominent in both, and whilst engaged in it the hero falls under "illusion," in both too the incident of the seizure of the hound appears, though in a different connection. finally in the lay, as in the mabinogi, the mover in the enchantment is a kinsman whose own release from spells depends upon the hero's coming successfully out of the trials to which he exposes him. but while the general idea is the same, the way in which it is worked out is so different that it is impossible to conceive of the one story having been borrowed from the other. what can safely be claimed is that the great fool, counterpart of peredur-perceval in the adventures of his youth and up-bringing, is also, to a certain extent, his counterpart in the most prominent of his later adventures, that of the stag hunt. it is thus fairly certain that all this part of the conte du graal is, like the _enfances_, a working up of celtic folk-tales. the giant fight which concludes the lay may be compared with that in sir perceval and in morvan le breiz, and such a comparison makes it extremely likely that the incident thus preserved by independent and widely differing offshoots from the same folk-tale stem, belongs to the oldest form of the story. the analogies of the lay with the perceval _sage_ are not yet exhausted. in virtue of the relationship between the two chief characters, the lay belongs to the "twin-brother cycle." this group of folk-tales, some account of which is given below,[78] is closely related on the one hand to the "dragon slayer" group of _märchen_, on the other hand to the expulsion and return formula tales. in many versions of the latter (the most famous being that of romulus and remus) the hero is one of twins, and, after sharing for a while with his brother, strife breaks out between them. in the folk-tale this strife leads to final reconciliation, or is indeed a means of unravelling the plot. in the hero-tale on the other hand the strife mostly ends with the death or defeat of the one brother. it would seem that when the folk-tale got associated with a definite hero (generally the founder and patron of a race) and became in brief a hero-tale, the necessity of exalting the race hero brought about a modification of the plot. if this is so the folk-tale group of the "two brothers" must be looked upon as older than the corresponding portion of the expulsion and return hero-tales, and not as a mere weakened echo of the latter. to return to the twin-brother features. the peredur-perceval _sage_ has a twin-sister, and is parallel herein to the fionn _sage_ in one of its forms ("how the een was set up"), though curiously enough not to the great fool folk-tale (otherwise so similar to "how the een was set up"), which, as in the lay, has a brother. but beyond this formal recognition of the incident in the perceval _sage_, i am inclined to look upon the perceval-gawain dualism as another form of it. this dualism has been somewhat obscured by the literary form in which the _sage_ has been preserved and the tendency to exalt and idealise _one_ hero. in the present case this tendency has not developed so far as to seriously diminish the importance of gawain; _his_ adventures are, however, left in a much more primitive and _märchenhaft_ shape, and hence, as will be shown later on, are extremely valuable in any attempt to reach the early form of the story.[79] if simrock's words quoted on the title page were indeed conclusive--"if that race among whom the 'great fool' folk-tale was found independent of the grail story had the best claim to be regarded as having wrought into one these two elements"--then my task might be considered at an end. i have shown that this race was that of the celtic dwellers in these islands, among whom this tale is found not only in a fuller and more significant form than elsewhere, but in a form that connects it with the french grail romance. but the conclusion that the conte du graal is in the main a working up of celtic popular traditions, which had clustered round a hero, whose fortunes bore, in part, a striking resemblance to those of fionn, the typical representative of the expulsion and return formula cycle among the celts, though hardly to be gainsaid, does not seem to help much towards settling the question of the origin of the grail itself. the story would appear to be celtic except just the central incident upon which the whole turns. for the english sir perceval, which undoubtedly follows older models, breathes no word of search for any magic talisman, let alone the grail, whilst the mabinogi, which is also older in parts than the conte du graal, gives a different turn to and assigns a different _motif_ for the hero's conduct. the avenging of a kinsman's harm upon certain supernatural beings, and the consequent release from enchantment of another kinsman, supply the elements of a clear and consistent action to which parallels may easily be adduced from folk-tales, but one quite distinct from the release of a kinsman through the medium of certain talismans and certain magic formulæ. numerous as have been the points of contact hitherto established between celtic folk belief and the french romance, the parallel would seem to break down at its most essential point, and the contention that the grail is a foreign element in the celtic legend would still seem to be justified. before, however, this can be asserted, what i have called the central episode of the romance requires more searching and detailed examination than it has had, and some accessory features, which, on the hypothesis of the christian legendary origin of the grail, remain impenetrable puzzles must be commented upon. and another instructive point of contact between romance and folk-tale must be previously noticed, connected as it is with stories already dealt with in this chapter. in the latest portion of the conte du graal, the interpolation of gerbert, the following incident occurs:--the hero meets four knights carrying their wounded father, who turns out to be gonemans, the same who armed him knight. he vows vengeance upon gonemans' enemies, but his efforts are at first of no avail. as fast as in the daytime he slays them, at night they are brought back to life by "une vieille" who is thus described:- la poitrine ot agüe et sèche; ele arsist ausi come une esche si on boutast en li le fu.[80] * * * * la bouche avoit grant à merveilles et fendue dusqu'as oreilles, qu'ele avoit longues et tendans; lons et lez et gausnes les dans avoit. (potvin vi., 183, 184.) she carries with her ii. barisiax d'ivoire gent; containing a "poison," the same whereof christ made use in the sepulchre, and which serves here to bring the dead back to life and to rejoin heads cut off from bodies. she goes to work thus:- a la teste maintenant prise, si l'a desor le bu assise; then taking the balm puis en froie celui la bouche à cui la teste avoit rajointe; sor celui n'ot vaine ne jointe qui lues ne fust de vie plaine. perceval stops her when she has brought back three of her men to life; she recognises in him her conqueror: bien vous connois et bien savoie que de nului garde n'avoie fors que de vous; car, par mon chief nus n'en péust venir à chief se vous non ... so long as she lives, perceval shall be powerless to achieve his quest. she wars against gonemant by order of the king of the waste city, who ever strives against all who uphold the christian faith, and whose chief aim it is to hinder perceval from attaining knowledge of the grail. perceval gets possession of somewhat of the wonder-working balm, brings to life the most valiant of his adversaries, slays him afresh after a hard struggle, in which he himself is wounded, heals his own hurt, and likewise gonemant's, with the balsam. compare now campbell's above-cited tale, the knight of the red shield. the hero, left alone upon the island by his two treacherous companions, sees coming towards him "three youths, heavily, wearily, tired." they are his foster-brothers, and from the end of a day and a year they hold battle against the son of darkness, son of dimness, and a hundred of his people, and every one they kill to-day will be alive to-morrow, and spells are upon them they may not leave this (island) for ever until they kill them. the hero starts out on the morrow alone against these enemies, and he did not leave a head on a trunk of theirs, and he overcame the son of darkness himself. but he is so spoilt and torn he cannot leave the battle-field, and he lays himself down amongst the dead the length of the day. "there was a great strand under him below; and what should he hear but the sea coming as a blazing brand of fire, as a destroying serpent, as a bellowing bull; he looked from him, and what saw he coming on the shore of the strand, but a great toothy carlin ... there was the tooth that was longer than a staff in her fist, and the one that was shorter than a stocking wire in her lap." she puts her finger in the mouth of the dead, and brings them alive. she does this to the hero, and he bites off the finger at the joint, and then slays her. she is the mother of the son of darkness, and she has a vessel of balsam wherewith the hero's foster-brothers anoint and make him whole, and her death frees them from her spells for ever.[81] this "toothy carlin" is a favourite figure in celtic tradition. she re-appears in the ballad of the muilearteach (probably muir iarteach, _i.e._, western sea), campbell, iii., pp. 122, _et seq._, and is there described as "the bald russet one," "her face blue black, of the lustre of coal, her bone tufted tooth like rusted bone, one deep pool-like eye in her head, gnarled brushwood on her head like the clawed-up wood of the aspen root." in another version of the ballad, printed in the scottish celtic review, no. 2, pp. 115, _et seq._, the monster is "bald red, white maned, her face dark grey, of the hue of coal, the teeth of her jaw slanting red, one flabby eye in her head, her head bristled dark and grey, like scrubwood before hoar."[82] the editor of this version, the rev. j. g. campbell, interprets the ballad, and correctly, no doubt, "as an inroad of the personified sea." there is no connection, save in the personage of the "toothy carlin," between the ballad and the folk-tale.[83] it is impossible, i think, to compare gerbert's description of the witch with that of the highland "carlin" without coming to the conclusion that the french poet drew from traditional, popular celtic sources. the wild fantasy of the whole is foreign in the extreme to the french temperament, and is essentially celtic in tone. but the incident, as well as one particular feature of it, admits of comparison: the three foster-brothers of the highland tale correspond to the four sons of gonemant, who be it recollected, represents in the conte du graal, peredur-perceval's uncle in the mabinogi; in both, the hero goes forth alone to do battle with the mysterious enemy; the son of darkness answers to the king of the waste city; the dead men are brought back to life in the same way; the release of the kinsman, from spells, or from danger of death, follows upon the witch's discomfiture. and yet greater value attaches to the incident as connected with the mabinogi form of the story; in gerbert, as in the mabinogi, the hero's uncle is sick to death, his chief enemy is a monstrous witch (or witches), who foreknows that she must succumb at the hero's hands.[84] something has obviously dropped out from the mabinogi. may it not be those very magic talismans, the winning of which is the chief element of the french romances, and may not one of the talismans have been the vessel of life-restoring balsam which figures in gerbert and the highland tales?[85] the study of subsidiary versions and incidents may thus throw upon the connection of the grail with the perceval romance a light which the main celtic forms of the latter have not hitherto yielded. the thornton ms. sir perceval differs in this incident from both manessier and gerbert. as in gerbert and the highland tale the hero meets his uncle and cousins; there is the same fight with the mother of the enemy of his kin, the hideous carlin, but it precedes, as does also the slaying of that enemy, the meeting of uncle and nephews. there is thus no room for the healing _motif_ for which the unconscious avenging of the father's death is substituted. these differences bear witness both to the popular and shifting nature of the traditions upon which the romances are based, and to the fact that the avenging of a blood feud was the leading incident of its earliest form. chapter vii. the various forms of the visit to the grail castle in the romances--conte du graal: chrestien; gautier-manessier; gautier-gerbert--didot-perceval--mabinogi--conte du graal: gawain's visit to the grail castle--heinrich von dem türlin--conte du graal: perceval's visit to the castle of maidens--inconsistency of these varying accounts; their testimony to stories of different nature and origin being embodied in the romances--two main types: feud quest and unspelling quest--reasons for the confusion of the two types--evidence of the confusion in older celtic literature--the grail in celtic literature: the gear of the tuatha de danann; the cauldron in the ultonian cycle; the mabinogi of branwen; vessel of balsam and glaive of light in the contemporary folk-tale--the sword in celtic literature: tethra; fionn; manus--parallels to the bespelled castle; the brug of oengus, the brug of lug, the brug of manannan mac lir, bran's visit to the island of women, cormac mac art, and the fairy branch; diarmaid and the daughter of king under the waves--unspelling stories: the three soldiers; the waiting of arthur; arthur in etna; the kyffhäuser legend, objections to martin's views concerning it--gawain's visit to the magic castle and celtic parallels; the son of bad counsel; fionn in giant land; fionn in the house of cuana; fionn and the yellow face--the vanishing of the bespelled castle--comparison with the sleeping beauty cycle--the "haunted castle" form and its influence on heinrich's version--the loathly grail messenger. the analysis of the various versions has shown that the conte du graal is the oldest portion of the vast body of french romance which deals with the grail, and that it presents the earliest form of the story. the examination of the theories put forward to explain the genesis and growth of the legend has shown how untenable is that hypothesis which makes the christian legend the starting point of the cycle. the comparison of the conte du graal with celtic legends and folk-tales has shown that the former is in the main a north french retelling of tales current then, as now, among the celtic peoples of britain, and probably of brittany. one thing alone remains unexplained, the mysterious grail itself. nor has any light been thrown from celtic sources upon the incident of the hero's visit to the castle of talismans, his silence, and the ensuing misfortune which overtakes him. where this incident does appear in a celtic version, the mabinogi, it is not brought in connection with the grail, and it bears obvious traces of interpolation. the utmost we have been able to do is to reconstruct from scattered indications in different celtic tales a sequence of incidents similar to that of the french romance. let us, then, return to what may be called the central incident of the grail legend in its older and purer form. and let us recall the fact that the hypothesis which finds a christian origin for the whole legend has no explanation to offer of this incident. birch-hirschfeld can merely suggest that perceval's question upon which all hinges is "eine harmlose erfindung borron's," a meaningless invention of borron's. it is, indeed, his failure to account for such an essential element of the story that forms one of the strongest arguments against his hypothesis. in the first place it must be noticed that the incident of a hero's visit to a magic castle, of his omission whilst there to do certain things, and of the loss or suffering thereby caused, occurs not once, but many times; not in one, but in many forms in the vast body of grail romance, as is seen by the following list, which likewise comprises all the occasions on which one or other of the questers has come near to or succeeded in seeing the grail:- (1) chrestien: (inc. 7). perceval's first visit to the grail castle. question omitted. (2) gautier: (inc. 22). perceval's second visit to the grail castle. question put- _incident breaks off in middle, and is continued in one version by_:- (2a) manessier, who sends off the hero on a fresh quest, which is finished in (3) manessier: (inc. 21). perceval's third visit to grail castle. the question is not mentioned. hero's final success. _in another version by_:- (4) gerbert: (inc. 1-3). perceval is sent forth anew upon quest. he has half put the question and been partially successful. (5) gerbert: (inc. 21). perceval's third visit to grail castle. question not mentioned. hero's success. _besides these forms of the episode in the conte du graal of which perceval is the hero, we have_:- (6) gautier: (inc. 3). gauvain's first visit according to one, second visit according to another version. question half put, partial success. _and finally a somewhat similar incident of which perceval is the hero in_:- (7) gautier: (inc. 12). visit to the castle of maidens. untimely sleep of hero. so far the conte du graal. of the versions closely connected with it we have: (8 & 9) wolfram von eschenbach: two visits of perceval to grail castle. question omitted at first, put in second, and crowned with success. (10 & 11) mabinogi of peredur: (inc. 6-25). two visits of hero to grail castle. question omitted at first. second visit successful. no mention of question. (12 & 13) didot-perceval: (inc. 11-16). two visits of perceval to grail castle. question omitted at first, put at second, and crowned with success. in a german romance, which presents many analogies with that portion of the conte du graal which goes under gautier's name: (14) heinrich von dem türlin: gawain's first visit to grail castle. question put. success. allusion to previous unsuccessful visit of perceval. finally in the queste versions we have four variants of the incident- (15) queste: (inc. 12). lancelot at the cross-road, omission to ask concerning the grail. (15) queste: (inc. 15). perceval heals mordrains. " (inc. 43). lancelot comes to grail castle. partial fulfilment of his quest. " (inc. 48). the three questers come to the grail castle. on looking at the list we notice that the conte du graal knows of three visits on the part of the principal hero to the castle of talismans: 1, 2, 3, or 1, 2-4, 5, and of one visit (or two) of the secondary hero; whilst wolfram, the mabinogi, and the didot-perceval know of two only. heinrich von dem türlin gives only one visit to _his_ chief hero, though he mentions a former one by the secondary hero. in wolfram, and the didot-perceval, the incident may be compared in the conte du graal with 1 and 2; in the mabinogi with 1 and 5; in heinrich with 6. the queste forms of the incident are obviously dependent upon those of the conte du graal, although they have been strongly modified. as for 7, it would seem to be a form of the incident which has been entirely unaffected by the christian symbolism which has influenced all the others. it will be advisable to recapitulate the leading features of the incident as found in the different versions. where the summaries in chapter ii afford detailed information about it, the recapitulation will be brief, but it will be necessary to give at least one version at much greater length than heretofore. in the conte du graal (1) the hero finds a king fishing, who directs him to his castle. just as he deems the fisher has deceived him the castle bursts upon his sight. he enters, is led into a square room wherein is a bed sitting on which is an old man wrapped in sables; before him is a great fire of dry wood; 400 men might sit in the hall. the king rises to greet him; as they sit, a squire enters with a sword which had but two fellows, sent by the king's niece for the hero to whom it was destined. the hall is light as it may be. a squire enters holding a lance by the middle; all can behold the drop of blood which flows from the point upon the holder's hand. there follow him two squires with candlesticks, each with ten candles, in either hand; a damsel holding a grail, which gives out a light as greater than that of the candles as the sun outshines the stars; and another damsel with a plate of fine gold. the procession passes from one into the other room. the hero refrains from asking who is served by the grail. after playing at chess with the king they dine, and again the grail passes, uncovered, at each dish. the hero would fain ask what was done with it, and is about to do so, but puts off the question. on the morrow he sees no one in the castle, the doors of the rooms he had been in the eve before are shut, no one answers; and, mounting his horse, which he finds ready saddled, he sets forth over the drawbridge, which closes of itself behind him, without learning why lance bleeds or whither the grail is borne. (2) at the second visit the hero comes into a magnificent room, ornamented with fine gold and stars of silver, wherein on a vermeil couch the rich king is sitting. the hero is fain forthwith to ask about grail and bleeding lance, but must sit him down by the rich king and tell of his adventures, about the chapel in which lay the dead knight, and the black hand, the child in the tree and the tree full of candles. the king makes him eat before answering his questions. whilst at meat a damsel, fairer than flowers in april, enters with the holy grail, another with the lance, a squire with the broken sword. the hero asks about these talismans. but first the king answers the questions about the earlier wonders; the talismans he will tell of after meat. the hero insists to know about the sword. the king bids him put it together--can he do so he will learn about the knight in the chapel, and after that about the talismans. save for one flaw the hero succeeds, whereupon the king says he knows no one in the world better than he, embraces him, and yields him up all in his house. the squire who brought the sword returns, wraps it in a cendal, and carries it off. 2a. the king bids the hero eat. 4. the hero would hold it sin if lance and grail, and a fair silver he did not ask concerning the dish pass before them, the latter grail. the king first submits him held by a damsel. the hero sighs to the sword test.[86] the and begs to learn about these existence of the flaw is three. he is told about lance, apparently held to constitute grail, grail-bearing damsel, failure, due to the hero's sin in dish-bearing damsel, and in quitting his mother so abruptly. answer to further questions, in the night the hero has a learns the history of the broken vision, which warns him to hasten sword, and of the chapel haunted to his sister's aid. on the morrow by the black hand. after sleeping the grail castle has vanished. in a splendid bed[87] he sets mounting his horse, which stands forth on the morrow on the sword ready saddled, he rides forth. quest (the slaying of partinal). after a vain essay to gain entrance to a magnificent castle, 3. having accomplished which, and in which he breaks his sword, and lighted chancewise upon the grail thereby loads upon himself seven castle, the king, apprised by a further years of adventure, but squire and forthwith healed, meets learns how the sword may be made the hero who shows him head and whole again, he finds the land shield. at table lance and grail which the day before was waste pass, borne by two maidens; fertile and peopled. the peasants delectable meats fill the dishes- hail him: the townsmen come forth all are filled and satisfied who in his honour--for through him the behold the holy grail and the lance folk have won back lands and that bleeds. thereafter enters a riches. a damsel tells him how: at squire holding a silver dish the court of the fisher king he covered with red samite; the had asked about the grail. at her talismans pass thrice; the king castle he has his sword mended. thanks the hero for having slain (later the hero learns that his his enemy and thereby rid him of failure to win the grail comes great torment. asks his name, from his not having wedded his learns that he is his nephew, and lady-love). offers him his kingdom. 5. hero is directed by a cross to the court of the fisher king. the latter makes him sit by his side and tell his adventures, when he would fain learn about the grail. the same procession then passes as in (2), save that sword instead of being broken is simply described as not resoldered. the hero says he has been twice before with the king, and reproaches him for not having answered his questions, although he had resoldered the sword to the king's great joy. the king then bids him shake the sword, which he does, and the flaw disappears. the king is overjoyed, and the hero is now worthy of knowing everything.[88] in comparing with these versions of the incident that found in the didot-perceval, we find that the hero at his first visit is welcomed by the squires of the castle, clad in a scarlet cloak, and placed upon a rich bed, whilst four sergeants apprise brons of his arrival, and the latter is carried into the hall where sits the hero, who rises to greet him. brons questions him before they sit down to meat. the mystic procession is formed by squire with lance bleeding, damsel with silver dish, squire with the vessel holding our lord's blood. on the morrow the hero sees no one, and finds all the doors open. at his second visit there is no mention of difficulty in finding the castle. this time the king rises to greet him; they talk of many things and then sit down to meat. grail and worthy relics pass, and the hero asks who is served by the vessel which the squire holds in his hands. straightway the king is healed and changed; overjoyed he first asks the hero who he is, and, on learning it, tells him concerning lance and grail, and afterwards, at the bidding of a heavenly voice, the secret words which joseph taught him, brons. in the mabinogi the castle lies on the other side of a meadow. at his first visit the hero finds the gates open, and in the hall a hoary-headed man sits, around whom are pages who rise to receive the hero. host and guest discourse and eat, seated beside one another. the sword trial follows, and the hero is declared to have arrived at two-thirds of his strength. the two youths with the dripping spear enter, amid the lamentation of the company, are followed by the two maidens with the salver wherein is a man's head, and the outcry redoubles. on the morrow the hero rides forth unmolested. at the second visit the castle is described as being in a valley through which runs a river. the grey-headed man found sitting in the hall with gwalchmai is described as lame. so far we have recapitulated the leading features of perceval's dealings at the talismans castle in the conte du graal and in the most closely allied versions. but perceval, the chief hero, has, as we have already seen, an under-study in gauvain. and the gauvain form of the incident deserves as close examination as the perceval form. (6) gauvain has met a knight, stranger to him, with whom he travels to caerleon. whilst in his company the stranger is slain by a dart cast by whom no one knows. before dying he bids gauvain take his arms and his horse; he knows not why he has been slain, he never harmed anyone. gauvain suspects and accuses kex, upon whom he vows to prove the murder, and sets forth to learn the unknown's name. after affronting the adventure of the black hand[89] in the chapel and long wanderings, he finds himself one evening at the opening of a dark, tree-covered road at whose further end he spies a light. tired and fasting he lets his horse go at its will, and is led to a castle where he is received with great honour as though he were expected. but when he has changed his dress the castle folk see it is not he whom they thought. in the hall is a bier whereupon lie cross and sword and a dead knight. canons and priests raise a great lamentation over the body. a crowned knight enters and bids gauvain sit by his side. then the grail goes through the room, serving out meats in plenty, and acting the part of a steward, whereat gauvain is astounded. he next sees a lance which drips blood into a silver cup. from out the same room whence come the talismans, the king issues, a sword in his hand, the sword of the dead knight, over whom he laments--on his account the land languishes. he bids gauvain essay to make the sword whole, but gauvain cannot, and is told his quest may not be accomplished. after his toils and wanderings gauvain is sleepy, but he struggles against sleep, and asks about bleeding lance and sword and bier. whilst the king is answering him he goes to sleep. on awakening he is on the sea shore, arms and steed by his side.[90] he then meets with the peasantry, and is told of the changed condition of the land in a passage already quoted (p. 87). had he asked about the grail "por coi il servoit," the land had been wholly freed. heinrich von dem türlin's account of gauvain's visit to the grail castle differs, as will be seen by the summary, p. 27, which it is unnecessary to repeat, more from that of gautier than from the perceval visit of the conte de graal, with which it has the common feature, that the person benefitted by the transaction is the lord of the magic castle. as will already have been noticed it stands alone in the conception that the inmates of the castle are under the enchantment of death-in-life from which the question frees them. there still remains to be noticed (7) the incident of perceval's visit to the castle of maidens, so closely analogous in certain details to the grail castle visit, and yet wholly disassociated from it in the conduct of the story. perceval, wandering, sees across a river in fair meadow land a rich castle built of marble, yellow and vermeil. crossing a bridge he enters, and the door at once closes behind him. no one is in the hall, in the centre of which is a table, and hanging to it by a steel chain a hammer. searching the castle he still finds no one, and no one answers to his call. at length he strikes upon the table three blows with the hammer. a maiden appears, reproaches him, and disappears. again he waits, and again he strikes three blows. a second damsel appears, and tells him if he strike afresh the tower will fall, and he be slain in its fall. but as he threatens to go on, the damsel offers to open the door and let him forth. he declares he will stay till morning, whereupon the damsel says she will call her mistress. the hero bids her haste as he is not minded to wait long, and warns her that he still holds the hammer. other damsels then show themselves, disarm and tend the hero, and lead him through a splendid hall into a still more splendid one, wherein a hundred fair and courteous maidens, all of like age and mien, and richly dressed, rise at his approach and hail him as lord. the hero deems himself in paradise, and "sooth 'tis to be in paradise to be with dames and maids; so sweet they are, the devil can make naught of them, and 'tis better to follow them than to hearken to sermons preached in church for money." the dame of the castle bids the hero sit him down by her. "white she is as a lily, rosier than on a may morn a fresh blown rose when the dew has washed it." she asks him his name, and on hearing how he had wandered lonely three days ere meeting with the castle, tells him he might have wandered seven ere finding where to partake of bread and meat. he is well feasted. in reply to his questions about the castle, and how is it no man may be seen in it, he learns he is in the maidens' castle, all the inmates of one kin and land, of gentle birth; no mason put his hand to the castle, no serf toiled at it. four maids built it, and in this wise: whatever knight passed, and entering, beheld the door closed, and no man meeting him--if craven he struck no blow with the hammer, and on the morrow he went forth unheeded; but if wise and courteous he struck the table, and was richly entertained. as the lady tells this tale the hero, overcome with much journeying, falls asleep and is laid to bed by the maidens. on the morrow he wakes beneath a leafy oak, and never a house in sight. it is surely superfluous to point out that the foregoing recapitulation of the various forms under which this incident has come down to us gives the last blow to the theory which makes christian symbolism the starting point, and the didot-perceval the purest representative of the legend. we should have to admit not only that the later romance writers entirely misunderstood the sense of their model, but that, whilst anxiously casting about in every direction for details with which to overlay it, they neglected one of its most fertile hints--that of the secret words handed down through joseph from christ himself to the successful grail quester. what a mine of adventures would not gautier, gerbert, and all the other unknown versifiers, who added each his quota to the conte, have found in those "secret words?" nay, more, we must admit that so much in love were they with this incident they misunderstood, that they repeated it in half-a-dozen varying forms, and finally eliminated from it every trace of its original element. there are theories which ask too much and which must be set on one side, even if one has nothing equally ingenious and symmetrical to set in their place. three things strike one in considering this incident apart from the other adventures with which it is associated; the want of consistency in those versions which, formally, are closely related, an inconsistency which we have already noted in dealing with the legend as a whole; the repetition of the same incident with almost similar details, but with a different animating conception; and the fact that some of the secondary forms testify to that same thread of story which we have already extracted from the comparison of the mabinogi and the conte du graal in their entirety. not only is the conception of the quest different in chrestien and manessier or chrestien-gerbert, but the details are different, the centre of interest being shifted from the omitted question to the broken sword. in manessier the _dénoûment_ is brought about without any reference to the question, in gerbert the reference is of the most perfunctory kind. again we find the same machinery of grail, lance, and other talismans, which in chrestien-manessier serves to bring about the hero's vengeance on his uncle's murderer, in chrestien-gerbert the re-union of the lovers and the winning of the grail kingship, used in the gawain quest with the evident object of compassing vengeance upon the slayer of the unknown knight. and, thirdly, this secondary form is in close agreement with the mabinogi--here, as there, the sword test takes place at the fisher king's; here, as there, it immediately precedes the passing of the talismans; here, as there, it is only partially successful; here, as there, is a tangible reminder of the object of the quest, in the dead body of the unknown knight in the one case, in the head swimming in blood in the other. and here we may note that of the two forms in which the _queste_ reproduces this incident, the one which holds the more prominent position in the narrative, the one of which lancelot is the hero, closely resembles that secondary form in the conte du graal which is connected with gawain. the wounded knight whom lancelot beholds at the crossways borne into the chapel upon a bier, and clamouring for the succour of the grail, recalls forcibly the dead knight of the gawain quest. it is, perhaps, still more significant that when the queste does reproduce the perceval form, it is only in its externals, and the mystic vessel, which in the older version is obviously a means of achieving the quest, has, in the later one, become the end of that quest. it seems impossible to resist the following conclusions:--the many forms of the incident found in the grail romances are not variants of one, and that an orderly and logical original; they testify to the fact that in the body of popular tradition which forms the basis of these romances the incident of the visit to a magic castle was a common one, that it entered into the thread of stories, somewhat similar in outline and frequently centered in the same hero, but differing essentially in conception, and that the forms in the romances which are most likely to keep close to the traditional model are those secondary ones with which the innovating spirit, whether due to the genius of the individual artist, or to intruding christian symbolism, has least concerned itself. there is apparently but one case in the conte du graal, that of perceval's visit to the castle of maidens, which has been modified by neither of these influences. to accept these conclusions is to clear the ground. if we rid our minds of the idea that there is _a grail legend_, a definite fixed sequence of incidents, we need not be discouraged if we fail to find a prototype for it in celtic tradition or elsewhere. we shall be prepared to examine every incident of which the grail is a feature upon its own merits, and satisfied if we can find analogies to this or that one. and by so doing we are more likely to discover the how and why of the development of the legends as we find them in the romances. leaving subsidiary details out of account, we may bring all the instances in which the grail appears under two formulas: that of the kinsman avenging a blood feud by the means of the three magic talismans, sword and lance and vessel; and that of the visit to the bespelled castle, the inmates of which enjoy, thanks to the magic vessel, a supernaturally prolonged life, from which they are released by the hero's question concerning that vessel. the one we may call the feud quest, the other the unspelling quest. the proto-mabinogi belonged, as we have already seen (_supra_, p. 139), to the first class, and accordingly we find that all relating to the question is obviously interpolated from chrestien. chrestien's model belonged, in all probability if not wholly, chiefly to the first class, and accordingly we find that manessier, certainly more faithful than chrestien to that original, lays no stress upon the question. but in chrestien himself there is a mixture of the two formulas; the question and the food-producing qualities of the magic vessel have been incorporated in the feud formula. once started upon this track the legend continues to mingle the formulas. the mystic procession, which probably owes its form to chrestien, is repeated with monotonous sameness by his continuators; the machinery of the feud quest almost invariably doubles that of the visit to the bespelled castle, and _vice versâ_. thus heinrich von dem türlin, along with the most archaic presentment of the unspelling quest, has that procession of the talismans which properly belongs to the feud quest; and, to complete his conception, we must turn to incidents at present set in the framework of the other formula. for the effect upon the land produced by the hero's action at the castle of talismans is obviously analagous to, though of directly contrary nature to, that produced upon the inmates of the bespelled castle. they are dead though they seem quick, the land is full of life though it seems waste. the question which frees the one from the spell of life-in-death, frees the other from the spell of death-in-life.[91] the didot-perceval has the complete conception. perceval's question not only releases brons, who may not die until then, but it also ends the enchantment of britain. the identity of hero in stories originally dissimilar was one reason for the confusion between the two formulas; the nature of the grail was another. its attributes were in all probability not very clearly defined in the immediate models of the french romance writers; these found it enveloped in mysterious haze, which simple story-tellers, such as gautier, did not try to clear up, and which gave free play to the mystic imaginings of those writers who used romance as a vehicle for edification. the one tangible thing about it in stories of the one class, its food producing-power, has left its trace upon every one of the romances. but we shall also find in our survey of celtic literature that this attribute, as well as that of healing or restoring to life, is found indifferently in stories of both the classes, to the fusion of which we refer the grail legends in their present form. another link between the two formulas is formed by the sword. it is almost invariably found associated with the healing vessel of balsam in task stories connected with the feud quest of the mabinogi and the conte du graal; it is also a frequent feature in the legend of the unsuccessful visit to the bespelled castle.[92] finally, the most important reason for running into one the stories derived from these two formulas, and the one which could hardly fail to lead to the fusion, is to be found in the identity of the myth which underlies both conceptions. the castle to which the avenger must penetrate to win the talismans, and that to which the hero comes with the intent of freeing its lord, are both symbols of the otherworld. bearing in mind this double origin of the grail, and reviewing once more the entire cycle, we note that, whilst it is that presentment of the magic vessel due to the second formula which is most prominent in the romances, the feud quest has furnished more and more varied sequences of incident, and is the staple of the oldest literary celtic form (the proto-mabinogi) and of those north french forms which are most closely akin to it. here the magic vessel is at best one of three equally potent treasures; as a matter of fact its _rôle_ in this section of the romances is, as we have seen, inferior to that of the sword. obviously intended to be the immediate cause of restoration to life or health of the hero's kinsman, its functions have been minimised until they have been forgotten. if this is so already in the proto-mabinogi and in the model of the conte du graal, we may expect to find that elsewhere in celtic tradition the magic vessel is of less account than sword or lance. we should likewise misconceive the character of popular tradition if we expected to find certain attributes rigidly ascribed to the mystic vessel in this or that set of stories. the confusion we have noted in the romances may be itself derived from older traditions. certain it is that in what maybe looked upon as the oldest account of the vessel[93] in celtic literature (although the form in which it has reached us is comparatively modern), there is a vessel of abundance associated with three other talismans, two of them being sword and lance. the tuatha de danann (the race of fairies and wizards which plays a part in irish tradition analogous to that of gwydion ap don, gwynn ap nudd, and their kin in welsh) so runs the tradition preserved by keating in his history of ireland (book i, ed. by joyce, dublin, 1880, p. 117), had four treasures: the lia fail, the stone of fate or virtue ("now in the throne upon which is proclaimed the king of the saxons," _i.e._, the stone brought by edward i., from scone); the sword that lug[94] lamhfhada (lug the longhanded) was wont to use; the spear the same lug used in battle; the cauldron of the dagda, "_a company used not ever go away from it unsatisfied_." keating followed old and good sources, and although the passage i have underlined is not to be found in all mss. of his work (_e.g._, it is missing in that translated by halliday), and although the verse which he quotes, and which probably goes back to the eleventh century, whilst the traditions which it embodies may be regarded as a couple of centuries older, does not mention this property of the dagda's[95] cauldron, it may, i think, be assumed that the tradition here noticed is genuine, and that a vessel akin to the grail, as well as talismans akin to those that accompany the grail, formed part of the gear of the oldest celtic divinities.[96] this conclusion appears no rash one when we consider the further references to the cauldron in middle irish literature. the battle of magh rath, a semi-historical romance relating to events which took place in the seventh century, is ascribed by its editor, dr. j. o'donovan, to the latter half of the twelfth century. it relates (pp. 51, _et seq._) how the sons of the king of alba sought to obtain from their father the "caire ainsicen" so called, because "it was the caire or cauldron which was used to return his own proper share to each, and no party ever went away from it unsatisfied, for whatever quantity was put into it there was never boiled of it but what was sufficient for the company according to their grade or rank." the mediæval story-teller then goes on to instance similar cauldrons to be met with in the older history of ireland. these may nearly all be referred to the oldest heroic irish cycle, the ultonian, of which cuchulainn is the most prominent figure. this cycle, in its origin almost if not wholly mythic, was at an early date (probably as early as the eighth century) euhemerised, and its gods and demi-gods made to do duty as historical personages living at the beginning of the christian era. it is, indeed, not improbable that actual historical events and personages of that period may have coloured and distorted the presentment of the myth; and it is highly probable that the substance of these stories does go back to that age, as they are almost entirely free from any admixture of christian elements, and such admixture as there is can be readily detected as the handiwork of the tenth and eleventh century monks by whom these tales were written in mss. which have for the most part come down to us. the cauldron is found with the same properties as those set forth in the battle of magh rath, in two of the most celebrated tales of this cycle, the toghail bruighne da derga, and the tale of mac datho's pig. turning from irish to welsh literature we may note that the grail has frequently been compared with the cauldron of bran in the mabinogi of branwen, the daughter of llyr. i have dealt with this tale fully (folk-lore record, vol. v.), and see no reason to depart from the conclusion i then arrived at; namely, that it goes back in the main to the eleventh or tenth century. here, the revivifying power of the vessel is dwelt upon, "the property of it is that if one of thy men be slain to-day, and be cast therein, the morrow he will be as well as ever he was at his best, except that he will not regain his speech." we cannot fail to recall that in the queste which, as far as the grail itself is concerned, must be referred on the whole to the feud quest formula, when the sacred vessel appears the assembled company is struck dumb.[97] later celtic folk-literature has followed the mabinogi rather than the older irish legend in its account of the mystic vessel. where it appears in the folk-tale its function is to heal or to bring back to life. we may leave out of account for the present the references in the welsh "bardic" literature to the cauldron of ceridwen, chief among which is that in the mabinogi of taliesin. i am far from thinking that this literature deserves the wholesale condemnation that has been passed upon it, but it has been too little and too uncritically studied to afford, as yet, a firm basis for investigation. we are on surer ground in dealing with the living folk-tale. thus the tale of fionn's enchantment, although belonging more properly to the other formula, may be noticed here as containing a cup of balsam, the washings of which restore the maimed fionn to complete health. mr. campbell, who has noted the tale, remarks that the cup of healing is common in all the fenian stories, which is what we should naturally expect, seeing the close connection between fionn and peredur (rev. celt. i., p. 194). other instances have already been given in chapter vi. of the appearance of the vessel of balsam in connection with the glaive of light, and of its use in bringing back to life the hero's enemies. and here it maybe noted that almost the very mode in which it is introduced in the folk-tales may be paralleled from the romances. the grail appears to perceval and hector, lying well nigh dead upon the field of battle, and makes them whole, even as the vessel of balsam revivifies the dead warriors whom conall gulban has just slain, and heals the latter. it is, perhaps, only a coincidence that the angel in the one, the carlin in the other case, appear in a great flashing of light. but, as a rule, in those task-stories which otherwise present such close similarities to the feud quest of the proto-mabinogi and the conte du graal, the mystic vessel has dropped out altogether, and the sword is the chief if not the only talisman. this is the case in campbell, i., the young king of easaidh ruadh, and in xlvi. mac iain direach. in one instance the glaive of light is met with outside the task group, in campbell xli., the widow and her daughters, variant ii (a bluebeard story), and here it is found associated with the vessel of balsam. in the folk-tales, then, as in one section of the conte du graal, the healing vessel is decidedly of less account than the avenging or destroying weapon. this, as the sword, plays such an important part in the french romances that an examination of its _rôle_ in celtic literature will repay examination. besides the already quoted instances in which the sword of light accompanies the vessel of balsam as one of the treasures which reward the hero's quest, but in which it does not otherwise affect the march of the story, we find others in which the sword is either that weapon which causes the woe, the subject of the story, or else is the one means of testing the hero's fitness for his quest. in either case it is parallel to the sword of the grail romances. apart from these special instances there are general references in the oldest irish literature to the quasi-supernatural nature attributed to the sword. thus the leabhar gabhala, or book of invasions, the tenth and eleventh century tract in which irish mythology was euphemerised into an historical relation of the pre-christian invasion of ireland, has a passage relating to the sword of tethra, king of the fomori,[98] which spake, and, adds the christian scribe, the ancient irish adored swords.[99] this is borne out by a passage in the seirglige conculainn, a story belonging to the ultonian cycle, which mr. whitley stokes has translated (rev. celt. i., 260). the men of ulster, when showing their trophies, had their swords upon their thighs, "for their swords used to turn against them where they made a false trophy." the christian transcriber notes that it was reasonable for the pagan irish to trust their swords "because demons used to speak from out them." to return to the sword of tethra. the most famous battle of irish mystic history is that of mag-tured, in which the tuatha de danann, the gods of light and life, overcome their enemies the fomori. ogma, the champion of the tuatha de danann, wins the sword of tethra, and as he cleans it it tells him the many and great feats it had wrought. it is, however, in the second of the great heroic cycles of the ancient irish, the fenian or ossianic, that we find the sword put to a use which strongly recalls that of the romances. not until the hero is able to wield the weapon so that it break not in his hand, or to weld it together so that no flaw appears,[100] is he fit to set forth on the quest. in campbell's lxxvii., "how the een was set up," fionn applies for his sword to ullamh lamhfhada[101] (ullamh the longhanded), who gives him the most likely sword and the best he found. the hero takes it, shakes it, casts it out of the wooden handle and discards it. thrice is this repeated, and when the right weapon is in fionn's hand, he quells utterly all he sees.[102] now how had fionn obtained this sword originally? by slaying black arcan, his father's slayer. it may, i think, be looked upon as certain that in an earlier form of the story, the weapon in question would turn out to be the one with which the treacherous deed was done, and fionn, a counterpart of peredur in his bringing up, would also be his counterpart in this incident.[103] for the sword with which partinal slew goon desert is treasured up for the use of perceval, but only after a repeated essay is he held worthy of it.[104] the sword incident reappears in a tale of campbell's, manus (vol. iii.), which presents some very remarkable analogies with the romances. manus is driven into various adventures by his aunt; an armourer of his grandfather offers to get him a sword; but all given to him he breaks save the armourer's old sword, and it beat him to break that. the armourer then gives him a cloth, "when thou spreadest it to seek food or drink, thou wilt get as thou usest." subsequently, helped by a lion, he achieves many feats. he comes to the help of the white gruagach by fetching the blood of a venemous horned creature belonging to the king over the great world, by which alone the white gruagach could be restored to life when the magic trout with which his life was bound up had been slain. afterwards he accompanies him against his enemy the red gruagach, who is slain, and his head stuck on a stake. this red gruagach is apparently the father of the aunt who so persecutes manus.[105] this examination of the sword incident shows that the mabinogi has preserved the original form of the story, and links afresh this portion of the conte du graal with the other celtic stories belonging to the expulsion and return formula group, with which it has so much else in common. in all the formula-stories, except those of the conte du graal and the proto-mabinogi, the hero has to avenge his father, not his uncle; and it is highly suggestive that at least one version of the perceval cycle (the thornton romance) follows suit. with this remark we may take leave of the feud quest. many and interesting as have been the parallels from the older celtic literature to the feud quest, they are far outweighed by those which that literature affords to the second formula--the visit to the bespelled castle--which we have noted in the romances. from the recapitulation (_supra_, pp. 173, _et. seq._) we may learn several things. the castle lies, as a rule, on the other side of a river; the visitor to it is under a definite obligation; he must either do a certain thing, as, _e.g._, in perceval's visit to the castle of maidens, strike on the table three blows with the hammer, or he must put a certain question, or again he must abstain from certain acts, as that of falling asleep (perceval and gawain) or drinking[106] (gawain, in heinrich von dem türlin). disregard of the obligation is punished in various ways. in the case of the castle of maidens the craven visitor is allowed to fare forth unheeded without beholding the marvels of the castle; but, as a rule, the hero of the adventure finds himself on the morrow far away from the castle, which has vanished completely. the inmates of this castle fall into two classes--they are supernatural beings like the maidens, who have apparently no object to gain from their mortal visitor, but who love heroism for its own sake, and are as kindly disposed towards the mortal hero in the folk-lore and mythology of the celts as gods, and especially goddesses, are in the mythic lore of all other races; or they suffer from an over-lengthened life, from which the hero alone can release them. this latter feature, seen to perfection only in heinrich von dem türlin, is apparent in the didot-perceval, and has, in the conte du graal, supplied the figure of the old man, father to the fisher king, nourished by the grail. these features sufficiently indicate that the magic castle is the realm of the other world. the dividing water is that across which lies tír-na n-og, the irish avalon, or that engelland dwelt in by the shades which the inhabitants of the belgian coast figured in the west.[107] in celtic lore the earliest trace of this realm is found, as is the earliest trace of grail and sword, in connection with the tuatha de danann, that race of dispossessed immortals which lives on in the hollow hill sides, and is ever ready to aid and cherish the irish mythic heroes. the most famous embodiment of this conception in irish myth is the brug na boine, the dwelling place of oengus,[108] son of the dagda, and the earliest account of it is that contained in the book of leinster, the second of the two great irish vellums written down in the twelfth century. it is a land of cockayne; in it are fruit trees ever loaded with fruit, on the board a pig ready roasted which may not be eaten up, vessels of beer which may not be emptied, and therein no man dies.[109] but oengus is not the only one of the tuatha de danann who has such a fairy palace. the dwelling place of lug is of the same kind, and in the story of the conception of cuchulainn,[110] which tells how the god carried off dechtire, sister of conchobor, and re-incarnated himself in her as the great ulster hero, we learn that when conchobor and his men go in search of dechtire and her fifty maidens, they first come to a small house wherein are a man and woman; the house suddenly becomes a splendid mansion,[111] therein are the vanished maidens in the shape of birds (and all sorts of goods, and dishes of divers sorts, known and unknown; never did they have a better night, in the morning they found themselves houseless, birdless in the east of the land, and they went back to emain macha).[112] although no prohibition is mentioned the similarity in parts of this story, which, it must be repeated, is older than the introduction of christianity in ireland, to the romances is evident. another famous brug of the tuatha de danann is that of manannan mac lir. among the visitors was bran, the son of febal, whose story may be found in the leabhar na h' uidhre, the oldest of the great irish vellums.[113] one day as he was alone in his palace there came to him soft, sweet music, and he fell asleep. when he awoke a silver branch, covered with flowers, was at his side. a short while after, as he was in the midst of his kinsfolk, his chiefs, and his nobles, an unknown damsel appeared, and bid him to her in the land of _sidhe_, and then vanished, and with her the branch. bran set sail, and with him thirty men. after two days' wandering they met manannan mac lir. they continued their journey until they came to an island dwelt in solely by women; their queen it was who had sent for bran. he stayed with her a while, and then came back to ireland. but the most famous of the visits to the brug of manannan is that of cormac mac art, whom the irish legendary annals place in the third century of our era, and bring into connection with fionn. the story, though only known to us from later mss., can be traced back to the tenth century at least, as the title of it figures in a list preserved in the book of leinster, and as it is apparently alluded to by the eleventh century annalist, tighernach.[114] the following summary is from a version, with english translation by mr. standish hayes o'grady, in the third volume of the ossianic society's publications. of a time that cormac was in liathdruim he saw a youth having in his hand a glittering fairy branch, with nine apples of red gold upon it.[115] and this was the manner of that branch, that when any one shook it, men wounded and women with child would be lulled to sleep by the sound of the very sweet fairy music which those apples uttered, and no one on earth would bear in mind any want, woe, or weariness of soul when that branch was shaken for him. cormac exchanged for this branch his wife and son and daughter, overcoming their grief by shaking the branch. but after a year, cormac went in search of them. and he chanced upon a land where many marvels were wrought before his eyes, and he understood them not. at length he came to a house wherein was a very tall couple, clothed in clothes of many colours, and they bade him stay. and the man of the house brought a log and a wild boar, and if a quarter of the boar was put under a quarter of the log, and a true story was told, the meat would be cooked. at cormac's request the host told the first story, how that he had seven swine with which he could feed the world, for if the swine were slain, and their bones put in the sty, on the morrow they would be whole again; and the hostess the second, how that the milk of her seven white kine would satisfy the men of the world. cormac knew them for manannan and his wife, and then told his story how he had lost and was seeking for wife and children. manannan brought in the latter, and told cormac it was he who gave him the branch, that he might bring him to that house. then they sat down to meat, and the table-cloth was such that no food, however delicate, might be demanded of it, but it should be had without doubt; and the drinking cup was such that if a false story was told before it, it went in four pieces, and if a true one, it came whole again, and therewith was the faith of cormac's wife made evident. and manannan gave branch and cloth and goblet to cormac, and thereafter they went to slumber and sweet sleep. where they rose upon the morrow was in the pleasant liathdruim. the foregoing examples have been akin to the incident of the maiden castle. we have seen the race of immortals caring for the sons of men, signalling out and alluring to themselves the brave and wise hero. in the tales we are now about to examine the benefit conferred by the visitor upon the inmates of the magic castle is insisted upon. but we must first notice a tale which presents many of the incidents of the grail romances, without actually belonging to the same story group as they. in campbell's no. lxxxvi, the daughter of king under the waves, diarmaid, the fairest and bravest of the fenian heroes, weds a fay who, as her description indicates, belongs to the same order of beings as the damsels who lure away connla and bran, the son of febal. she comes to him in loathly guise, and the other heroes shrink from her; but diarmaid, courteous as he is brave, gives her the shelter of tent and bed and has his reward. she builds for him such a castle as the fay mistress of the knight of the black tomb (_supra_, p. 17) builds for her lover. but she warns him that after a threefold reproach as to how he found her she would have to leave him. through the cunning of fionn he is led to break the taboo and "it was in a mosshole he awoke on the morrow. there was no castle, or a stone left of it on another." diarmaid sets forth to seek his wife, he finds her ailing to death, and to be cured she must have three draughts from the cup of the king of the plain of wonder. helped by a little russet man, he gets the talisman, as was prophesied of him; but, advised by the little russet man, he gives the maiden to drink out of a certain well, which changes their love into aversion, and he returns to the light of day. this last feature should be noted as characteristic. the mortal lover always tires sooner than the fay mistress. oisin cannot stay in tír-na n-og. perceval gives but one night to the lady of the chessboard. we now come to the "unspelling" stories, and i will cite in the first place one which is the most striking testimony i know of to the influence of this formula upon celtic mythic lore. there is a widely spread folk-tale of a hero robbed of three magic gifts and getting them back thus; by chance he eats some fruit or herb which changes him into an ass, causes his nose to grow, sets horns upon his head, or produces some equally unpleasant result. another herb he finds heals him. armed with specimens of either, he wins back his talismans. in grimm it is no. 122, der krautesel, and in vol. iii., p. 201, variants are given. in one the hero is one of three soldiers, and he receives the gifts from a little grey man. but neither here nor in the variants given by dr. r. köhler (orient und occident, ii., p. 124) is the opening the same as in campbell's no. x.--the three soldiers. the three come to a house in the wilderness dwelt in by three girls who keep them company at night, but disappear during the day. in the house is a table, overnight they eat off it, and when they rise the board is covered, and it would not be known that a bit had ever come off it. at the first night's close one soldier gets a purse never empty; at the second, the next one a cloth always filled with meat; and the third, the youngest (the hero), a transporting whistle. but as they leave he must needs ask them who they are, and they burst out crying, "they were under charms till they could find three lads who would spend three nights with them without putting a question--had he refrained they were free." in one variant the time of probation lasts a year, and the talismans are: a cup that empties not, and a lamp of light, the table-cloth of meat, and a bed for rest. in another the damsels are swanmaids,[116] and the visitors are bidden "not to think nor order one of us to be with you in lying down or rising up."[117] there can, i think, be little doubt that this last variant represents the oldest form of the story, and that the swanmaid damsels belong to the otherworld, as do the daughter of king under the waves and the maiden who fetches connla. there is nothing surprising in swanmaids being the object of a taboo, this is so invariably the case in myth and folk-lore that it is needless to accumulate instances; what is unique to my knowledge, i speak under correction, is the fact of these damsels being in possession of the talismans, one of which is so obviously connected with the grail. it may be noted that the obligation laid upon the hero is the direct opposite of that in the grail romances, in the one case a question must not be asked, in the other it must. in this respect campbell's tale of course falls into line with all the widely spread and varying versions of the melusine legend. the supernatural wife always forbids her husband some special act which, as is perhaps natural, he can never refrain from doing. the next form of the bespelled castle legend is one which has attained far greater celebrity than any other on account of its traditional association with historical personages. it pictures the inmate of the castle as a king, with his warriors around him, sunk into magic sleep, and awaiting a signal to come forth and free his folk. to many english readers this legend will be more familiar in connection with frederick barbarossa[118] or with holger the dane than with any celtic worthy. yet the oldest historic instance is that of arthur.[119] i have quoted (_supra_, p. 122) gerald's words relating to the mountain seat of arthur. a more definite tradition, and one closely resembling the episode in the grail romances, is the one noted by gervasius of tilbury[120] (c. 1211 a.d.). a groom of the bishop of catania, following a runaway horse even to the summit of mount etna, found himself in a far reaching plain, full of all things delightful. a marvellous castle rose before him, wherein lay arthur on a royal bed, suffering from the wound inflicted upon him by modred his nephew, and childeric the saxon, and this wound broke out afresh each year. the king caused the horse to be given to the groom, and made him many rich presents.[121] this tradition of arthur in sicily raises some very interesting questions. for one thing it is a fresh example of the tremendous and immediate popularity of the arthurian legend. it also shows with what rapidity a tradition, however remote in its origin from a particular spot, may associate itself with that. of more immediate interest to us is the question whether this tradition has any direct connection with the grail romances, whether it has shaped or been shaped by them. martin refers the maimed king of the romances to the same myth-root as the wounded arthur waiting in etna or in avalon till his wound be healed and he come forth. it seems to me more likely that in so far as the wound is concerned there is a coincidence merely between the two stories, and that the wounded king belongs properly to the feud quest. i do not, however, deny that the fact of the lord of the bespelled castle, of the otherworld, being sometimes pictured as suffering from an incurable wound, may have aided that fusion of the two strains of legend which we find in the romances. it is not my purpose to examine here in detail the innumerable versions of this widely-spread tradition[122], the more so as i have been able to trace no exact parallel to that presentment of the story found in heinrich von dem türlin and in the didot-perceval. no other version of this form of the legend, to my knowledge, pictures the bespelled king as awaiting the deliverance of death at the hands of his visitor. before endeavouring to find a reason for the singularity of heinrich's account, i will first quote one variant of the common form of the legend which has not been printed before save by myself in the folk-lore journal, vol. i., p. 193.[123] king arthur sleeps bespelled in the ruins of (richmond) castle. many have tried to find him but failed. one man only, potter thompson by name, wandering one night among the ruins chanced upon the hall wherein sat the king and his men around a table upon which lay a horn and a sword. terrified, he turned and fled, and as he did so a voice sounded in his ears- "potter thompson, potter thompson, had'st thou blown the horn, thou had'st been the greatest man that ever was born." for then he would have freed arthur from his magic sleep. never again could he reach that hall. this version, besides being practically inedited has the merit of exemplifying that association of the sword with the lord of the bespelled castle to which i have already alluded. the instances of the visit to the otherworld which have thus far been collected from celtic mythic literature, and which have been used as parallels to the unspelling quest of the romances, are more closely akin to one example of this incident, perceval's visit to the castle of maidens, than to that found in heinrich and the didot-perceval. none, indeed, throw any light upon that death-in-life which is the special feature in these two works. all are of one kind in so far as the disposition of the inmates towards the visitor is concerned; he is received with courtesy when he is not actually allured into the castle, and the trials to which he is subjected are neither painful nor humiliating. but it will not have escaped attention that the conte du graal contains another form of the visit, one which i have hitherto left unnoticed, in gawain's visit to the magic castle. a new conception is here introduced: the lord of the castle[124] is an evil being, who holds captive fair dames and damsels; they it is, and not he, whom the hero must deliver, and the act of deliverance subjects him to trial and peril (_supra_, p. 14, chr. inc. 17). let us see if this form affords any explanation of the mysterious features of heinrich's version. this incident may, it is easily conceivable, be treated in two ways; the hero may be a worthy knight and succeed, or a caitiff and fail. a story of this latter kind may throw some light upon gawain's adventures at the magic castle. the story in question (the son of bad counsel) is ascribed by kennedy, legendary fictions, pp. 132, _et seq._, to an author of the early eighteenth century, brian dhu o'reilly, and traced back to an older ossianic legend--conan's delusions in ceash, of which kennedy prints a version, pp. 232, _et seq._ the hero of the story comes to the castle of a gruagach, named the giant of the unfrequented land, and his wife, daughter to the king of the lonesome land. the name of the castle is the uncertain castle. very fair is their daughter, and she is proffered to the hero for his promised aid against other fairy chieftains. after playing at backgammon with the gruagach, the hero lays himself to bed. he is assailed, as he fancies, by great dangers from which he hastens to flee, and, waking, finds himself in a ridiculous plight with his lady-love, and the other folk of the castle laughing at him. in the morning he awakes, "and his bed was the dry grass of a moat." the names of the personages in the story at once recall those of the romances--the waste land or forest, the castle perillous, and the like--and one of the trials, the being shot at with fairy darts, is the same as that to which gawain is exposed in the conte du graal. but it is interesting chiefly as being a version of a wide-spread tale of how gods or heroes penetrating to the other world are made mock of by its inmates. in scandinavian mythology the story is well-known as thor's visit to utgarth loki. it is equally well-known in the fionn saga, and, considering the many points of contact we have hitherto found between fionn and the grail hero, the fenian form claims our notice. the oldest preserved form of the story, that in the book of leinster, has been printed with translation by mr. whitley stokes, revue celt., vol. vii., pp. 289, _et seq._--fionn comes at nightfall with cailte and oisin to a house he had never heard of in that glen, knowing though he was. a grey giant greets them; within are a hag with three heads on her thin neck, and a headless man with one eye protruding from his breast. nine bodies rise out of a recess, and the hideous crew sing a strain to the guests; "not melodious was that concert." the giant slays their horses; raw meat is offered them, which they refuse; the inmates of the house attack them; they had been dead had it not been for fionn alone. they struggle until the sun lights up the house, then a mist falls into every one's head, so that he was dead upon the spot. the champions rise up whole, and the house is hidden from them, and every one of the household is hidden.--in the later fenian saga (later that is as far as the form in which it has come down to us is concerned) the story closely resembles thor's visit. kennedy (bardic stories, pp. 132, _et seq._) has a good version.[125]--fionn and his comrades follow a giant, on his shoulders an iron fork with a pig screeching between the prongs, behind him a damsel scourging him. they follow them to a house wherein is an aged hoary-headed man and a beautiful maid, a rough giant cooking the hog, and an old man having twelve eyes in his head, a white-haired ram, and a hag clad in dark ash coloured garment. two fountains are before the house: fionn drinks of one which at first tastes sweet, but afterwards bitter to death; from the other, and though he never suffered as much as while drinking, when he puts the vessel from his lips he is as whole as ever he was. the hog is then shared; the ram left out of count revenges itself by carrying out the guest's share, and smite it with their swords as they may, they cannot hurt it. the hag then throws her mantle over the guests, and they become four withered drooping-headed old men; on the mantle being removed they resume their first shape. these wonders are explained. the giant is _sloth_, urged on by _energy_; the twelve-eyed old man is the _world_; and the ram the _guilt of man_; the wells are _truth_ and _falsehood_; the hag _old age_. the warriors sleep and in the morning find themselves on the summit of cairn feargaill with their hounds and their arms by them. this tale betrays its semi-literary origin at once; and, though there is no reason to doubt that the irish celts had a counterpart to thor's journey to giantland, i am inclined to look upon the version just summarised as influenced by the norse saga. certain it is that the popular version of fionn's visit to giantland is much more like the eleventh century poem, preserved in the book of leinster, than it is like the mediæval, "how fionn fared in the house of cuana." i have already alluded (_supra_, p. 186) to one feature of the tale of fionn's enchantment, but the whole tale is of interest to us.--as fionn and his men are sitting round the fire boasting of their prowess in comes a slender brown hare and tosses up the ashes, and out she goes. they follow her, a dozen, to the house of the yellow face, a giant that lived upon the flesh of men. a woman greets them, and bids them begone before the face returns, but fionn will not flee. in comes the face and smells out the strangers. six of the fenians he strikes with a magic rod, "and they are pillars of stone to stop the sleety wind." he then cooks and devours a boar, and the bones he throws to the fenians. they play at ball with a golden apple, and the face puts an end to fionn's other comrades. hereafter he wrestles with fionn, and the griddle is put on the fire till it is red hot, and they all get about fionn and set him on the griddle till his legs are burnt to the hips ('twas then he said, "a man is no man alone"), and stick a flesh-stake through both his hams, so that he could neither rise nor sit, and cast him into a corner. but he manages to crawl out and sound his horn, and diarmaid hears it and comes to his aid, and does to the face as the face did to fionn, and with the cup of balsam which he wins from him makes fionn whole.--it is not necessary to dwell on the parallel between diarmaid healing his uncle fionn, wounded with a stake through the two thighs, by winning the cup of balsam, and perceval healing his uncle (mehaignié des ii cuisses) by the question as to the grail. this, alone, would be sufficient to show us what _rôle_ the grail played in the oldest form of the feud quest before the latter was influenced by the visit to the bespelled castle. if we look at the stories we have just summarised, we shall easily understand the meaning of the magic castle vanishing at dawn. as sleep is brother to death, so are night and its realm akin to the otherworld; many phantoms haunt them and seem quick and strive with and often terribly oppress the mortal wanderer through this domain, but with the first gleam of sunlight they vanish, leaving no trace behind them, and the awakening hero find himself in his own place. the conditions of the visit to the otherworld are thus partly determined by man's nightly experience in that dreamland which he figures to himself as akin to, if not an actual portion of the land of shades. this visit, as we have seen, is conceived of in several ways. its object is almost invariably to win precious talismans; all we have comes to us from our forefathers, and it is natural to suppose that in the world whence they came, and whither they go back, is to be found all that man seeks here, only in a form as more wonderful than earthly objects as the dwellers in the otherworld are mightier and cleverer than man. at times the talismans are held by beneficent beings, who either gladly yield them to the mortal visitor, or from whom they may be won by the exhibition of valour and magnanimity; at times by evil monsters with whom the mortal must strive. in either case the visitor arrives at nightfall and in the morning awakes to the life of this earth. the secondary or gawain form of the myth, as found in the conte de graal, may help us to understand heinrich's version. it is to free imprisoned damsels that gauvain undergoes the trials of the magic castle. now the effect of his visit in the german poem is to free the sister of gansguoter, who, with her maidens, remains when the other inmates of the castle, released by the question, have utterly vanished.[126] but what means the death-in-life condition of the king and his men? is it merely an expedient to account for their sudden vanishing at daylight? i rather see here the influence of another form of the unspelling myth, one that mixed with christian elements has powerfully impressed the popular imagination, and is in many european countries the only one in which this old myth still lives on.[127] the inmates of the magic castle or house are in this form figured as men doomed for some evil deed to haunt that particular spot, until some mortal is bold enough to win their secret and bring them rest. one would think that under the circumstances they would be as amiable as possible to any visitor. but the older form of the story persists, and they have not terrors or trials enough for the man who is to be their deliverer. i will only quote one version, from irish sources.[128] a youth engages to sleep in a haunted castle. if he is alive in the morning he will get ten guineas and the farmer's daughter to wife. at nightfall he goes thither, and presently three men in old-fashioned dress come down in pieces through a hole in the ceiling, put themselves together, and begin playing at football. jack joins them, and towards daybreak he judges they wish him to speak, so he asks them how he can give them rest if rest they want. "them is the wisest words you ever spoke," is answered to him. they had ground the poor and heaped up wealth evilly. they show him their treasure, and tell him how to make restitution. as they finish, "jack could see the wall through their body, and when he winked to clear his sight the kitchen was as empty as a noggin turned upside down." of course jack does as he is told, and has the daughter to wife, and they live comfortably in the old castle.[129] we have here, it seems to me, the last echo of such a story as one of those which enter into the grail romances. in heinrich's version, as elsewhere in these romances, different story types can be distinguished, different conceptions are harmonised. many, indeed, are both the early conceptions and the varying shapes in which they embodied themselves, to be traced in the complex mass of the romances. that a kinsman is bound to avenge a blood feud, and that until he does so his kin may suffer from ailment or enchantment and their land be under a curse; that the otherworld is a land of feasting and joyousness and all fair things; that it contains magic treasures which he who is bold may win; that it is peopled with beings whom he may free by his courage; that it is fashioned like dreamland--all these ideas find expression. if the foregoing exposition be accepted we have a valuable criterion for the age of the immediate originals of the romances. that famous version of the legend which pictured the dwellers in the otherworld as kings, spell bound, awaiting the releasing word to come forth and aid their folk, to which special circumstances gave such wide popularity in the later middle ages, causing it to supplant older tales of gods dwelling in the hollow hills, this version has left no trace upon the romances. these must, therefore, be older than the full-blown arthurian legend. one or two minor points may be briefly noticed. the ship in which is found the magic sword which wounds all bold enough to handle it save the destined knight may be thought to have taken the place of an older island. the loathly grail messenger shows the influence of the two formulas: as coming from the bespelled castle,[130] type of the otherworld, she should be radiantly fair; as the kinswoman of the destined avenger, under spells until the vengeance be accomplished, she is hideous in the last degree. but before we take leave of this incident we must examine two features upon which, as yet, no light has been thrown, the meaning of the epithet the _fisher_ king, and the hero's silence upon his first visit to the castle of talismans. chapter viii. the fisher king in the conte du graal, in the queste, and in borron and the grand st. graal--the accounts of latter complete each other--the fish is the salmon of wisdom--parallel with the fionn saga--the nature of the unspelling quest--the mabinogi of taliesin and its mythological affinities--brons, bran, cernunnos--perceval's silence: conte du graal explanation late; explanation from the fionn saga--comparison of incident with _geasa_; nature of latter; references to it in celtic folk-tales and in old irish literature, book of rights, diarmaid, cuchulainn--_geasa_ and _taboo_. the conte du graal, as we have seen, offers no satisfactory explanation of the fisher king. by chrestien he is represented on perceval's first meeting with him as angling from a boat steered by his companion (v. 4,187); he directs perceval to his castle. perceval is afterwards informed that, being wounded and consequently unable to mount on horseback, fishing is his only solace, whence the name applied to him (vv. 4,681, _et seq._). this is practically all the conte du graal has to say about him, as the continuators, whilst repeating the epithet, add no fresh details. indeed in none of the after-visits of perceval is the king represented as fishing, or is there the slightest reference to, let alone insistence upon, this favourite occupation of his. it is another proof of the inadequacy of birch-hirschfeld's theory of the development of the legend, that it represents chrestien, who, _ex hypothesi_, divested borron's poem of its religious character, as retaining this feature due wholly to religious symbolism, whilst the continuators with their obvious fondness for such symbolism entirely neglected it. the queste, which in so far as the quest portion is concerned is formally connected with the conte du graal, says nothing about the fisher, nor does that section of the grand st. graal which presents the same early history as the queste. in borron's poem, on the other hand, and in that later section of the grand st. graal which agrees with it, an explanation is given of the epithet. according to borron, brons catches a fish at joseph's bidding; joseph, having placed the vessel on the table and covered it with a towel, takes the fish and lays it opposite the vessel; the people are then called together, and it is possible to distinguish the sinners from the righteous (vv. 2,500-2,600). joseph is afterwards told by an angel, that, as brons was a good man, it was the lord's will he should catch the fish (vv. 3,310, _et seq._), and he is to be called the rich fisher (v. 3,348). in the grand st. graal (vol. ii., pp. 248, _et seq._) not brons but his son alain is bidden by joseph to fish, and this with a view to providing food for the sinners of the company whom the holy vessel leaves unsatisfied. alain fishes from a boat with a net. he catches but one fish, and there are at first murmurs, but joseph, by virtue of alain's prayers, multiplies the fish so that it feeds the host, and thus alain wins the name of rich fisher. these accounts complete each other. chrestien dwells upon the continued act of fishing which, for aught to the contrary we learn from him or his continuators, is always fruitless. borron and the grand st. graal dwell upon the one successful haul, and especially upon the miraculous properties of the one fish caught. reading the two accounts together, we find that the fisher king passes his life seeking for a fish which, when caught, confers upon him the power of distinguishing good from evil, or enables him to furnish an inexhaustible meal to his men. the conte du graal has been shown to derive more of its substance from the feud quest--the didot-perceval from the unspelling quest. borron's poem, as far as its primitive celtic elements are concerned, is probably to be ranged with the didot-perceval, to which many links unite it. we may, therefore, turn to celtic stories belonging to either of these formulas for parallel features. the inexhaustible nature of the fish at once recalls the pigs of manannan mac lir (_supra_, p. 194); they, too, can feed a multitude. but it is in stories formally connected with the feud quest that we find what i venture to suggest is an adequate explanation of the nature of the fisher king and of the fish. the latter is, i think, the salmon of wisdom,[131] which appears so often and so prominently in irish mythic lore; and the former is that being who passes his life in vain endeavours to catch the wonderful fish, and who, in the moment of success, is robbed of the fruit of all his long toils and watchings. i am prepared to admit that the incident as found in borron's poem has been recast in the mould of mediæval christian symbolism, but i think the older myth can still be clearly discerned and is wholly responsible for the incident as found in the conte du graal.[132] let us first look at the irish story. this is found in an account, to which allusion has already been made, of the boyish exploits of finn mac cumhail.[133] it is there told how finn seeks his namesake, finn-eges, to learn poetry from him, as until then he durst not stay in ireland for fear of his foes. now finn-eges had remained seven years by the boyne, watching the salmon of linn-feic, which it had been foretold finn (himself as he thought) should catch and know all things afterwards. finn, who conceals his name, takes service with him and the salmon is caught. finn is set to watch it while it roasts, but warned not to eat of it. inadvertently he touches it with his thumb, which he burns, and carries to his mouth to cool. immediately he becomes possessed of all knowledge, and thereafter he had only to chew his thumb to obtain wisdom. finn-eges recognises that the prophecy has been fulfilled, and hails his pupil as finn. it is needless to dwell upon the archaic features of this tale, which represents the hero seeking service of a powerful magician, from whom he hopes to learn the spells and charms that may guard him against his foes. here, as in many other portions of the ossianic saga, fionn is strikingly like a red indian medicine man, or the corresponding wizard among other savage tribes. it is more to our purpose to note that this tale contains the fullest presentment of fionn as hero of the expulsion and return formula, and that a similar incident is to be found in the lives of other heroes of the formula (notably siegfried: the adventure with mimir.) now, as we have already seen that peredur-perceval is a formula hero, there is nothing remarkable in finding an analogous incident in his _sage_. a formal connection is thus at once made out. but we must look into the matter a little closer, as the incident found in the romances is but a faint echo, and that in part distorted by alien conceptions, of the original story. the unspelling quest in one form resolves itself ultimately into the hero's search for riches, power, or knowledge, in prosecution of which he penetrates to the otherworld. this is figured in the grail romances both by brons' or alain's (who here answers to fionn) catching the wonderful fish, and by peredur-perceval coming to the house of brons, the fisher king (who here answers to finn-eges), winning from him the mysterious vessel of increase, and learning the secret words which put an end to the enchantments of britain. in the grail romances the idea of wisdom is not associated with the grail, the vessel, at all; it is either bound up with the fish, as in the irish tale, or is the possession of the fisher king as the wonder-working spells are the possession of finn-eges. but in the welsh tradition which corresponds to that of fionn and the salmon, it is the vessel, the cauldron, or rather the drink which it holds, which communicates the gift of wisdom and knowledge. i allude, of course, to the story of gwion, set by ceridwen to watch the cauldron of inspiration, inadvertently tasting its contents, becoming thereby filled with knowledge, pursued by ceridwen, who swallows him, and in whom he re-incarnates himself as taliesin, the allwise bard. campbell had already (vol. iv., p. 299) drawn attention to the similarity of the two stories, and equated fionn, father of oisin, with gwion, father of taliesin; and, as professor rhys has now (hibbert lectures, p. 551) given the equation his sanction, it may be accepted as philologically sound. i have hitherto refrained in the course of these studies from making any use of the mabinogi of taliesin, or of references to the cauldron of ceridwen of a like nature with those contained in that tale; but it will, i think, be admitted now that the welsh mabinogi, however late in form, and however overlaid it may be with pseudo-archaic bardic rubbish, does go back to a primitive stratum of celtic mythology. in connection with this myth the name brons is of high import. this catcher of the fish, this lord of the grail, at once suggests bran, who is also a guardian of the magic cauldron. professor rhys (pp. 85-95) shows reason for looking upon bran (as he is presented in the mabinogi of branwen) as the representative of an old celtic god, cernunnos, that celtic dis from whom, as cæsar reports, the gauls claimed descent, and who, as god of the otherworld and the shades was also god of knowledge and riches. we are thus brought back again to the fundamental conception of the grail quest. it is to this tale that i would turn for one of the possible explanations of perceval's silence at the court of the fisher king. that the romance writers did not understand this incident is evident from the explanation they give. gonemans' moral advice to his nephew on the evil of curiosity may have its foundation in a possible feature of the original, about which i shall speak presently; or it may simply be an expedient of chrestien's or of his immediate model. in either case its present form is obviously neither old nor genuine. the silence of perceval may, perhaps, be referred to the same myth-root as fionn's concealment of his name whilst in the service of finn-eges.[134] this prohibition might extend not only to the disclosing of his name by the mortal visitor to the realm of the shades, but to the utterance of any words at all. as he might not eat or drink in the underworld, so he might not speak lest he lose the power to return to the land of the living. one tale we have seen (_supra_, p. 195) does contain this very injunction to say no word whilst in company of the dwellers in the bespelled castle. in this case we should have to assume that two varying redactions of the theme have been maladroitly fused into one in the romances--that, namely, which bids the visitor to the otherworld abstain from a certain act, and that which, on the contrary, bids him perform a certain act, failure of compliance with the injunction being punished in either case. the positive injunction of one form of the story is used as an explanation of the hero's failure in another. an alternative hypothesis is that whilst the hero's unreadiness of speech, the cause of his want of success at his first visit, comes wholly from the unspelling quest, the motive by which the romances seek to account for that unreadiness comes from the feud quest. the latter, as has been shown, is closely akin to many task-stories; and it is a frequent feature in such stories, especially in the celtic ones, that the hero has to accomplish his quest in spite of all sorts of odd restrictions which are laid upon him by an enemy, generally by a step-mother or some other evil-disposed relative. in the language of irish mythic tradition perceval would be under _geasa_ to ask no questions, and gonemans' advice would be the last faint echo of such an incident. the form which such prohibitions take in celtic folk-tales is very curious. the _gess_ is generally embodied in a magical formula, the language of which is very old and frequently unintelligible to the narrators themselves. as a rule, the hero, by advice of a friendly supernatural being, lays a counterspell upon his enemy. thus, in "how the great tuairsgeul was put to death" (scot. celt. rev. i., p. 70) the magician "lays it as crosses and charms that water leave not your shoe until you found out how the great tuairsgeul was put to death." the hero retorts by laying the same charms that the magician leave not the hillock until he return. in campbell, no. xlvii., mac iain direach, the stepmother, "sets it as crosses, and as spells, and as the decay of the year upon thee; that thou be not without a pool of water in thy shoe, and that thou be wet, cold, and soiled until, etc.;" and the hero bespells her, "that thou be standing with the one foot on the great house and the other foot on the castle: and that thy face be to the tempest whatever wind blows, until i return back." the formula in campbell, no. li, the fair gruagach is very archaic. "i lay thee under spells, and under crosses, under holy herdsmen of quiet travelling, wandering woman, the little calf, most feeble and powerless, to take thy head and thine ear and thy wearing of life from off thee if thou takest rest by night or day; where thou takest thy breakfast that thou take not thy dinner, and where thou takest thy dinner that thou take not thy supper, in whatsoever place thou be, until thou findest out in what place i may be under the four brown quarters of the globe." these instances will suffice to show the nature of the _gess_ in celtic folk-lore, but some references to older irish literature are necessary to show its great importance in the social and religious life of the race. o'donovan (book of rights, p. xlv.) explains the word _geasa_ as "any thing or act forbidden because of the ill luck that would result from its doing;" also "a spell, a charm, a prohibition, an interdiction or hindrance." this explanation occurs in the introduction to a poem on the restrictions (_geasa_) and prerogatives (_buada_) of the kings of eire, found in the book of ballymote (late fourteenth century) and book of lecan (early fifteenth century). the poem is ascribed to cuan o'lochain (a.d. 1024), and, from the historical allusions contained in it, o'donovan looks upon it as in substance due to that poet, and as embodying much older traditions. some of these _geasa_ may be quoted. for the king of eire, "that the sun should rise upon him on his bed in magh teamhrach;" for the king of leinster, "to go round tuath laighean left hand-wise on wednesday;" for the king of munster, "to remain, to enjoy the feast of loch lein from one monday to another;" for the king of connaught, "to go in a speckled garment on a grey speckled steed to the heath of luchaid;" for the king of ulster, "to listen to the fluttering of the flocks of birds of luin saileach after sunset."[135] even these instances do not exhaust the force or adequately connote the nature of this curious institution. in the irish hero-tales _geasa_ attach themselves to the hero from his birth up, and are the means by which fate compasses the downfall of the otherwise invincible champion; thus it is a _gess_ of diarmaid that he never hunt a swine, and when he is artfully trapped into doing it by fionn he meets his death; it is a _gess_ of cuchulainn's that he never refuse food offered him by women, and as he goes to his last fight he accepts the poisoned meal of the witches though he full well knows it will be fatal to him.[136] but, besides this, _geasa_ may also be an appeal to the hero's honour as well as a magic charm laid upon him, and it is sometimes difficult to see by which of the two motives the hero is moved. thus graine, wife of fionn, lays _geasa_ upon diarmaid that he carry her off from her husband, and though he is in the last degree unwilling he must comply.[137] enough has been said to show that we have in the _geasa_ a cause quite sufficient to explain the mysterious prohibition to ask questions laid upon perceval, if the first explanation i have offered of this prohibition be thought inadequate. chapter ix. summing up of the elements of the older portion of the cycle--parallelism with celtic tradition--the christian element in the cycle: the two forms of the early history; brons form older--brons and bran--the bran conversion legend--the joseph conversion legend: joseph in apocryphal literature--glastonbury--the head in the platter and the veronica portrait--the bran legend the starting point of the christian transformation of the legend--substitution of joseph for bran--objections to this hypothesis--hypothetical sketch of the growth of the legend. i have now finished the examination of all those incidents in the grail quest romances which are obviously derived from some other sources than christian legend, and which are, indeed, referred by pronounced adherents of the christian-origin hypothesis to celtic tradition. i have also claimed a celtic origin for features hitherto referred to christian legend. this examination will, i trust, convince many that nearly all the incidents connected with the quest of the grail are celtic in their origin, and that thus alone can we account for the way in which they appear in the romances. the latter are, as we have seen, in the highest degree inconsistent in their account of the mystic vessel and its fortunes; the most cursory examination shows the legend to be composed of two parts, which have no real connection with each other; the older of these parts, the quest, can easily be freed from the traces of christian symbolism; this older part is itself no homogeneous or consistent tale, but a complex of incidents diverse in origin and character. these incidents are: the rearing of the hero in ignorance of the world and of men; his visit to the court of the king, his uncle; his slaying of his father's murderer, the trial made of him by means of the broken sword; his service with the fisher king; his quest in search of the sword and of the vessel by means of which he is to avenge the death or wounding of his kinsman; his accomplishment of this task by the aid of a kinsman who is under spells from which he will not be loosed until the quest be ended; the adventure of the stag-hunt, in which the bespelled kinsman tests the hero's skill and courage; the hero's visit to the castle of talismans; the prohibition under which he labours; his failure to accomplish certain acts; the effects of his failure; his visit to the magic castle, the lord of which is under the enchantment of death-in-life; his visit to the castle of maidens; his visit to the castle perillous; and his deliverance of the captive damsels by means of the trials which he successfully undergoes. to one and all of these incidents celtic parallels have been adduced; these have in each case been drawn from stories which present a general similarity of outline with the grail romances, or share with them similar guiding conceptions, whilst at the same time they are so far disconnected with them that no hypothesis of borrowing can account for the features they have in common. the inconsistencies of the romances have been explained by the fusion into one of two originally distinct groups of stories, and this explanation is confirmed by the fact that traces of this fusion may readily be found in the parallel celtic tales. these latter, when studied by scholars who never thought of comparing them with the grail romances, have been found to contain mythical elements which other scholars had detected independently in the romances. those features of the romances which have perplexed previous students, the fisher king and the omitted question, have been explained from the same group of celtic traditions, and in accordance with the same scheme of mythical interpretation which have been used to throw light upon the remainder of the cycle. finally, the one celtic version of the grail quest, the mabinogi, which presents no admixture of christian symbolism, has been shown, when cleared of certain easily distinguishable interpolations, to be genuine in character, and to present the oldest form of one of the stories which enters into the romances. i have tried not to force these parallels, nor to go one step beyond what the facts warrant. i have also tried to bear in mind that a parallel is of no real value unless it throws light upon the puzzling features in the development of the romances. i thus rest my case, not so much upon the accumulative effect of the similarities which i have pointed out between the romances and celtic tradition, as upon the fact that this reference of the romances to certain definite cycles of celtic myth and legend makes us understand, what otherwise we cannot do, how they came by their present shape. it now remains to be seen if this reference, can in any way explain the christian element in the legend, which i have hitherto left almost entirely out of account. birch-hirschfeld's hypothesis is condemned, in my opinion, by its failure to account for the celtic element; although i do not think an explanation of a late and intruding feature is as incumbent upon me as that of the original celtic basis of the legend is upon him, i yet feel that an hypothesis which has nothing to say on such a vital point can hardly be considered satisfactory. it is the christian transformation of the old celtic myths and folk-tales which gave them their wide vogue in the middle ages, which endowed the theme with such fascination for the preachers and philosophers who used it as a vehicle for their teaching, and which has endeared it to all lovers of mystic symbolism. the question how and why the celtic tales which i have tried, not unsuccessfully i trust, to disentangle from the romances were ever brought into contact with christ and his disciples, and how the old mystic vessel of healing, increase, and knowledge became at last the sacramental cup, must, therefore, be faced. the hypotheses set forth in the preceding page might be accepted in their entirety, and the merit of this transformation still be claimed, as birch-hirschfeld claims it, for the north french poets, to whom we owe the present versions of the romances. on first reading birch-hirschfeld's book, i thought this claim one of the flaws in his argument, and, as will be seen by reference to chapter iv., other investigators, who accept the christian origin of the larger part of the legend, hold that it has been shaped in these islands, or in accordance with celtic traditions now lost. i think we can go a step farther. a number of myths and tales have been used to illustrate the romances. in them may be found the personages through whom probably took place the first contact between celtic mythic tradition and christian legend. we must revert for one moment to the results obtained in chapter iii. by an examination of the way in which the grail and its fortunes are mentioned in the romances. we there distinguished two forms of the distinctively christian portion of the legend, the early history. in both joseph is the first possessor and user of the holy vessel, but in one its farther fortunes are likewise bound up with him or with his seed. he, or his son, it is who leads the grail host to britain, who converts the island, and by whom the precious vessel is handed down through a chosen line of kings in anticipation of the promised knight's coming. in the other form, on the contrary, joseph has nothing to do with britain, which is converted by brons and his son, alain; brons is the guardian of the holy vessel, and, in one version, the fisher of the mystic fish, whilst in another his son takes this part. there is repeated insistence upon the connection between the grail host and avalon. finally brons is the possessor of "secret words," and may not die until he has revealed them to his grandson. this account is, we saw, later in form than the joseph one. as we have it, it was written after the greater portion of the conte du graal, after that redaction of the early history made use of by the author of the queste and of the first draft of the grand st. graal. its influence only makes itself felt in the later stages of development of the legend. but none the less it clearly represents an older and purer form of the early history than that of the queste and of chrestien's continuators. it has not been doctored into harmony with the full-blown arthurian legend as the joseph early history has. it is still chiefly, if not wholly, a legend, the main purport of which is to recount the conversion of britain. such a legend is surely more likely to have been shaped by welsh or breton monks than by north french _trouvères_. and when we notice the celtic names of the personages, and their connection with the celtic paradise, avalon, there can remain little, if any, doubt respecting the first home of the story. we may thus look upon brons, owner of a mystic vessel, fisher of a mystic fish, as the hero of an early conversion legend. but the name brons has at once suggested to most students of the cycle that of bran. the latter is, as we saw in the last chapter, the representative of an old celtic god of the otherworld. he is the owner of the cauldron of renovation. he is also the hero in welsh tradition of a conversion legend, and is commonly known as bran the blessed. unfortunately the only explanation we have of this epithet occurs in a late triad, to which it is not safe to assign an earlier date than the fourteenth century. he is described therein as son of llyr llediath, "as one of the three blissful rulers of the island of britain, who first brought the faith of christ to the nation of the cymry from rome, where he was seven years a hostage for his son caradawc."[138] but if late in form this triad may well embody an old tradition. it gives the significant descent of bran from llyr, and thereby equates him with mannanan mac lir, with whom he presents otherwise so many points of contact. it is quite true that the bran legend, as is pointed out to me by professor rhys, is mentioned neither in the earliest genealogies nor in geoffrey. but it should be noted that the grand st. graal does bring one member of the brons group, petrus, into contact with king luces, the lucius to whom geoffrey ascribes the conversion. again, the epithet "blessed" is applied to bran in the mabinogi of branwen, daughter of llyr. i have placed this tale as a whole as far back as the eleventh-tenth centuries, and my arguments have met with no opposition, and have won the approval of such authorities as professor windisch and monsieur gaidoz. but the mabinogi, as we have it, was written down in the fourteenth century; the last transcriber abridged it, and at times did not apparently understand what he was transcribing. by his time the full-blown bran legend of the triad was in existence, and it may be contended that the epithet was due to him and did not figure in his model. on the other hand, stephens (lit. of the cymry, p. 425) quotes a triad of kynddelw, a poet of the twelfth century, referring to the three blessed families of the isle of britain, one of which is declared by a later tradition to be that of bran.[139] again, the triads of arthur and his warriors, printed by mr. skene, four ancient books, vol. ii., p. 457, from ms. hengwrt, 566, of the beginning of the fourteenth century, and probably at least fifty years older, mentions the "blessed head of bran."[140] on the whole, in spite of the silence of older sources, i look upon the epithet and the legend which it presupposes as old, and i see in a confusion between bran, lord of the cauldron, and bran the blessed, the first step of the transformation of the peredur _sage_ into the quest of the holy grail. in the first capacity bran corresponds to the lord of the castle of talismans. from the way in which the fish is dwelt upon in his legend, it may, indeed, be conjectured that he stood to peredur in some such relation as finn-eges to fionn. as hero of a conversion legend he came into contact with joseph. we do not know how or at what date the legend of the conversion of britain by joseph originated. it is found enjoying wide popularity in the latter half of the twelfth century, the very time in which the romances were assuming their present shape. wülcker (das evangelium nicodemi in der abendländischen literatur, paderborn, 1872) shows that the legend is not met with before william of malmesbury; and zarncke, as already stated (_supra_, p. 107), has argued that the passage in william is a late interpolation due to the popularity of the romances.[141] but to accept zarncke's contention merely shifts back the difficulty. if william did not first note and give currency to the tradition, the unknown predecessor of robert de borron and of the authors of the queste and grand st. graal did so; and the question still remains how did he come by the tradition, and what led him to associate it with glastonbury. birch-hirschfeld, it is true, makes short work of this difficulty. the fact that there is no earlier legend in which joseph figures as the apostle of britain is to him proof that borron evolved the conception of the grail out of the canonical and apocryphal writings in which joseph appears, and then devised the passage to britain in order to incorporate the arthurian romances with the legend he had invented. it is needless to repeat that this theory, unacceptable on _a priori_ grounds, is still more so when tested by facts. but joseph under other aspects than that of apostle of britain is worthy of notice. the main source whence the legend writers drew their knowledge of him was the evangelium nicodemi, the history of which has been investigated by wülcker. the earliest allusion in western literature to this apocryphal gospel is that of gregory of tours (wülcker, p. 23), but no other trace of its influence is to be met with in france until we come to the grail romances, and to mystery-plays which relate christ's harrowing of hell. in provence, italy, and germany the thirteenth and twelfth centuries are the earliest to which this gospel can be traced. in england, on the contrary, it was known as far back as the latter quarter of the eighth century; cynewulf based upon it a poem on the harrowing of hell, and alludes to it in the crist; the ninth century poem, "christ and satan," likewise shows knowledge of it, and there is a west-saxon translation dating from the early eleventh century. whence this knowledge and popularity of the gospel in england several centuries before it entered prominently into the literature of any other european people? wülcker can only point by way of answer to the early spread of christianity in these islands, and to the possibility of this gospel having reached england before it did france or germany. he also insists upon the early development of anglo-saxon literature. whether the fact that the apocryphal writings which told of joseph were known here when they were unknown on the continent be held to warrant or no the existence of a specifically british joseph legend, they at all events prove that he was a familiar and favourite legendary figure on british soil. it would be rash to go any farther, and to argue from the inadequacy of the reasons by which wülcker seeks to account for the early knowledge of the evangelium nicodemi in england, that joseph enjoyed particular favour among the british christians, and that it was from them the tidings of him spread among their saxon conquerors. the legendary popularity of joseph in these islands, though not in any special capacity of apostle of britain, is thus attested. let us admit for argument's sake that the conversion legend did first take shape in the twelfth century, is it not more likely to have done so here, where the apocryphal writings about him were widely spread, than in france, where they were practically unknown? and why if borron, or any other french poet, wanted to connect the holy vessel legend which he had imagined with arthur, should he go out of his way to invent the personages of brons and alain? the story as found in the queste would surely have been a far more natural one for him. and why the insistence upon avalon? we have plain proof that borron did not understand the word, as he explains it by a ridiculous pun (_supra_, p. 78).[142] these difficulties are met in a large measure if we look upon bran (brons) as the starting point of the christian transformation of the legend. in any case we may say that a conversion legend, whether associated with joseph or anyone else, would almost inevitably have gravitated towards glastonbury, but there are special reasons why this should be the case with a bran legend. avalon is certainly the welsh equivalent of the irish tír na n-og, the land of youth, the land beyond the waves, the celtic paradise. when or how this cymric myth was localised at glastonbury we know not.[143] we only know that glastonbury was one of the first places in the island to be devoted to christian worship. is it too rash a conjecture that the christian church may have taken the place of some celtic temple or holy spot specially dedicated to the cult of the dead, and of that lord of the shades from which the celts feigned their descent? the position of glastonbury, not far from that western sea beyond which lie the happy isles of the dead, would favour such an hypothesis. although direct proof is wanting, i believe that the localisation is old and genuine: bran, ruler of the otherworld, of avalon, would thus come into natural contact with glastonbury; and if, as i assume, joseph took his place in the conversion legend the association would extend to him. the after development of the legend would then be almost a matter of course. bran, the ruler in avalon, would pass on his magic gear (cauldron, spear, and sword, as in the case of the tuatha de dannan) to bran the blessed, who would in his turn transfer them to joseph. and once the latter had entered into the legend, he would not fail to recall that last scene of the lord's life with which he was so closely associated, not by any pseudo-gospel but by the canonical writings themselves, and thus the gear of the old celtic gods became transformed into such objects as were most prominent in the story of the passion and of the scene that immediately preceded it. the spear became that one wherewith christ's side was pierced. as for the vessel, the sacramental nature is the last stage of its christian development; its original object was merely to explain the sustenance of joseph in prison, and to provide a miraculous refreshment for the grail host, as is shown by the early history portion of the conte du graal and by the queste. in a dim and confused way the circumstances of the resurrection helped to effect the change of the pagan resuscitation-cauldron into a symbol of the risen lord. and some now lost feature of the original legend--some insistence upon the _contents_ of the vessel, some assimilation of them to blood--may have suggested the use to which the vessel was first put. this hypothesis assumes many things. it assumes a bran conversion legend, of which the only evidence of anything like the same date as the romances is a single epithet; it assumes that the hero of this legend was originally an old celtic divinity; it assumes a joseph conversion legend, for which there is really no other evidence than that of the romances; it assumes the amalgamation of the two legends, and that joseph took over in a large measure the _rôle_ and characteristics of brons. and when it is recollected that the primary assumption, the identification of the two brans, rests in a large measure upon the appearance of the fish in the brons legend, that this fish is nowhere in celtic tradition associated with bran, that it is associated on the other hand with a being, fionn, whom we have compared with peredur, but that it is absent from the peredur-saga, the hypothesis must be admitted to be of a tentative nature. i fully appreciate the force of the objections that can be urged against it; at the same time it has the merit of accounting for many puzzling features in the legend. when in the same story two personages can be distinguished whose _rôle_ is more or less of the same nature, when the one personage is subordinated in one version and has disappeared altogether from the other, it is quite legitimate to conclude that two originally independent accounts have become blended, and that one has absorbed the other. the hypothesis is on safe ground so far. it thus explains the presence of brons in the legend, as well as his absence from some versions of it; it has something to say in explanation of the connection with glastonbury; it explains in what way the celtic traditions were started on their path of transformation; and it provides for that transformation taking the very course it did. there is nothing to be urged against it on _a priori_ grounds; once admit the premisses, and the rest follows easily and naturally. its conjectural character (the main objection to it) is shared in an even higher degree by the other hypotheses, which have essayed to account for the growth and origin of the legend, and _they_ have the disadvantage of being inherently impossible. in the light of the foregoing investigations and hypotheses we may now amplify the sketch history of the whole cycle given in chapter iii. the peredur-saga probably came into existence in much its later form at an early date in the middle ages. a number of older mythical tales centered in a, perhaps, historical personage. the circumstances of his life and adventures may have given them not only cohesion, but may also have coloured and distorted them; nevertheless they remained, in the main, mythical tales of the same kind as those found all over the world. one of these tales was undoubtedly a cymric variant of the celtic form of the expulsion and return formula; another dealt with the hero's journey to the land of shades; traces of many others are to be found in the mabinogi. another celtic worthy, gwalchmai, was early associated with peredur, and the two stood in some such relation to each other as the twin brethren of a widely spread folk-tale group. curiously enough, whilst comparatively few incidents in the peredur-saga were worked up into the version which served as immediate model to the north french romances, that version contained many adventures of gwalchmai's which have not been preserved in welsh. we can trace three main crystallizations of the original saga-mass; one represented by the proto-mabinogi contained the feud quest, and, probably, some only of the other adventures found in the present mabinogi; the second, based more on the lines of the expulsion and return formula, is represented by the thornton ms. romance; in the third the feud quest was mixed up with the hero's visit to the bespelled castle, and those portions of the gwalchmai-saga which told of his visit to castle perillous as well as to the bespelled castle. whilst the proto-mabinogi was probably in prose, the proto-conte du graal was probably in verse, a collection of short _lais_ like those of marie de france. meanwhile, one of the chief personages of the older mythic world which appear in the peredur-saga, bran, the lord of the land of shades, of the bespelled castle, of the cauldron of healing, increase and wisdom, and of the knowledge-giving salmon, had become the apostle of britain, his pagan attributes thus suffering a christian change, which was perfected when joseph took the place of brons, bringing with him his gospel associations and the apocryphal legends that had clustered round his name. thus a portion of the saga was christianised, whilst the other portion lost its old, fixed popular character, owing to the fusion of originally distinct elements, and the consequent unsettling both of the outlines and of the details of the story. incidents and features which in the earlier folk-tale stage were sharply defined and intelligible became vague and mysterious. in this state, and bearing upon it the peculiarly weird and fantastic impress of celtic mythic tradition, the story, or story-mass rather, lay ready to the hand of courtly poet or of clerical mystic. at first christian symbolism was introduced in a slight and meagre way--the brons-joseph legend supplied the christian meaning of the talismans, and that was all. but the joseph legend was soon vigorously developed by the author of the work which underlies the queste and the grand st. graal. he may either not have known or have deliberately discarded brons, the old celtic hero of the conversion, as he certainly deliberately thrust down from his place of pre-eminence perceval, the celtic hero of the quest, substituting for him a new hero, galahad, and for the adventures of the conte du graal, based as they were upon no guiding conceptions, fresh adventures intended to glorify physical chastity. with all his mystic fervour he failed to see the full capacities of the theme, his presentment of the grail itself being in especial either over-material or over-spiritual. but his work exercised a profound influence, as is seen in the case of chrestien's continuators. robert de borron, on the other hand, if to him the merit must be assigned, if he was not simply transcribing an older, forgotten version, was a more original thinker, if a less gifted writer. although he was not able to entirely harmonise the conflicting accounts of which he made use, he yet succeeded in keeping close to the old lines of the legend whilst giving a consistent symbolical meaning to all its details. his work came too late, however, to exercise the influence it should have done upon the development of the legend; the writers who knew it were mere heapers together of adventures, and the very man who composed a sequel to it abandoned robert's main conception. the history of the legend of the holy grail is, thus, the history of the gradual transformation of old celtic folk-tales into a poem charged with christian symbolism and mysticism. this transformation, at first the inevitable outcome of its pre-christian development, was hastened later by the perception that it was a fitting vehicle for certain moral and spiritual ideas. these have been touched upon incidentally in the course of these studies, but they and their manifestation in modern as well as in mediæval literature deserve fuller notice. chapter x. popularity of the arthurian romance--reasons for that popularity--affinities of the mediæval romances with early celtic literature; importance of the individual hero; knighthood; the _rôle_ of woman; the celtic fairy and the mediæval lady; the supernatural--m. renan's views--the quest in english literature, malory--the earliest form of the legend, chrestien, his continuators--the queste and its ideal--the sex-relations in the middle ages--criticism of mr. furnivall's estimate of the moral import of the queste--the merits of the queste--the chastity ideal in the later versions--modern english treatments: tennyson, hawker--possible source of the chastity ideal in popular tradition--the perceval quest in wolfram; his moral conception; the question; parzival and conduiramur--the parzival quest and faust--wagner's parsifal--the christian element in the legend--ethical ideas in the folk-tale originals of the grail romances: the great fool, the sleeping beauty--conclusion. few legends have attained such wide celebrity, or been accepted as so thoroughly symbolical of one master conception, as that of the holy grail. poets and thinkers from mediæval times to our own days have used it as a type of the loftiest goal of man's effort. there must be something in the romances which first embodied this conception to account for the enduring favour it has enjoyed. nor is it that we read into the old legend meanings and teachings undreamt of before our day. at a comparatively early stage in the legend's existence its capacities were perceived, and the works which were the outcome of that perception became the breviary and the exemplar of their age. there are reasons, both general and special, why the celtic mythic tales grew as they did, and had such overwhelming vogue in their new shapes. in no portion of the vast arthurian cycle is it more needful or more instructive to see what these reasons were than in that which recounts the fortunes of the grail. the tales of peredur and gwalchmai, bound up with the arthurian romance, shared its success, than which nothing in all literary history is more marvellous. it was in the year 1145 that geoffrey of monmouth first made the legendary history of britain accessible to the lettered class of england and continent. he thereby opened up to the world at large a new continent of romantic story, and exercised upon the development of literature an influence comparable in its kind to that of columbus' achievement upon the course of geographical discovery and political effort. twenty years had not passed before the british heroes were household names throughout europe, and by the close of the century nearly every existing literature had assimilated and reproduced the story of arthur and his knights. charlemagne and alexander, the sagas of teutonic tribes, the tale of imperial rome itself, though still affording subject matter to the wandering jongleur or monkish annalist, paled before the fame of the british king. the instinct which led the twelfth and thirteenth centuries thus to place the arthurian story above all others was a true one. it was charged with the spirit of romance, and they were pre-eminently the ages of the romantic temper. the west had turned back towards the east, and, although the intent was hostile, the minds of the western men had been fecundated, their imagination fired by contact with the mother of all religions and all cultures. the achievements of the crusaders became the standard of attainment to the loftiest and boldest minds of western christendom. for these men alexander himself lacked courage and roland daring. the fathers had stormed jerusalem, and the sons' youth had been nourished on tales of araby the blest and ophir the golden of strife with the paynim, of the sorceries and devilries of the east. nothing seemed impossible to a generation which knew of toils and quests greater than any minstrel had sung, which had beheld in the east sights as wondrous and fearful as any the jongleur could tell of. moreover, the age was that of knight errantry, and of that phase of love in which every knight must qualify himself for the reception of his lady's favours by the performance of some feat of skill and daring. such an age and such men demanded a special literature, and they found it in adaptations of celtic tales. the mythic heroic literature of all races is in many respects alike. the sagas not only of greek or persian, of celt or hindu, of slav or teuton, but also of algonquin or japanese, are largely made up of the same incidents set in the same framework. but each race shapes this common material in its own way, sets upon it its own stamp. and no race has done this more unmistakably than the celtic. stories which go back to the first century, stories taken down from the lips of living peasants, have a kinship of tone and style, a common ring which no one who has studied this literature can fail to recognise. what stamps the whole of it is the prevailing and abiding spirit of romance. to rightly urge the celtic character of the arthurian romances would require the minute analysis of many hundred passages, and it would only be proving a case admitted by everyone who knows all the facts. it will be more to the point to dwell briefly upon those outward features which early (_i.e._, pre-eleventh century) celtic heroic literature has in common with the north french romances of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, especially as we thus gain a clue to much that is problematic in the formal and moral growth of the arthurian cycle in general and of the grail cycle in particular. in celtic tradition, as little as in mediæval romance, do we find a record of race-struggles such as meets us in the nibelungenlied, in the dietrich saga, or the carolingian cycle.[144] in its place we have a glorification of the individual hero. the reason is not far to seek. the celtic tribes, whether of ireland or britain, were surrounded by men of their own speech, of like institutions and manners. the shock of opposing nations, of rival civilisations, could not enter into their race-tradition. the story-teller had as his chief theme the prowess and skill of the individual "brave," the part he took in the conflicts which clan incessantly waged with clan, or his encounters with those powers of an older mythic world which lived on in the folk-fancy. to borrow mr. fitzgerald's convenient terminology, the "constants" of this tradition may be the same as in that of other aryan races, the "resultants" are not. to give one instance: the conception of a chief surrounded by a picked band of warriors is common to all heroic tradition, but nowhere is it of such marked importance, nowhere does it so mould and shape the story as in the cycles of conchobor and the knights of the red branch, of fionn and the fianna, and of arthur and his knights. the careers of any of the early irish heroes, the single-handed raids of cét mac magach or conall cearnach, above all the fortunes of cuchullain, his hero's training in the amazon-isle, his strife with curoi mac daire, his expeditions to fairy-land, his final holding of the ford against all the warriors of erinn, breathe the same spirit of adventure for its own sake, manifest the same subordination of all else in the story to the one hero, that are such marked characteristics of the arthurian romance. again, in the bands of picked braves who surround conchobor or fionn, in the rules by which they are governed, the trials which precede and determine admission into them, the duties and privileges which attach to them, we have, it seems to me, a far closer analogue to the knighthood of mediæval romance than may be found either in the peers of carolingian saga or in the chosen warriors who throng the halls of walhalla. in the present connection the part played by woman in celtic tradition is perhaps of most import to us. in no respect is the difference more marked than in this between the twelfth century romances, whether french or german, and the earlier heroic literature of either nation. the absence of feminine interest in the earlier _chansons de geste_ has often been noted. the case is different with teutonic heroic literature, in which woman's _rôle_ is always great, sometimes pre-eminently so. but a comparison of the two strains of traditions, celtic and teutonic, one with the other, and again with the romances, may help to account for much that is otherwise inexplicable to us in the mediæval presentment of the sex-feelings and sex-relations. the love of man, and immortal, or, if mortal, semi-divine maid is a "constant" of heroic tradition. teuton and celt have handled this theme, however, in a very different spirit. in the legends of the former the man plays the chief part; he woos, sometimes he forces the fairy maiden to become the mistress of his hearth. as a rule, overmastered by the prowess and beauty of the hero, she is nothing loth. but sometimes, as does brunhild, she feels the change a degradation and resents it. it is otherwise with the fairy mistresses of the celtic hero; they abide in their own place, and they allure or compel the mortal lover to resort to them. connla and bran and oisin must all leave this earth and sail across ocean or lake before they can rejoin their lady love; even cuchullain, mightiest of all the heroes, is constrained, struggle as he may, to go and dwell with the fairy queen fand, who has woed him. throughout, the immortal mistress retains her superiority; when the mortal tires and returns to earth she remains, ever wise and fair, ready to welcome and enchant a new generation of heroes. she chooses whom she will, and is no man's slave; herself she offers freely, but she abandons neither her liberty nor her divine nature. this type of womanhood, capricious, independent, severed from ordinary domestic life, is assuredly the original of the vivians, the orgueilleuses, the ladies of the fountain of the romances; it is also one which must have commended itself to the knightly devotees of mediæval romantic love. their "_dame d'amour_" was, as a rule, another man's wife; she raised in their minds no thought of home or child. in the tone of their feelings towards her, in the character of their intercourse with her, they were closer akin to oisin and neave, to cuchullain and fand, than to siegfried and brunhild, or to roland and aude. even where the love-story passes wholly among mortals, the woman's _rôle_ is more accentuated than in the teutonic sagas. she is no mere lay-figure upon a fire-bound rock like brunhild or menglad, ready, when the destined hero appears, to fall straightway into his arms. emer, the one maiden of erinn whom cuchullain condescends to woo, is eager to show herself in all things worthy of him; she tests his wit as well as his courage, she makes him accept her conditions.[145] in the great tragic tale of ancient ireland, the fate of the sons of usnech, deirdre--born like helen or gudrun, to be a cause of strife among men, of sorrow and ruin to whomsoever she loves--deirdre takes her fate into her own hands, and woos noisi with outspoken passionate frankness. the whole story is conceived and told in a far more "romantic" strain than is the case with parallel stories from norse tradition, the loves of helgi and sigrun, or those of sigurd and brunhild-gudrun. and if the lament of deirdre over her slain love lacks the grandeur and the intensity with which the norse heroines bewail their dead lords, it has, on the other hand, an intimate, a personal touch we should hardly have looked for in an eleventh century irish epic.[146] another link between the celtic sagas and the romances is their treatment of the supernatural. heroic-traditional literature is made up of mythical elements, of scenes, incidents, and formulas which have done service in that account of man's dealings with and conceptions of the visible world which we call mythology. all such literature derives ultimately from an early, wholly animistic stage of culture. small marvel, then, if in the hero-tales of every race there figure wonder-working talismans and bespelled weapons, if almost every great saga has, as part of its _dramatis personæ_, objects belonging to what we should now call the inanimate world. upon these a species of life is conferred, most often by power of magic, but at times, it would seem, in virtue of the older conception which held all things to be endowed with like life. all heroic literatures do not, however, accentuate equally and similarly this magic side of their common stock. celtic tradition is not only rich and varied beyond all others in this respect, it often thus secures its chief artistic effects. the talismans of celtic romance, the fairy branch of cormac, the ga-bulg of cuchullain, the sounding-hammer of fionn, the treasures of the boar trwyth after which prince kilhwch sought, the glaives of light of the living folk-tale, have one and all a weird, fantastic, half-human existence, which haunts and thrills the imagination. no celtic story-teller could have "mulled" the nibelung-hoard as the poet of the nibelungenlied has done. how different in this respect the twelfth century romances are from the earlier german or french sagas, how close to the irish tales is apparent to whomsoever reads them with attention.[147] i do not for one moment imply that the romantic literature of the middle ages was what it was, wholly or even mainly in virtue of its celtic affinities. that literature was the outcome of the age, and something akin to it would have sprung up had celtic tradition remained unknown to the continent. the conception of feudal knighthood as a favoured class, in which men of different nations met on a common footing; the conception of knightly love as something altogether disassociated from domestic life, must in any case have led to the constitution of such a society as we find portrayed in the romances. what is claimed is that the spirit of the age, akin to the celtic, recognised in celtic tales the food it was hungering for. it transformed them to suit its own needs and ideas, but it carried out the transformation on the whole in essential agreement with tradition. in some cases a radical change is made; such a one is presented to us in the grail cycle. the legend thus started with the advantages of belonging to the popular literature of the time, and of association through brons with christian tradition. its incidents were varied, and owing to the blending of diverse strains of story vague enough to be plastic. the formal development of the cycle has been traced in the earlier chapters of these studies; that of its ideal conceptions will be found to follow similar lines. various ethical intentions can be distinguished, and there is not more difference between the versions in the conduct of the story than in the ideals they set forth. to some readers it may have seemed well nigh sacrilegious to trace that ... vanished vase of heaven that held like christ's own heart an hin of blood, to the magic vessels of pagan deities. in england the grail-legend is hardly known save in that form which it has assumed in the queste. this french romance was one of those which malory embodied in his _rifacimento_ of the arthurian cycle, and, thanks to malory, it has become a portion of english speech and thought.[148] in our own days our greatest poet has expressed the quintessence of what is best and purest in the old romance in lines of imperishable beauty. as we follow sir galahad by secret shrine and lonely mountain mere until ah, blessed vision! blood of god, the spirit beats her mortal bars, as down dark tides the glory slides, and star-like mingles with the stars. we are under a spell that may not be resisted. and yet of the two main paths which the legend has trodden that of galahad is the least fruitful and the least beautiful. compared with the perceval quest in its highest literary embodiment the galahad quest is false and antiquated on the ethical side, lifeless on the æsthetic side. as it first meets us in literature the legend has barely emerged from its pure and simple narrative stage. there is a temptation to exaggerate chrestien's skill of conception when speculating how he would have finished his work, but we know enough, probably, to correctly gauge his intentions. it has been said he meant to portray the ideal knight in perceval. as was formerly the wont of authors he presents his hero in a good light, and he may be credited with a perception of the opportunity afforded him by his subject for placing that hero in positions wherein a knight could best distinguish himself. in so far his work may be accepted as his picture of a worthy knight. but i can discover in it no scheme of a quest after the highest good to be set forth by means of the incidents at his command. perceval is brave as a matter of course, punctual in obeying the counsels of his mother and of his teachers, gonemans and the hermit-uncle, unaffectedly repentant when he is convicted of having neglected his religious duties. but it cannot be said that the hermit's exhortations or the hero's repentance, confession, and absolution mark, or are intended to mark, a definite stage in a progress towards spiritual perfection. the explanation of the hero's silence as a consequence of his sin in leaving his mother, shows how little real thought has been bestowed upon the subject. this explanation, whether wholly chrestien's, as i am tempted to think, or complacently reproduced from his model, gives the measure of his skill in constructing an allegory. beyond insistence upon such points (the hero's docility) as were indicated to him by his model, or, as in the case of his religious opinions, were a matter of course in a work of the time, chrestien gives perceval no higher morality, no loftier aims than those of the day. the ideal of chastity, soon to become of such importance in the development of the legend, is nowhere set forth. perceval, like gawain, takes full advantage of what _bonnes fortunes_ come in his way. and if the quest connotes no spiritual ideal, still less does it one of temporal sovereignty. had chrestien finished his story he would have made perceval heal the maimed king and win his kingdom, but that kingdom would not have been a type of the highest earthly magnificence. we have seen reason to hold that chrestien made one great change in the story as he found it in his model; he assigns the fisher-king's illness to a wound received in battle. this he did, i think, simply with a view to shortening the story by leaving out the whole of the partinal episode. no mystical conception was floating in his mind. yet, as we shall see, the shape which he gave to this incident strongly influenced some of the later versions, and gave the hint for the most philosophical _motif_ to be found in the whole cycle. the immediate continuators of chrestien lift the legend to no higher level. i incline to think that gautier, with less skill of narrative and far greater prolixity, yet trod closely in chrestien's footsteps. in the love episodes he is as full of charm as the more celebrated poet. the second meeting of perceval and blanchefleur is told with that graceful laughing _naïveté_ of which french literature of the period has the secret. but of a plan, an animating conception even such slight traces as chrestien had introduced into the story are lacking. here, as in chrestien, the mysterious talismans themselves in no way help forward the story. chrestien certainly had the christian signification of them in his mind, but makes no use of it. the vessel of the last supper, the spear that pierced christ's side might be any magic spear or vessel as far as he is concerned. the original pagan essence is retained; the name alone is changed. thus far had the legend grown when it came into the hands of the author of the queste. the subject matter had been partly shaped and trimmed by a master of narrative, the connection with christian tradition had been somewhat accentuated. it was open to the author of the queste to take the story as it stood, and to read into its incidents a deep symbolical meaning based upon the christian character of the holy talismans. he preferred to act otherwise. he broke entirely with the traditional framework, dispossessed the original hero, and left not an incident of his model untouched. but his method of proceeding may be likened to a shuffle rather than to a transformation. the incidents reappear in other connection, but do not reveal the author's plan any more than is the case in the conte du graal. the christian character of the talismans is dwelt upon with almost wearisome iteration, the sacramental act supplies the matter of many and of the finest scenes, and yet the essence of the talismans is unchanged. the holy grail, the cup of the last supper, the sacramental chalice is still when it appears the magic food-producing vessel of the old pagan sagas. what is the author's idea? undoubtedly to show that the attainment of the highest spiritual good is not a thing of this world; only by renouncing every human desire, only by passing into a land intermediary between this earth and heaven, is the quest achieved. in the story of the prosecution of that quest some attempt may be traced at portraying the cardinal virtues and deadly sins by means of the adventures of the questers, and of the innumerable exhortations addressed to them. but no skill is shown in the conduct of this plan, which is carried out chiefly by the introduction of numerous allegorical scenes which are made a peg for lengthy dogmatic and moral expositions. in this respect the author compares unfavourably with robert de borron, who shapes his story in full accord with his conception of the grail itself, a conception deriving directly from the symbolic christian nature he attributed to it, and who makes even such unpromising incidents as that of the magic fisher subserve his guiding idea.[149] if the author's way of carrying out his conception cannot be praised, how does it stand with the conception itself? the fact that the quest is wholly disassociated from this earth at once indicates the standpoint of the romance. the first effect of the quest's proclamation is to break up the table round, that type of the noblest human society of the day, and its final achievement brings cheer or strengthening to no living man. the successful questers alone in their unhuman realm have any joy of the grail. the spirit in which they prosecute their quest is best exemplified by sir bors. when he comes to the magic tower and is tempted of the maidens, who threaten to cast themselves down and be dashed to pieces unless he yield them his love, he is sorry for them, but unmoved, thinking it better "they lose their souls than he his." so little had the christian writer apprehended the signification of christ's most profound saying. the character of the principal hero is in consonancy with this aim, wholly remote from the life of man on earth. a shadowy perfection at the outset, he remains a shadowy perfection throughout, a bloodless and unreal creature, as fit when he first appears upon the scene as when he quits it, to accomplish a quest, purposeless, inasmuch as it only removes him from a world in which he has neither part nor share. such human interest as there is in the story is supplied by lancelot, who takes over many of the adventures of perceval or gawain in the conte du graal. in him we note contrition for past sin, strivings after a higher life with which we can sympathise. in fine, such moral teaching as the queste affords is given us rather by sinful lancelot than by sinless galahad. but the aversion to this world takes a stronger form in the queste, and one which is the vital conception of the work, in the insistence upon the need for physical chastity. to rightly understand the author's position we must glance at the state of manners revealed by the romances, and in especial at the sex-relations as they were conceived of by the most refined and civilised men and women of the day. the french romances are, as a rule, too entirely narrative to enable a clear realisation of what these were. wolfram, with his keener and more sympathetic eye for individual character--wolfram, who loves to analyse the sentiments and to depict the outward manifestations of feeling of his personages--is our best guide here. the manners and customs of the day can be found in the french romances; the feelings which underlie them must be sought for in the german poet. the marked feature of the sex-relations in the days of chivalry was the institution of _minnedienst_ (love-service). the knight bound himself to serve a particular lady, matron or maid. to approve himself brave, hardy, daring, patient, and discreet was his part of the bargain, and when fulfilled the lady must fulfil hers and pay her servant. the relation must not for one moment be looked upon as platonic; the last favours were in every case exacted, or rather were freely granted, as the lady, whether maid or wedded wife, thought it no wrong thus to reward her knight. it would have been "bad form" to deny payment when the service had been rendered, and the offender guilty of such conduct would have been scouted by her fellow-women as well as by all men. nothing is more instructive in this connection than the delightfully told episode of gawain and orgueilleuse. the latter is unwedded, a great and noble lady, but she has already had several favoured lovers, as indeed she frankly tells gawain. he proffers his service, which she hardly accepts, but heaps upon him all manner of indignity and insult, which he bears with the patient and resourceful courtesy, his characteristic in mediæval romance. whilst the time of probation lasts, no harsh word, no impatient gesture, escapes him. but when he has accomplished the feat of the ford perillous he feels that he has done enough, and taking his lady-love to task he lectures her, as a grave middle-aged man might some headstrong girl, upon the duties of a well-bred woman and upon the wrong she has done knighthood in his person. to point the moral he winds up, at mid-day in the open forest, with a proposition which the repentant scornful one can only parry by the naïve remark, "seldom she had found it warm in the embrace of a mail-clad arm." not only was it the lady's duty to yield after a proper delay, but at times she might even make the first advances and be none the worse thought of. blanchefleur comes to perceval's bed with scarce an apology.[150] orgueilleuse, overcome with admiration at the red knight's prowess, offers him her love. true, she has doubts as to the propriety of her conduct, but when she submits them to gawain, the favoured lover for the time being, he unhesitatingly approves her--perceval's fame was such that had he accepted her proffered love she could have suffered naught in honour. customs such as these, and a state of feelings such as they imply, are so remote from us, that it is difficult to realise them, particularly in view of the many false statements respecting the nature of chivalrous love which have obtained currency. but we must bear in mind that the age was pre-eminently one of individual prowess. the warlike virtues were all in all. that a man should be brave, hardy, and skilful in the use of his weapons was the essential in a time when the single hero was almost of as much account as in the days of achilles, siegfried, or cuchullain. that _minnedienst_ tended to this end, as did other institutions of the day which we find equally blamable, is its historical excuse. even then many felt its evils and perceived its anti-social character. some, too, there were who saw how deeply it degraded the ideal of love. a protest against this morality was indeed desirable. such a one the queste does supply. but it is not enough to protest in a matter so profoundly affecting mankind as the moral ideas which govern the sex-relations. not only must the protest be made in a right spirit, and on the right lines, but a truer and loftier ideal must be set up in place of the one attacked. in how far the queste fulfils these conditions we shall see. meanwhile, as a sample of the feelings with which many englishmen have regarded it, and as an attempt to explain its historical and ethical _raison d'être_, i cannot do better than quote mr. furnivall's enthusiastic words: "what is the lesson of it all? is the example of galahad and his unwavering pursuit of the highest spiritual object set before him, nothing to us? is that of perceval, pure and tempted, on the point of yielding, yet saved by the sight of the symbol of his faith, to be of no avail to us? is the tale of bohors, who has once sinned, but by a faithful life ... at last tasting spiritual food, and returning to devote his days to god and good--is this no lesson to us?... on another point, too, this whole arthur story may teach us. monkish, to some extent, the exaltation of bodily chastity above almost every other earthly virtue is; but the feeling is a true one; it is founded on a deep reverence for woman, which is the most refining and one of the noblest sentiments of man's nature, one which no man can break through without suffering harm to his spiritual life." it would be hard to find a more striking instance of how the "editorial idol" may override perception and judgment. he who draws such lofty and noble teachings from the queste del saint graal, must first bring them himself. he must read modern religion, modern morality into the mediæval allegory, and on one point he must entirely falsify the mediæval conception. whether this is desirable is a question we can have no hesitation in deciding negatively. it is better to find out what the author really meant than to interpret his symbolism in our own fashion. the author of the queste places the object and conditions of his mystic quest wholly outside the sphere of human action or interest; in a similar spirit he insists, as an indispensable requirement in the successful quester, upon a qualification necessarily denied to the vast majority of mankind. his work is a glorification of physical chastity. "blessed are the pure--in body--for they shall inherit the kingdom of heaven," is the text upon which he preaches. in such a case everything depends upon the spirit of the preacher, and good intent is not enough to win praise. his conception, says mr. furnivall, is founded upon a deep reverence for woman. this is, indeed, such a precious thing that had the mediæval ascetic really felt it we could have forgiven the stupidity which ignores all that constitutes the special dignity and pathos of womanhood. but he felt nothing of the kind. woman is for him the means whereby sin came into the world, the arch stumbling-block, the tool the devil finds readiest to his hands when he would overcome man. only in favour of the virgin mother, and of those who like her are vowed to mystical maidenhood, does the author pardon woman at all. one single instance will suffice to characterize the mediæval standpoint. when the quest of the holy grail was first proclaimed in arthur's court there was great commotion, and the ladies would fain have joined therein, "car cascune dame ou damoiselle (qui) fust espousée ou amie, dist à son chiualer qu'ele yroit od lui en la queste." but a hermit comes forward to forbid this; "no dame or damsel is to accompany her knight lest he fall into deadly sin." wife or leman, it was all one for the author of the queste; woman could not but be an occasion for deadly sin, and the sin, though in the one case less in degree (and even this is uncertain), was the same in kind. fully one-half of the romance is one long exemplification of the essential vileness of the sex-relation, worked out with the minute and ingenious nastiness of a jesuit moral theologian. the author was of his time; it was natural he should think and write as he did, and it would be uncritical to blame him for his degrading view of womanhood or for his narrow and sickly view of life. but when we are bidden to seek example of him, it is well to state the facts as they are.[151] if his transformation of the story has been rudely effected without regard to its inherent possibilities, if the spirit of his ideal proves to be miserably ascetic and narrow, what then remains to the queste, and how may we account for its popularity in its own day, and for the abiding influence which its version of the legend has exercised over posterity. its literary qualities are at times great; certain scenes, especially such as set forth the sacramental nature of the grail, are touched with a mystical fervour which haunts the imagination. it has given some of the most picturesque features to this most picturesque of legends. but i see in the idea of the mystic quest proclaimed to and shared in by the whole table round the real secret of the writer's success. this has struck the imagination of so many generations and given the queste an undeserved fame. in truth the conception of arthur's court, laying aside ordinary cares and joys, given wholly up to one overmastering spiritual aim, is a noble one. it is, i think, only in a slight degree the outcome of definite thought and intent but was dictated to the writer by the form into which he had recast the story. galahad had supplanted perceval, but the latter could not be suppressed entirely. the achievement of the quest involved the passing away out of this world of the chief heroes, hence a third less perfect one is joined to them to bring back tidings to earth of the marvels he had witnessed. lancelot, to whom are assigned so many of perceval's adventures, cannot be denied a share in the quest; it is the same with gawain, whose character in the older romance fits him, moreover, excellently for the _rôle_ of "dreadful example." by this time the arthurian legend was fully grown, and the mention of these knights called up the names of others with whom they were invariably connected by the romance writers. well nigh every hero of importance was thus drawn into the magic circle, and the mystic quest assumed, almost inevitably, the shape it did. this conception, to which, if i am right, the author of the queste was led half unconsciously, seems to us the most admirable thing in his work. it was, however, his ideal of virginity which struck the idea of his contemporaries, and which left its mark upon after versions. an age with such a gross ideal of love may have needed an equally gross ideal of purity. physical chastity plays henceforth the leading part in the moral development of the cycle. with robert de borron it is the sin of the flesh which brings down upon the grail host the wrath of heaven, and necessitates the display of the grail's wondrous power. here may be noted the struggle of the new conception with the older form of the story. alain, the virgin knight, would rather be flayed than marry, and yet he does marry in obedience to the original model. robert is consistent in all that relates to the symbolism of the grail, but in other respects, as we have already seen, he is easily thrown off his guard. in the didot-perceval, written as a sequel to robert's poem, the same struggle between old and new continues, and the reconciling spirit goes to work in naïve and unskilful style. the incidents of the conte du graal are kept, although they accord but ill with the hero's ascetic spirit. in the portion of the conte du graal itself which goes under manessier's name, along with adventures taken direct from chrestien's model, and far less christianised than in the earlier poet's work, many occur which are simply transferred from the queste. no attempt is made at reconciling these jarring elements, and the effect of the contrast is at times almost comic. in two of the later romances of the cycle the fusion has been more complete, and the result is, in consequence, more interesting. the prose perceval le gallois keeps the original hero of the quest as far as name and kinship are concerned, but it gives him the aggressive virginity and the proselytising zeal of galahad. gerbert's finish to the conte du graal is, perhaps, the strangest outcome of the double set of influences to which the later writers were exposed. without doubt his model differed from the version used by gautier and manessier. it is more celtic in tone, and is curiously akin to the hypothetical lost source of wolfram von eschenbach. the hero's absence from his lady-love is insisted upon, and the need of returning to her before he can find peace. the genuineness of this feature admits of little doubt. many folk-tales tell of the severance of lover and beloved, and of their toilful wanderings until they meet again; such a tale easily lends itself to the idea that separation is caused by guilt, and that, whilst severed, one or other lover must suffer misfortune. often, as in the case of diarmaid and the daughter of king under the waves (_supra_, p. 194), definite mention is made of the guilt, as a rule an infringed taboo. such an incident could scarcely fail to assume the ethical shape gerbert has given it. thus he had only to listen to his model, to take his incidents as he found them, and he had the matter for a moral conception wholly in harmony with them. the chastity ideal has been too strong for him. his lovers do come together, but only to exemplify the virtue of continence in the repulsive story of their bridal night. after gerbert the cycle lengthens, but does not develop. the queste retains its supremacy, and through malory its dominant conception entered deeply into the consciousness of the english race. how far the author of the queste must be credited with the new ideal he brought into the legend is worth enquiry. like so much else therein, it may have its roots in the folk and hero tales which underlie the romances. the castle of talismans visited by perceval is the land of shades. in popular tradition the incident takes the form of entry into the hollow hill-side where the fairy king holds his court and hoards untold riches. poverty and simplicity are the frequent qualifications of the successful quester; oftener still some mystic birthright, the being a sunday's child for instance, or a seventh son; or again freedom from sin is required, and, perhaps, most frequently maidenhood.[152] the stress which so many peoples lay upon virginity in the holy prophetic maidens, who can transport themselves into the otherworld and bring thence the commands of the god, may be noted in the same connection. no celtic tale i have examined with a view to throwing light upon the grail romances insists upon this idea, but some version, now lost, may possibly have done so. celtic tradition gave the romance writers of the middle ages material and form for the picture of human love; it may also have given them a hint of the opposing ideal of chastity.[153] all this time it should be noted that no real progress is made in the symbolical machinery of the legend. the holy grail becomes superlatively sacrosanct, but it retains its pristine pagan essence, even in the only version, the grand st. graal, which knew of borron and of his mystical conception. such, then, had been the growth of the legend in one direction. the original incidents were either transformed, mutilated, or, where they kept their first shape, underwent no ethical deepening or widening. the talismans themselves had been transferred from celtic to christian mythology, but their fate was still bound up with the otherworld. he who would seek them must turn his back upon this earth from which the palace spiritual and the city of sarras were even more remote than avalon or tir-na n-og. was no other course open? could not framework and incidents of the celtic tales be retained, and yet, raised to a loftier, wider level, become a fit vehicle for philosophic thought and moral exhortation? one side of popular tradition figured the hero as wresting the talismans from the otherworld powers for the benefit of his fellow men. could not this form of the myth be made to yield a human, practical conception of the quest and winning of the holy grail? we are luckily not reduced to conjecture in this matter. a work largely fulfilling these hypothetical requirements exists in the parzival of wolfram von eschenbach. on the whole it is the most interesting individual work of modern european literature prior to the divina commedia, and its author has a better claim than any other mediæval poet to be called a man of genius. he must, of course, be measured by the standard of his time. it would be useless to expect from him that homogeneity of narrative, that artistic proportion of style first met with 150 years later in italy, and which from italy passed into all european literatures. compared with the unknown poets who gave their present shape to the nibelungenlied or to the chanson de roland he is an individual writer, but he is far from deserving this epithet even in the sense that chaucer deserves it. his subject dominates him. even when his philosophic mind is conceiving it under a new aspect he anxiously holds to the traditional form. hence great inconsistencies in his treatment of the theme, hence, too, the frequent difficulty in interpreting his meaning, the frequent doubt as to how far the interpretation is correct. here, as in the discussion respecting the _origines_ of the grail legend, resort must often be had to conjecture, and any solution of the fascinating problems involved is necessarily and largely subjective. wolfram's relation to his predecessors must be taken into account in estimating the value of the parzival. the earlier portion of his work differs entirely, as we have seen, from any existing french romance; so does the finish in so far as it agrees with the opening. the greater part of the story is closely parallel to chrestien; there are points of contact, peculiar to these two writers, with gerbert. little invention, properly so called, of incident can be traced in the parzival. the part common to it and chrestien is incomparably fuller and more interesting in the german poet, but the main outlines are the same. wolfram has, however, been at some pains to let us know what was his conception of the legend. that much is allowed to remain at variance therewith is a clear proof of his timidity of invention. doubt, he says, is the most potent corrupter of the soul. whoso gives himself over to unfaith and unsteadfastness treadeth in truth the downward path. god himself is very faithfulness. strife against him, doubt of him, is the highest sin. but humility and repentance may expiate it, and he who thus repents may be chosen by god for the grail kingship, the summit of earthly holiness. peace of soul and all earthly power are the chosen one's; alone, unlawful desire and the company of sinners are denied him by the grail. how is this leading conception worked out? the framework and the march of incidents are the same as in the conte du graal. one capital change at once, however, lifts the story to a higher level. the fisher king suffers from a wound received in the cause of unlawful love, in disobedience to those heavenly commands which govern the grail community. the healing question can be put only by one worthy to take up the high office amfortas has dishonoured, in virtue of having passed through the strife of doubt, and become reconciled to god by repentance and humble trust. if parzival neglected to put the question on his first arrival at the grail castle, it was that in the conceit of youth he fancied all wisdom was his. childish insistence upon his mother's counsels had brought down reproof upon him; he had learnt the world's wisdom from gurnemanz, he had shown himself in defence of conduiramur a valiant knight, worthy of power and woman's love. when brought into contact with the torturing sorrow of amfortas, he is too full of himself, of his teacher's wisdom, to rightly use the opportunity. the profound significance of the question which at once releases the sinner, and announces the one way in which the sin may be cancelled, namely, by the coming of a worthier successor, is due, if we may credit birch-hirschfeld, to an accident. wolfram only knew chrestien. the latter never explains the real nature of the grail, and the german poet's knowledge of french was too slight to put him on the right track. the question, "whom serve they with the grail?" which he found in chrestien, was necessarily meaningless to him, and he replaced it by his, "uncle, what is it tortures thee?" the change _may_ be the result of accident as is so much else in this marvellous legend, but it required a man of genius to turn the accident to such account. it is the insistence upon charity as the herald and token of spiritual perfection that makes the grandeur of wolfram's poem, and raises it so immeasureably above the queste. the same human spirit is visible in the delineation of the grail kingship as the type of the highest good. wolfram's theology is distinctively antinomian--no man may win the grail in his own strength; it choseth whom it will--and has been claimed on the one hand[154] as a reflex of orthodox catholic belief, on the other as a herald of the lutheran doctrine of grace.[155] theological experts may be left to fight out this question among themselves. apart from this, wolfram has a practical sense of the value of human effort. with him the quest is not to be achieved by utter isolation from this earth and its struggles. the chief function of the grail kingdom is to supply an abiding type of a divinely ordered society; it also trains up leaders for those communities which lack them. it is a civilising power as well as a palace spiritual. in the relation of man to heaven, wolfram, whilst fully accepting the doctrines of his age, appeals to the modern spirit with far greater power and directness than the queste. in the other great question of the legend, the relation of man to woman, he is likewise nearer to us, although it must be confessed that he builds better than he knows. to the love ideal of his day, based wholly upon passion and vanity and severed from all family feeling, he opposes the wedded love of parzival and conduiramur. the hero's recollection of the mother of his children is the one saving influence throughout the years of doubt and discouragement which follow kundrie's reproaches. whilst still staggering under this blow, so cruelly undeserved as it seems to him, he can wish his friend and comrade, gawain, a woman chaste and good, whom he may love and who shall be his guardian angel. the thought of conduiramur holds him aloof from the offered love of orgeluse. in his last and bitterest fight, with his unknown brother, when it had nigh gone with him to his death, he recalls her and renews the combat with fresh strength. she it is for whom he wins the highest earthly crown, of which her pure, womanly heart makes her worthy. reunion with her and with his children is parzival's first taste of the joy that is henceforth to be his. passages may easily be multiplied that tally ill with the ideas of the poem as here briefly set forth. but the existence of these ideas is patent to the unprejudiced reader. despite its many shortcomings, the poem which contains them is the noblest and most human outcome of that mingled strain of celtic fancy and christian symbolism whose history we have traced.[156] in wolfram, equally with the majority of the french romance writers, there is little consistency in the formal use of the mystic talismans. be the reason what it may, wolfram certainly never thought of associating the grail with the last supper. but its religious character is, at times, as marked with him as with robert de borron or the author of the queste. it is the actual vehicle of the deity's commands; it restrains from sin; it suffers no unchaste servant; it may be seen of no heathen; the simple beholding of it preserves men from death. this last characteristic would be thought in modern times a sufficient tribute to the original nature of the old pagan cauldron of increase and rejuvenescence. but wolfram was of his time, and followed his models faithfully. along with the lofty spiritual attributes of his grail, he pictures in drastic fashion its food-dispensing powers. the mystic stone, fallen from heaven itself, renewed each good friday by direct action of the spirit, becomes all at once a mere victual producing machine. we can see how little wolfram liked this feature of his model, and how he felt the contrast between it and his own more spiritual conception. but here, as elsewhere in the poem, he allowed much to stand against which his better judgment protested. his own share in the development of the legend must be gauged by what is distinctively his, not by what he has in common with others. judged thus, he must be said to have developed the christian symbolic side of the legend as much as the human philosophic side. if in robert de borron the grail touches its highest symbolic level through its identification with the body of the dead and risen lord, we can trace in wolfram the germ of that approximation of the grail-quester to the earthly career of the saviour which wagner was to develop more than 600 years later.[157] what influence wolfram's poem, with its practical, human enthusiasm, its true and noble sexual morality, might have had on english literature is an interesting speculation. it would have appealed, one would think, to our race with its utilitarian ethical instinct, with its lofty ideal of wedded love. the true man, parzival, should, in the fitness of things, be the english hero of the quest, rather than the visionary ascetic galahad. mediæval england was dominated by france and knew nothing of germany, and when in the late fifteenth and sixteenth centuries we can trace german influence on english thought and writ, taste had changed, and the parzival was well-nigh forgotten in its own land. it remained so almost until our own days. the quest after perfection still haunted the german mind, but it was conceived of on altogether different lines from those of the twelfth century poet. the nation of scholars pictured the quester as a student, not as a knight. when it took shape in the dreary period of protestant scholasticism the quest is wholly cursed. faust's pursuit of knowledge is unlawful, a rebellion against god, which dooms him irrevocably. not until goethe's day is the full significance of the legend perceived, is the theme widened to embrace the totality of human striving. thus the last glimpse we have of faust is of one devoted to the service of man; the last words of the poem are a recognition of the divine element in the love of man and woman.[158] in germany, as in england, the old legend has appealed afresh to poets and thinkers, and then, as was natural, they turned to germany's greatest mediæval poet. wagner's parsifal would, in any case, be interesting as an expression of one of the strongest dramatic geniuses of the century. considered purely as a work of literature, apart from the music, it has rare beauty and profound significance. the essentially dramatic bent of wagner's mind, the stage destination of the poem, must be borne in mind when considering it. wolfram's conception--youthful folly and inexperience chastised by reproof, followed by doubt and strife, cancelled by the faithful steadfastness of the full-grown man--is obviously unsuited for dramatic purposes. at no one point of wolfram's poem do we find that clash of motives and of characters which the stage requires. in building up _his_ conception wagner has utilised every hint of his predecessor with wonderful ingenuity. klinschor, the magician, becomes with him the active opponent of the grail king, amfortas, from whom he has wrested the holy spear by the aid of kundry's unholy beauty. kundry is wagner's great contribution to the legend. she is the herodias whom christ for her laughter doomed to wander till he come again. subject to the powers of evil, she must tempt and lure to their destruction the grail warriors. and yet she would find release and salvation could a man resist her love spell.[159] she knows this. the scene between the unwilling temptress, whose success would but doom her afresh, and the virgin parsifal thus becomes tragic in the extreme. how does this affect amfortas and the grail? in this way. parsifal is the "pure fool," knowing nought of sin or suffering. it had been foretold of him he should become "wise by fellow-suffering," and so it proves. the overmastering rush of desire unseals his eyes, clears his mind. heart-wounded by the shaft of passion, he feels amfortas' torture thrill through him. the pain of the physical wound is his, but far more, the agony of the sinner who has been unworthy his high trust, and who, soiled by carnal sin, must yet daily come in contact with the grail, symbol of the highest purity and holiness. the strength which comes of the new-born knowledge enables him to resist sensual longing, and thereby to release both kundry and amfortas. in the latest version of the perceval quest, as in the galahad quest, the ideal of chastity is thus paramount. this result is due to wagner's dramatic treatment of the theme. the conception that knowledge of sin and fellowship in suffering are requisite to enable man to resist temptation, and that thus alone does he acquire the needful strength to assist his fellows, however true and profound, can obviously only be worked out on the stage through the medium of one form of sin and suffering. the long psychological process of wolfram's poem, the slow growth of the unthinking youth into the steadfast, faithful man, is replaced by a mystic, transcendental conversion. from out a world of human endeavour, human motive, we have stepped into one wholly ascetic and symbolical. the love of man for woman only appears in the guise of forbidden desire; the aims and needs of this world are not even thought of. every incident has been remoulded in accord with christian tradition. wagner fully accepts the sacramental nature of the grail, and the grail feast is with him a faithful reproduction of the last supper. holiness and purity are the essence of the grail, which is cleared from every taint of its pagan origin. and whilst wagner, following the french models, identifies the grail with the most sacred object of christian worship, he also, developing hints of wolfram's, reshapes the career of his grail-seeker in accord with that of christ. parsifal, the releaser of sin-stricken kundry, of sin-stricken amfortas--parsifal, the restorer of peace and holiness to the grail kingdom--becomes a symbol of the saviour. in the reasoned, artistic growth of the legend, the plastic, living element is that supplied by christian tradition. from the moment that the celtic lord of the underworld is identified with the evangelist of britain we see the older complex of tales acquire consistency, life, and meaning. even where the direct influence of the intruding element is slightest, as in the conte du graal, we can still perceive that it is responsible for the germs of after development. sometimes violently and unintelligently, sometimes with a keen feeling for the possibilities of the original romance, sometimes with the boldest introduction of new matter, sometimes with slavish adherence to pre-christian conceptions, the transformation of the celtic tales goes on. the cauldron of increase and renovation, the glaive of light, the magic fish, the visit to the otherworld, all are gradually metamorphosed until at last the talisman of the irish gods becomes the symbol of the risen lord, its seeker a type of christ in his divinest attributes. the ethical teaching of the legend becomes also purely christian as the middle ages conceived christianity. renunciation of the world and of the flesh is its key-note. once only in wolfram do we find an ideal human in its essence, though dogmatic in form; the path thus opened is not trodden further, and the legend remains as a whole, on the moral side, a monument of christian asceticism. we have seen reason to surmise that the folk-tales which underlie the romances themselves gave the hint for the most characteristic manifestation of this ascetic ideal. it is worth enquiry if these tales have developed themselves independently from the christianised legend, and if such development shows any trace of ethical conceptions comparable with those of the legend. can we gather from the tales as fashioned by the folk teaching similar to that of the preachers, philosophers, and artists by whom the legend has been shaped? few enquiries can be more interesting than one which traces such a conception as the quest after the highest good as pictured by the rudest and most primitive members of the race. many of the tales which formed a part of the (hypothetical) welsh original of the earliest grail romances have been shown to come under the aryan expulsion and return formula (_supra_, ch. vi). among most races this formula has connected itself with the national heroes, and has given rise to hero-tales in which the historical element outweighs the ethical. sometimes, as in the tale of perseus, the incidents are so related as to bring out an ethical _motif_; perseus is certainly thought of as avenging his mother's undeserved wrongs. i cannot trace anything of the kind among the celts. all the incidents of the formula in celtic tradition which i know of are purely historical in character. this element of the old saga-mass thus yields nothing for the present enquiry. others are more fruitful. perceval is akin not only to fionn, but also to the great fool. the lay of the great fool was found to tally closely with adventures in the mabinogi and in the conte du graal (_supra_, ch. vi). it also sets forth a moral conception that admits of profitable comparison with that of the grail romances. ultimately, the lay is, i have little doubt, one of the many forms in which a mortal's visit to the otherworld was related. wandering into the glen of glamour, the hero and his love encounter a magician; the hero drinks of the proffered cup, despite his love's remonstrances, and forthwith loses his two legs. this is obviously a form of the widely-spread myth which forbids the visitant to the otherworld to partake of aught there under penalty of never returning to earth. but this mythical _motif_ has taken an ethical shape in popular fancy. according to kennedy's version, it is the hero's excess in draining the cup to the dregs which calls for punishment. this change is of the same nature as that noted with regard to a similar incident in the grail romances. there, the old mythic taboo of sleeping or speaking in the otherworld called at last for an explanation, and found one in wolfram's philosophic conception. the parallel does not end here. perceval may retrieve his fault, and so may the great fool; wolfram makes his hero win salvation by steadfast faith, the folk-tale makes its hero in the face of every form of temptation a pattern of steadfast loyalty to the absent friend and to the pledged word. it may, or may not, be considered to the advantage of the folk-tale that, unlike the mediæval romance, it deals neither in mysticism nor in asceticism. the sin and atonement of the great fool are such as the popular mind can grasp; he is an example of human weakness and human strength. the woman he loves is no temptress, no representative of the evil principle--on the contrary, she is ever by his side to counsel and to cheer him. when it is remembered that the two off-shoots, romantic-legendary and popular, from the one traditional stem have grown up in perfect independence of each other, the kinship of moral idea is startling. the folk-lorist has often cause to wonder at the spontaneous flower-like character of the object of his study; folk-tradition seems to obey fixed laws of growth and to be no product of man's free thought and speech. the few partisans of the theory that folk-tradition is only a later and weakened echo of the higher culture of the race are invited to study the present case. a celtic tale, after supplying an important element to the christianised grail legend, has gone on its way entirely unaffected by the new shape which that legend assumed, and yet it has worked out a moral conception of fundamental likeness to one set forth in the legend. it would be difficult to find a more perfect instance of the spontaneous, evolutional character of tradition contended for by what, in default of a better name, must be called the anthropological school of folk-lorists. we must quit celtic ground to find another example of an element in the originals of the grail romances, embodying a popular ethical idea. this instance is such an interesting one that i cannot pass it by in silence. as was shown in chapter vii, one of the many forms of the hero's visit to the otherworld has for object the release of maidens held captive by an evil power. a formal connection was established between this section of the romance and the folk-tale of the sleeping beauty. as a whole, too, this tale admits of comparison with the legend. its origin is mythic without a doubt. whether it be regarded as a day or as a year myth, as the rescue of the dawn from night, or of the incarnate spring from the bonds of winter, it equally pictures a victory of the lord of light and heat and life over the powers of darkness, cold, and death. with admirable fidelity folk-tradition has preserved the myth, so that its true nature can be recognised without fail. it would be wrong, though, to conclude that retention of the mythic framework implied any recognition of its mythic character on the part of those who told or listened to the story. some investigators, indeed, hold it idle to consider it otherwise than as a tale told merely for amusement. but a story, to live, must appeal to moral as well as to æsthetic emotions. in the folk-mind this story sets forth, dimly though it may be, that search for the highest human felicity which is likewise a theme of the grail romances. what better picture of this quest could be found than the old mythic symbol of the awakening of life and increase beneath the kiss of the sun-god. the hero of the folk-tale makes his way through the briars and tangle of the forest that he may restore to the deserted castle life and plenty; so much has the tale retained of the original mythic signification. as regards the quester himself, the maiden he thus woos is his reward and the noblest prize earth has to offer him. where the romance writers made power, or riches, or learning, or personal salvation the goal of man's effort, the folk-tale bids him seek happiness in the common human affections. such, all too briefly sketched, has been the fate and story of these tales, first shaped in a period of culture wellnigh pre-historic, gifted by reason of their celtic setting with a charm that commended them to the romantic spirit of the middle ages, and made them fit vehicles for the embodiment of mediæval ideas. quickened by christian symbolism they came to express and typify the noblest and the most mystic longings of man. the legend, as the poets and thinkers of the twelfth century fashioned it, has still a lesson and a meaning for us. it may be likened to one of the divine maidens of irish tradition. she lives across the western sea. ever and again heroes, filled with mysterious yearning for the truth and beauty of the infinite and undying, make sail to join her if they may. they pass away and others succeed them, but she remains ever young and fair. so long as the thirst of man for the ideal endures, her spell will not be weakened, her charm will not be lessened. but each generation works out this quest in its own spirit. this much may be predicted with some confidence: henceforth, whosoever would do full justice to the legend must take pattern by wolfram von eschenbach rather than by any of his rivals; he must deal with human needs and human longings; his ideal must be the widening of human good and human joy. above all, he must give reverent yet full expression to all the aspirations, all the energies of man and of woman. finis. appendix a. the relationship of wolfram von eschenbach and chrestien. the various arguments for and against the use of any other french source than chrestien by wolfram have been clearly summed up by g. bötticher, die wolfram literatur seit lachmann, berlin, 1880. the chief representative of the negative opinion is birch-hirschfeld, who first gives, chapter viii. of his work, a useful collection of passages relating to the grail, the castle, and the quest, from both authors. his chief argument is this:--the grail in all the romances except in wolfram is a cup or vessel, but in wolfram a stone, a peculiarity only to be explained by wolfram's ignorance of any source than chrestien, and by the fact that the latter, in accordance with his usual practice of leaving objects and persons in as mysterious an atmosphere as possible, nowhere gives a clear description of the grail. he undoubtedly would have done so if he had finished his work. such indications as he gave led wolfram, who did not understand the word _graal_, to think it was a stone. it is inconceivable that kyot, if such a personage existed, should have so far departed from all other versions as not to picture the grail as a vessel, inconceivable, again, that his account of it should have been just as vague as chrestien's, that he should have afforded wolfram no hint of the real nature of the object. in chrestien perceval's question refers to the grail, but wolfram, missing the significance of the holy vessel owing to the meagreness of the information respecting it given to him by chrestien, was compelled to transform the whole incident, and to refer it solely to the sufferings of the wounded king. again, chrestien meant to utilise the sword, and to bring gawain to the grail castle; but his unfinished work did not carry out his intention, and in wolfram gawain also fails to come to the grail castle; the sword is passed over in silence in the latter part of the poem.--simrock, jealous for the credit of wolfram, claimed for him the invention of all that could not be traced to chrestien, resting the claim chiefly upon consideration of a sentimental patriotic nature.--in opposition to these views, although the fact is not denied that wolfram followed chrestien closely for the parts common to both, it is urged to be incredible that he, a german poet, should invent a prologue to chrestien's unfinished work connecting with an angevin princely genealogical legend. it was also pointed out, with greatest fulness by bartsch, die eigennamen im parcival und titurel, germanist. studien, ii., 114, _et seq._, that the german poet gives a vast number of proper names which are not to be found in chrestien, and that these are nearly all of french, and especially southern french and provençal origin.--simrock endeavoured to meet this argument in the fifth edition of his translation, but with little success.--bötticher, whilst admitting the weight of birch-hirschfeld's arguments, points out the difficulties which his theory involves. if wolfram simply misunderstood chrestien and did not differ from him personally, why should he be at the trouble of inventing an elaborately feigned source to justify a simple addition to the original story? if he only knew of the grail from chrestien, what gave him the idea of endowing it, as he did, with mystic properties? martin points out in addition (zs. f. d. a., v. 87) that wolfram has the same connection of the grail and swan knight story as gerbert, whom, _ex hypothesi_, he could not have known, and who certainly did not know him.--in his zur gralsage, martin returned to the question of proper names, and showed that a varying redaction of a large part of the romance is vouched for by the different names which heinrich von dem türlin applies to personages met with both in chrestien and in wolfram. if, then, one french version, that followed by heinrich, who is obviously a translator, is lost, why not another? the first thorough comparison of chrestien and wolfram is to be found in otto küpp's unmittelbaren quellen des parzival, (zs. f. d. ph. xvii., l). he argues for kyot's existence. some of the points he mentions in which the two poems differ, and in which wolfram's account has a more archaic character, may be cited: the mention of gurnemanz's sons; the food producing properties of the grail on parzival's first visit; the reproaches of the varlet to parzival on his leaving the grail castle, "you are a goose, had you but moved your lips and asked the host! now you have lost great praise;"[160] the statement that the broken sword is to be made whole by dipping in the lake lac, and the mention of a sword charm by virtue of which parzival can become lord of the grail castle; the mention that no one seeing the grail could die within eight days. in addition küpp finds that many of the names in wolfram are more archaic than those of chrestien. on the other hand, küpp has not noticed that chrestien has preserved a more archaic feature in the prohibition laid upon gauvain not to leave for seven days the castle after he had undergone the adventure of the bed. küpp has not noticed that some of the special points he singles out in wolfram are likewise to be found in chrestien's continuators, _e.g._, the mention of the sons of gurnemanz, by gerbert. i believe i have the first pointed out the insistence by both wolfram and gerbert upon the hero's love to and duty towards his wife. the name of parzival's uncle in wolfram, gurnemanz, is nearer to the form in gerbert, gornumant, than to that in chrestien, gonemant. the matter may be summed up thus: it is very improbable that wolfram should have invented those parts of the story found in him alone; the parts common to him and chrestien are frequently more archaic in his case; there are numerous points of contact between him and gerbert. all this speaks for another french source than chrestien. on the other hand, it is almost inconceivable that such a source should have presented the grail as wolfram presents it. i cannot affect to consider the question decidedly settled one way or the other, and have, therefore, preferred to make no use of wolfram. i would only point out that if the contentions of the foregoing studies be admitted, they strongly favour the genuineness of the non-chrestien section of wolfram's poem,[161] though i admit they throw no light upon his special presentment of the grail itself. appendix b. the prologue to the grand st. graal and the brandan legend. i believe the only parallel to this prologue to be the one furnished by that form of the brandan legend of which schröder has printed a german version (sanct brandan) at erlangen, in 1871, from a ms. of the fourteenth century, but the first composition of which he places (p. 15) in the last quarter of the twelfth century. the text in question will be found pp. 51, _et seq._: brandan, a servant of god, seeks out marvels in rare books, he finds that two paradises were on earth, that another world was situated under this one, so that when it is here night it is day there, and of a fish so big that forests grew on his back, also that the grace of god allowed some respite every saturday night to the torments of judas. angry at all these things he burnt the book. but the voice of god spake to him, "dear friend brandan thou hast done wrong, and through thy wrath i see my wonders lost." the holy christ bade him fare nine years on the ocean, until he see whether these marvels were real or a lie. thereafter brandan makes ready a ship to set forth on his travels. this version was very popular in germany. schröder prints a low german adaptation, and a chap book one, frequently reprinted during the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries. but besides this form there was another, now lost, which can be partially recovered from the allusions to it in the wartburg krieg, a german poem of the thirteenth and early fourteenth century, and which is as follows:--an angel brings brandan a book from heaven: brandan finds so many incredible things in it that he taxes book and angel with lying, and burns the book. for his unfaith he must wander till he find it. god's grace grants him this at last; an angel gives him the sign of two fires burning, which are the eyes of an ox, upon whose tongue he shall find the book. he hands it to uranias, who brings it to _scotland_ (_i.e._, of course ireland) schröder, p. 9. the closeness of the parallel cannot be denied, and it raises many interesting questions, which i can here only allude to. the isle of brandan has always been recognized as a christian variant of the celtic tír-na n-og, the land of the shades, avalon. schröder has some instructive remarks on this subject, p. 11. the voyage of brandan may thus be compared with that of bran, the son of febal (_supra_, p. 232), both being versions of the wide-spread myth of a mortal's visit to the otherworld. it is not a little remarkable that in the latin legend, which differs from the german form by the absence of the above-cited prologue, there is an account (missing in the german), of a "conopeus" ("cover" or "canopy,") _cf._ ducange and diez, _sub voce_; the old french version translates it by "pavillon of the colour of silver but harder than marble, and a column therein of clearest crystal." and on the fourth day they find a window and therein a "calix" of the same nature as the "conopeus" and a "patena" of the colour of the column (schröder, p. 27, and note 41). thus there is a formal connection between the brandan legend and the grail romances in the prologue common to two works of each cycle, and there is a likeness of subject-matter between the brandan legend and the older celtic traditions which i have assumed to be the basis of the romances. but german literature likewise supplies evidence of a connection between brandan and bran. professor karl pearson has referred me to a passage in the pfaffe amis, a thirteenth century south german poem, composed by der stricker, the hero of which, a prototype of eulenspiegel, goes through the world gulling and tricking his contemporaries. in a certain town he persuades the good people to entrust to him their money, by telling them that he has in his possession a very precious relic, the head of st. brandan, which has commanded him to build a cathedral (lambl's edition, leipzig, 1872, p. 32). the preservation of the head of bran is a special feature in the mabinogi. i have instanced parallels from celtic tradition (branwen, p. 14), and professor rhys has since (hibb. lect., p. 94) connected the whole with celtic mythological beliefs. this chance reference in a german poem is the only trace to my knowledge of an earlier legend in which, it may be, bran and brandan, the visitor to and the lord of the otherworld, were one and the same person. it is highly desirable that every form of or allusion to the brandan legend should be examined afresh, as, perhaps, able to throw fresh light upon the origin and growth of the grail legend. in pseudo-chrestien perceval's mother goes on a pilgrimage to the shrine of st. brandan. index i. dramatis personæ. [this index is to the summaries contained in chapter ii, and the references are not to page and line, but to version and incident. the versions are distinguished by the following abbreviations:-conte du graal =co=, pseudo-chrestien =pc=, chrestien =c=, gautier =g=, manessier =ma=, gerbert =ge=, wolfram =w=, heinrich von dem türlin =h=, mabinogi of peredur =m=, thornton ms. sir perceval =t=, didot-perceval =d=, borron's poem =b=, queste =q= (=q={1} and =q={2} refer to the different drafts of the romance distinguished p. 83) grand st. graal =gg=. with the less important entries, or when the entries are confined to one version, a simple number reference is given. but in the case of the more important personages, notably perceval, gawain, and galahad, an attempt has been made to show the life history, by grouping together references to the same incident from different versions; in this case each incident group is separated from other groups by a long dash ----. any speciality in the incident presented by a version is bracketed _before_ the reference initial, and, when deemed advisable, reference has been made to allied as well as to similar incidents. this detail, to save space, is, as a rule, given only once, as under perceval, and not duplicated under other headings, the number reference alone being given in the latter cases. the fullest entry is perceval, which practically comprises such entries as fisher king, grail, sword, lance, etc.] =abel= =q=37, =gg=24. =abrioris= =g=9. =acheflour= =t=1. =adam= =q=37, =gg=24. =addanc of lake= =m=16, 19. =agaran= =q=23. =agrestes= =gg=40. =aguigrenons= =co=, _kingrun_ =w=, anonymous =m=, =c=6, =w=, =m=8. =alains=, celidoine's son =gg=43. =alains= or =alein= (=li gros= =d=, =q=, =gg=) =b=12----=dprol=, 1, 6, 12, =q=26, =gg=30, 43, 45, 51, 58, 59. =aleine=, gawain's niece, =d=1. =alfasem= =gg=51, 58. =amangons= =pc=1, 2, 4. =amfortas=, see fisher king. =aminadap= =gg=58. =angharad= law eurawc, =m=12, 14. =antikonie=, see facile damsel. =argastes= =q=27. =arides= of cavalon =ma=14, 16 (a king of cavalon mentioned =c=12 corresponds to _vergulat_ of askalon in =w=). =arthur= =pc=2, 3, 5, =c=1, =dprol=----arrival of perceval at his court =c=3, =w=, =m=3, =t=4, =dprol=----=c=6, 9, 10, =w=, =m=9, 10, 11----=m=13, 14----=c=11, =w=, =m=20----=t=7----=c=18, =w=----=g=1, =w=----=g=2, 3, 6, 9, 11, 13, 16, 19, 20, =ma=10, 16, 23, =ge=5, =h=, =d=1, 3, 5, 8, 14, 16, =m=25, =q=3, 5, 13, =gg=33, 45, 48. =augustus cæsar= =gg=11. =avalon= or =avaron= =b=12, 13, =d=9. =bagommedes= =g=19, 20. =bandamagus= =q=5, 6, 43. =bans= =q=26, =gg=30, 59. =beau mauvais=, le, =g=11, =d=8. =beduers= =d=2. =blaise= =dprol=, 14. =blanchefleur= =co=, conduiramur =w=, anonymous =m=, _cf._ lufamour =t=----perceval's cousin =co=, =w=----first meeting with perceval =c=6, =w=, =m=8----second meeting with perceval =g=10----third meeting =ma=13-16----third meeting and marriage with perceval =ge=8-10, _cf._ =w=. =blihis= =pc=1 = blaise? =blihos bliheris= =pc=2. =bliocadrans= (of wales, perceval's father), =pc=6. =bors, bohors, boort= =q=1, 3, 13, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, =ma=18----=q=35, 48-52. =brandalis= =g=1, 2. =brios= =g=16. =brons, bron=, or =hebron=. =b=7, 8, 12, 14, =dprol=, 6, 16, =gg=41, 42, _cf._ p. 19. =bruillant= =gg=58 = urlain =q=35. =brun de branlant= =g=1. =cain= =q=37, =gg=24. =caiphas= =gg=2, 3. =caius= =gg=3. =calides= =ma=9. =calogrenant= =q=33. =calogrinant= =ma=18----_calocreant_ in =h=, one of the three grail-seekers. =carahies= =g=5. =carchelois= =q=39. =carduel= =c=3----_carduel_ of nantes =g=1. =castrars= =pc=4. =catheloys= =gg=58. =cavalon= =c=12----=ma=14, 16. =celidoine= =gg=22, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 33, 39, 59, =q=26. =chanaan= =gg=45, 47. =chessboard castle= =g=7, =d=4, =m=24----=g=14----=g=18, =d=13. =christ= =b=1-3, 5, 6, 8, 11, =q=7, 10, 13, 15, 20, 26, 50, =dprol=, 16, =ge=15, =gg=1-4, 6, 7, 9, 10, 12, 13, 16, 21, 23, 30, 37, 41, 45. =clamadex= =c=6, clamide =w=, the earl =m=8 = the sowdane =t=7. =clarisse= =co= mons ms. or _clarissant_ montpellier ms., itonje =w=----=c=18, =g=1, =w=. =claudius= =gg=3. =claudius=, son of claudas =q={2}51. =corbenic= =q=, =gg=, =corbière= =ma=23, =q=13, 43, 48, =gg=51. =corsapias= =gg=22. =coward knight= =ma=17, 19. =crudel= =q=6, 15, =ge=15, =gg=36-38. =david= =q=37. =dodinel= =ma=14. =eliezer= =q=27. =empty seat=, see seat perillous. =enygeus=, =enysgeus=, or =anysgeus= =b=7, 8, 11, 12. =erec= =d=2. =ernous= =q=39. =escorant= =q={2}51. =escos= =gg=47. =espinogre= =ma=5. =estrois de gariles= =q={2}51. =etlym gleddyv coch= =m=16-18. =evalach.= evalach li mescouncus =gg=, eualac =q= (anelac 26), evelac =ma=, =ge=. overcoming tholomes =gg=6, 7, 10, 11, 12, 14, =q=6, 15, 26, =ma=3, =ge=15, name changed to _mordrains_, which see. =eve= =q=37, =gg=24. =facile damsel=, anonymous =co=, =h=, =m=, _antikonie_ =w=, =c=14, =w=, =h=, =m=21. =feirefiz= =w=. =felix= =gg=3, 11. =fisher king.= anonymous =co=, amfortas =w=, brons =b=, =d=, alain =gg=. anonymous (?), =q={1}, pelles =q={2}. in =m= the fisher corresponds to gonemans. in all the french works of the cycle the adjective rich is commonly applied to the fisher. splendour of court =pc=1----learned in black art =pc=3----old and sick =dprol=, first meeting with perceval =c=7, =w=, =d=11, _cf._ =pc=3, =m=6----=c=8, =w=, _cf._ =d=2, 12----=c=11, =w=, _cf._ =d=15, =m=21----=g=7, 8, 9, 16, 18, 19, 20----second meeting with perceval =g=22, =ma=1-7 or =ge=1-5, =d=16, _cf._ =m=25----=ma=10----third meeting with perceval =ma=22, =ge=22, =w=----grandfather of galahad =q={1}2, 26. see also maimed king. surname given to brons =b=12, to alain =gg=43. vessel given to him =d=1----commanded to go to the west =d=6. =flegentyne= =gg=22, 29, 31, 37, 59. =gahmuret= =w=. =galahad= (galaad). _father_: lancelot =q=, =gg=----_mother_: daughter of king pelles =q={1}, =gg=, or fisher king =q={2}----seat perillous =q=2----sword =q=3----quest proclaimed =q=5----evelac's shield =q=6, =gg=50----devil-inhabited tomb =q=7, _cf._ =ge=17----melians' discomforture =q=8----castle of maidens =q=9----overcoming of lancelot and perceval =q=11----destined achiever of quest =q=13----rescue of perceval =q=16----genealogy =q=26, =gg=21, 30, 58----likening to a spotless bull =q=29----overcoming of gawain =q=34----stay on ship =q=35, 36----sword =q=36----maimed king =q={2} 36----capture of castle carchelois =q=39----stag and lions =q=40, _cf._ =gg=45----castle of the evil custom =q=41----stay with father =q=42----healing of mordrains =q=44, _cf._ =gg=39----cooling of fountain =q=45----making white the cross =gg=40----release of symeu =q=46, =gg=49----making whole sword =gg=44----release of moys =gg=46----five years' wanderings =q=47----arrival at king peleur's =q={1}, maimed king's =q={2}, witnessing of grail and healing of maimed king =q=48-50----sarras, crowning, death =q=51, 52. =galahad= (galaad) son of joseph =gg=8, 31, 34----king of hocelice and ancestor of urien =gg=49----founding of abbey for symeu =gg=49. =gansguoter= =h=. =ganort= =gg=33, 35. =garalas= =g=13. =gawain.= gauvain =co=, =q=, =gg=, gwalchmai =m=, gawan =w=, gawein =h=, gawayne or wawayne =t=----of the seed of joseph of arimathea =gg=48, arthur's nephew =co=, =q=----conquers blihos bliheris =pc=2----allusion to his finding the grail =pc=3----one of the knights met by perceval in wood =m=1, =t=2----helps perceval to disarm red knight =t=4----meeting with perceval after blood-drops incident =c=10, =w=, =m=11----vow to release imprisoned maiden =c=11, =m=20----reproached by guigambresil =c=12, (kingrimur) =w=, (anonymous) =m=20----tournament at tiebaut's =c=13, (lippaot) =w=, (leigamar) =h=, _cf._ =d=15, where perceval is hero but gawain best knight after him----adventure with the facile damsel =c=14, (antikonie) =w=, =h=, =m=21----injunction to seek bleeding lance =c=14, =w=, (grail) =h=----adventure with griogoras =c=16, (urjan) =w=, (lohenis) =h=----meeting with scornful damsel, orgeuilleuse, arrival at ferryman's =c=16, =w=----magic castle =c=17, =w=, _cf._ =gg=51----may not leave castle =c=17----second meeting with orgueilleuse =c=18, =w=, (mancipicelle) =h=----ford perillous, guiromelant =c=18, (gramoflanz) =w=, (giremelanz) =h=----marriage with orgueilleuse =w=, (?) =c=18----arrival of arthur to witness combat with guiromelant =c=18 continued by =g=1, =w=, =h=----fight with perceval =w=, _cf._ =t=7----reconciliation with guiromelant =g=1, =w=, =h=----departure on grail quest and winning various talismans =h=----[first arrival at grail castle according to montpellier ms. of =co=]----brun de branlant, brandalis =g=1 and 2----slaying of unknown knight and quest to avenge him =g=3----chapel of black hand =g=3----arrival at grail castle (first according to mons ms. of =co=), half successful =g=3, wholly successful =h=, _cf._ =m=25 found by peredur at castle of talismans, and reference in =q=51 welsh version----greetings of country folk =g=3, _cf._ =ge=3----meeting with his son =g=4----mount dolorous quest =g=19----renewed grail quest, reproached for conduct at fisher king's, slaying of margon =ma=10----rescue of lyonel =ma=18----rescue by perceval =ge=16. joins in search for grail with remainder of table round =d={2}, =q=, betraying knowledge of maimed king =q=5. meeting with ywain, gheheris and confession to hermit =q=10. meeting with hector de mares =q=29. overcoming at galahad's hand =q=34. =gheheries= =q=10. =giflès= =c=11, =g=2. =gonemans= or =gonemant= =co=, gornumant =ge=, gurnemanz =w=, fisher uncle =m=, =c=5, =w=, =m=5, uncle to blanchefleur =c=6, =c=7, =w=, second meeting with perceval =ge=8-9, _cf._ =t=6. =goon desert= =ma=4. =grail=, early history of. last supper cup given to joseph =b=2, 3, 4, =gg=2, =q=50, =ma=3----solace of joseph =b=5, 6, =gg=2, =d=16, =ma=3 (montpellier ms.)----grail and fish =b=8, 9 _cf._ =gg=43----directs joseph what to do with alain =b=12, _cf._ =gg=42, confided to brons =b=14,15, =dprol= 6, (alain) =gg=51----=d=6, 10----feeds host =gg=5, =q=13, also =gg=32----blinding of nasciens =gg=16, 21, 23, 30, passage to england 31, =d=6, =q=6, 13, 15----crudel =gg=38, =q=15, =ge=15----blinding of mordrains =gg=38, 39, 42, only feeds the sinless 43, 44, refuses meat to chanaan and symeu 47, resting-place, castle corbenic =gg=51. book of, revealed to hermit =gg=2. =grail=, quest of _by perceval_: first seen at fisher king's =pc=3, =c=7, =w=, =d=11----properties of =c=8, =w=, =d=12----=c=11, =w=----=c=15, =w=----lights up forest =g=14----=g=21----seen for second time =g=22-=ma=1-7 or =ge=1-3, =d=16----heals hector and perceval =ma=20----taken from earth =ge=6, _cf._ =w=----opposed by witch, =ge=8, 9----connection with shield =ge=13----seen for third time =ma=23, 24, =ge=22; _by gawain_: =h= and =g=3; _by lancelot_: =q=12, 22, 43; _by galahad_: =q=2, feeds arthur's court =q=4, quest proclaimed =q=5, feeds host =q=13, =gg=32, denied to gawain and hector =q=29, 30, accomplished =q=50-52. =grail-messenger=, see loathly damsel. =gramoflanz= see guiromelant. =griogoras= =c=16 = lohenis =h=. =guiromelant= =co=, gramoflanz =w=, giremelanz =h=, =c=18-=g=1, =w=, =h=. =hector= (de =mares= =q=) =q=29, 34, 43, =ma=20. =helain= =q=27. =helicoras= =gg=22. =helyab= =gg=2, 8, 34. =helyas= =q=26 = ysaies =gg=30, 38. =herzeloyde= =w=. =huden= =pc=4. =hurgains= or =hurganet= =d=2, 3. =jonaans= =q=26, =jonans= =gg=30, =jonas= =gg=59. =joseph of arimathea.= d'arymathye =b=, de arimathie =gg=, d'abarimathie or d'arimathie =q=, de barimacie =g=, and =ma= (montpellier ms.), josep (without mention of town =ma=, mons ms.), de barismachie =ge=----care of christ's body, captivity, solace, release =b=2-7, =gg=2, 3, =d=16, _cf._ =q=6, =ma=2----stay in sarras =gg=4-11, =q=6, 26, =ge=15, =ma=3----=b=7----passage to england =gg=31, =q=6----feeding by grail =gg=32, =q=13, _cf._ =b=8, 9----moys =b=11, 12, =dprol=, _cf._ =gg=41----=b=12-15----=gg=34, 36, =q=15, =ge=15----=gg=38, 44, 45, 48, 50--=d=1, 6, 12. =josephes=, =josephe=, =josephus=, or =josaphes=, son of joseph of arimathea, =gg=2, 5, 9, 10, 11 =q=6, 13, 14, 16, 17, 31 =q=6, 13 and 32, 36 =q=6, 38 =q=6 and 15, 40, 41 =q=13 _cf._ =d=6, 42, 43, 45, 46, 49, 50 =q=6, =q=50, 51. =josue= =gg=51, 58. =kalafier= =gg=20, 22. =kardeiz= =w=. =kay.= kex =co=----=t=2----=c=3, =w=, =m=3----=c=4, =w=, =m=4----=c=6, =c=9----=c=10, =w=, =m=11----=m=14----=t=7----=g=3, 19, =ma=10, =ge=21, =d=8----one of the three grail-questers =h=. =klinschor= =w.= =laban= =q=35 (query variant of lambar?). =label= =gg=26. =label's daughter= =gg=28, 29, 37, 39. =lambar= or =labran= =q=35, =lambor= =gg=58. =lance= (spear) =pc=3, 4, =c=7, 8, =m=6, =c=11, 14, 15, =g=3, 22, =ma=1, 2, 24, =ge=22, =h=, =d=11, 12, 16, =q=50, 51, =gg=9, 15, 16. =lancelot=, lancelot of lake's grandfather =q=26, =gg=30, 59. =lancelot.= galahad's father =q=, =gg=, =q=1, 2, 4 (_cf._ =c=11), 5, 11, 12 (_cf._ =c=7 and =g=3), 22, 23, 24, 25, 26 (_cf._ =gg=58) 27, 28, 29, 42, 43, =gg=30, 33, 40, 45, 58, 59, =pc=4. =leucans= =gg=10. =lionel q=1, 3, attacks bors =q=33, =ma=18. =loathly damsel.= anonymous =co=, kundrie =w=, perceval's cousin =m=, reproaches perceval =c=11, =w=, =m=20----announces end of quest, =ma=23, =m=25. =logres= =pc=1, =g=3, =q=12, 35, 47. =lohenis= =h= = griogoras =c=16. =loherangrin= =w=. =longis= =pc=4, =ma=2, =d=16. =lot= =gg=48. =luces= =gg=48. =lufamour= =t=7, _cf._ blanchefleur. =maidens' castle= =pc=5, =g=12=a=, =ge=6----=q=9. =maimed= or =lame king=. same personage as fisher king. designated in this way _only_ =m=, almost entirely so =q={2} (5, 13, also =q={1} 36, 39, 47, 50), never so =b=, =d=. =gg=58 applies the designation to pelleans. =manaal= =gg=58. =mancipicelle=, see orgueilleuse. =margon= =ma=10. =marie la venissienne= =gg=3 = verrine, =b=6, =w=. =marpus= (=warpus= =q=26) =gg=30, 59. =meaux= =gg=11. =melians=, galahad's companion =q=8, 10. =melians de lis= =c=13, =d=15. =merlin= (see p. 64d) =g=20, =dprol=, 14, 15, =q=13. =mordrains= =gg=, mordains =q=, _once_ noodrans =ma=, _once_ mordrach =ge=----baptism =gg=14, 15, =q=6, 26, =ma=3 =ge=15----=gg=16, 17, vision of descendants 18, =q=26----=gg=19, 20, stay on island 21, _cf._ =q=19----=gg=27, =q=36----=gg=29 crudel, and blinding by grail 37, 38, =q=15, =ge=15----retires to hermitage =gg=39, =q=44----his shield =gg=50, =q=6. =mordred= =gg=45. =mordret= =ge=6, 7. =morghe la fée= =g=18. =moroneus= =q={2}26. =mors del calan= =pc=4. =mount dolorous= =g=19, 20, =ge=5. =moys=, =moyses= (=b=). seat perillous =b=10, 11, 12, =dprol=, 1, =gg=41, 46. =nasciens= =gg=, =q=, natiien =ma=----baptism =gg=14, =q=6, 26, =ma=3----blinded by grail =gg=16----=gg=18, 19, 20, 21, 22, turning isle and solomon's ship, 23-27, =q=35-37----=gg=28, 29, 30, 32, 33, crudel 37, 38, (called seraphe) =q=15----=gg=39----his tomb =gg=50----death =gg=59----appears as hermit in arthur's time =q=4, 5, 6, 29. =nasciens=, son of celidoine, =gg=39. =nasciens=, grandson of celidoine =gg=30, 59. =nicodemus= =b=3, 4, 5. =noirons=, _i.e._, nero =gg=3. =orcanz= =gg=48. =orgueilleuse.= orguellouse =c=, orgeluse =w= = mancipicelle =h=, =c=16----=g=1, =w=, =h=. =owain= =m=, =ewayne= =t=, =yones= =c=4, =ywain= "li aoutres" =q=6, 9, 10, 29, =gg=49----meets perceval =m=1, =t=2----helps him =m=3, =c=4. =partinal= =ma=5, 8, 21, 22. =pecorins= =pc=4. =peleur= =q={1}5, 47, 48. =pelleans= =gg=58. =pellehem= =q={2}35. =pelles= =q={2}1-3, 14, 27, 36, 44, 48, 50, =gg=59. =perceval= =co=, =d=, =q=, =gg=; parzival =w=, =h=; peredur =m=; percyvelle =t=.--_father_: bliocadrans =pc=; anonymous =co=, =q=; alain =d=; gahmuret =w=; evrawe =m=; percyvelle =t=; pellehem =q={2}. _mother_: anonymous =co=, =d=, =q=, =m=; herzeloyde =w=; acheflour (arthur's sister) =t=----brought up in wood =c=1, =w=, =m=, =t=1----meets knights (5) =c=1, =w=, (3) =m=1, =t=2----leaves mother =c=1, =w=, =d=, =m=1, =t=2----first meeting with lady of tent =c=2, (ieschute) =w=, =m=2, =t=3----arrival at arthur's court =c=3, =w=, =d=, =m=3, =t=4----laughing prophetic damsel =c=3, =w=, dwarves =m=3----slays _red_ knight =c=4, (ither of gaheviez) =w=, (colour not specified) =m=3, =t=4----overcomes 16 knights =m=4----burns witch =t=5----arrival at house of first uncle, gonemans =c=5, gurnemanz =w=, anonymous =m=5, and (different adventure partly corresponding to =ge=8) =t=6----first arrival at castle of lady love, blanchefleur =c=5, conduiramur =w=, anonymous =m=8, lufamour =t=7----first arrival at fisher king's =c=7, =w=, =d=11, =m=6----is reproached by wayside damsel, cousin: (anonymous) =c=8, (sigune) =w=, =d=12, foster sister =m=7----second meeting with lady of tent =c=9, =w=, =m=9----overcoming of sorceresses of gloucester =m=10----blood drops in the snow =c=10, =w=, =m=11----adventures with angharad law eurawc; at the castle of the huge grey man; serpent on the gold ring; mound of mourning; addanc of the lake; countess of achievements =m=12-19----reproaches of the loathly damsel =c=11, (kundrie) =w=, =m=20----good friday incident and confession to uncle =c=15, (trevrezent) =w=, =d=14, =m=22----the castle of the horn =g=6----the castle of the chessboard =g=7, =d=4, =m=24----meeting with brother of red knight =g=8----ford _amorous_ =g=9, _perillous_ =d=9----second meeting with blanchefleur =g=10----meeting with rosette and le beau mauvais =g=11, =d=8----meeting with sister and visit to hermit =g=12, =d=5 and 6----the castle of maidens =g=12=a=----meeting with the hound-stealing damsel =g=13, =d=13, =m=24----meeting with the damsel of the white mule =g=14----tournament at castle orguellous =g=16 = =d=15 (melianz de lis) and =m=19 (?)----deliverance of knight in tomb =g=17----second visit to the castle of the chessboard =g=18, =d=13----delivery of bagommedes =g=19----arrival at mount dolorous =g=20----the black hand in the chapel =g=21----second arrival at grail castle =g=22-=ma=1-7 and =ge=1, =d=16, (with final overcoming of sorceresses of gloucester) =m=25. puts on red armour for love of aleine, accomplishes the feat of the seat perillous, and sets forth on quest =d=1 and 2. slays the red knight, orgoillous delandes, =d=3. overcomes black knight, slays giant and finds mother =t=9. perceval and saigremors =ma=8----second visit to chapel of the black hand =ma=11----the demon horse =ma=12, =q=18----stay on the island =q=19, and 20, and temptation by damsel 21, =ma=13----delivery of dodinel's lady love =ma=14----tribuet =ma=15----third meeting with blanchefleur =ma=16----meeting with coward knight =ma=17----combat with hector =ma=20----slaying of partinal =ma=21----third arrival at grail castle =ma=22----learns death of his uncle the fisher king from loathly damsel =ma=23, =w=----retires into wilderness =q=52, =ma=24----dies =q=52, goes to palestine and dies (?) =t=. encounter, unknown to either, with galahad =q=11. meeting with recluse aunt =q=13. assistance at the hands of the red knight =q=16. adventure of the ship =q=33, essay to draw sword =q=35. receives galahad's sword =q=41, bears galahad company for five years =q=47----adjusts the sword at the court of pelles =q={2}48. breaking of sword at the gate of paradise =ge=2----blessings of the country folk for putting question =ge=3----mending of sword at forge of the serpent =ge=4----accomplishment of the feat of the perillous seat =ge=5----adventures at sister's castle, with mordret, and at cousin's, castle of maidens =ge=6----encounter with kex, gauvain, and tristan =ge=7, _cf._ =t=7----meeting with gornumant =ge=8 (_cf._ =t=6) and fight with the resuscitating hag----third arrival at blanchefleur's castle, marriage =ge=9----deliverance of maiden, abolition of evil custom, knight on fire =ge=10-12----obtains the promised shield =g=13----combat with the dragon king =ge=14----arrival at abbey and story of mordrains =ge=15, =q=15----the swan-drawn coffin =ge=16----devil in tomb =ge=17, _cf._ =q=7----deliverance of maiden from fountain =ge=18----punishment of traitress damsel =ge=19----combat with giant =ge=20, _cf._ =t=9----encounters kex =ge=21----third arrival at grail castle =ge=22. =perceval's aunt= =q=13, 14. =perceval's sister=, daughter to pellehem =q={2}, =g=12, =d=5-7, =q=35, 36, 38, 41, 42----_cf._ =m=7. =perceval's uncle=, see gonemans, fisher king. =petrone= =gg=29. =petrus= =b=8, 12, 13, 14, =peter= =gg=43, =pierron= =gg=45, 47, 48. =philosophine= =ge=6, 15. =pilate= =b=1, =gg=2, =b=3, 6. =priadam the black= =q=30. =quiquagrant= =ma=5. =red knight.= slain by perceval =c=3, 4, =t=1, 5, who takes his arms, and is mistaken for him =c=6, =t=6, transferred to galahad when latter takes perceval's place =q=14, 16----=g=8, 9. =rosette=, loathly maiden, =g=11, =d=8. =saigremors= =c=10, =ma=8, 9, 18, =d=2. =sarraquite= =gg=13, 16, 22, 28, 29, 59. =sarras= =gg=5, 11, 13, 15, 18, =ma=3, =q=26, 41, 50, =gg=30. =seat perillous= (empty) =b=10, =dprol=, 1----=q=2, =gg=41, =ge=5, =q=13. =seraphe= =gg=, =q=, =ge=, _once_ salafrès =ma=----battle with tholomes =gg=12, 14, =q=6, 26, =ma=3, =ge=15, renamed _nasciens_, which see. =sevain of meaux= =gg=11. =solomon's ship= =q=35-38, =gg=24, 27, 30, 58. =solomon's sword= =q=35, 38, =gg=27, _cf._ =q=48. =sorceresses of gloucester= =m=10, 25. =stag hunt= =g=7, 8, 16, 18, =d=4, 13, =m=24. =sword= =pc=3, =c=7, 8, =m=6, =g=3, 12, 22, =ma=5, 22, =ge=1, 2, 4, 15, 22, =h=, =q=2, 3, 48, =gg=33, 44, 58. see also solomon's sword. =symeu= =q=46, =gg=31, 47, 49. =tholomes= =q=6, =ge=15, =gg=11, 12, 14. =tholome cerastre= =gg=11. =tiberius cæsar= =gg=3, 11, =ma=3. =titus= =gg=3. =trebucet= or =tribuet= =c=8, =w=, =ma=15. =urban of the black thorn= =d=9, =co=. =urlain= or =urban= =q=35 = bruillant =gg=58. =uther pendragon= =gg=9, _cf._ p. 64d. =verrine= =b=6 = marie la venissienne =gg=3. =vespasian= =b=6, =gg=3, 4, =ma=3, =q=7. =waste city=, king of the, =ge=8. =waste land= =pc=1, (forest) 6, =q=13, 35, =gg=58. =ysaies= =gg=30, 59 = helyas, =q=26. =ywain=, see owain. index ii. [this index comprises the whole of the work with exception of the summaries, for which see index i. the references are to the pages. the entries apply solely to the page number or page group-number which they immediately precede, and not to all the pages between themselves and the next entry. in the majority of cases a simple number reference is given, and the fuller entries are to those points which the author wishes specially to emphasise.] abundia and herodias, 100. adonis, 101. alain (son of brons), 66, 77, 79, 82, 83, 84, 89, 109, 112, 123, as fisher king, 208, 210, 218, 222, 245. amfortas, fisher king in wolfram, 249, in wagner's parsifal, 253-55, 263. aminadap, 84. arbois de jubainville, 184-85, 188, 192-93. arthur, arthur saga, arthurian romance or legend, 108, 114, 116, 117, martin's interpretation of, 122-24, 130, 134, 136, 144, 147, 148, 153, 155, 156, 188, a's waiting, 197-98, a and potter thompson, 198, 205, 218, 219, 221, 222, popularity of, 228-29, celtic character of, 230, 231, 236, 243, 244, 245. avalon (avaron), 77, punning explanation of, 78, parallel to the grail, 122-23 and 188, with the magic castle, 191, 198, 218, 222, connection with glastonbury, 223, 248, parallel with brandan's isle, 264. baldur, 100. ban, 83, 84. baring-gould, 98. bartsch, 261. battle of magh rath, 185, 186. bergmann's san grëal, 104. bespelled castle in celtic tradition, 190-206. birch-hirschfeld, 4, 5, 6, 38, 52, 64_d_, 84, full analysis of his work, 108-121, martin's criticism, 121-23, 124, objections to his hypothesis, 125-126, 128, 132, 133, 134, 137, 138, 145, 151, 168, 171, 174, 207, 217, 220, 250, wolfram and chrestien, 261-62. blaise, 113. blanchefleur, 92, 114, 115, 133, comparison of chrestien and mabinogi, 135, 140, 147, 204, 238, example of sex-relations of the time, 241. blood-drops in the snow, 137-38. books of rights and geasa, 213. borron, robert de, author of the joseph d'arimathie, bibliographical details, 2, ms. statements respecting, 4-6, 19, passage of grail to england, 79-80, 94, 95, 96, hucher's views, 105-6, relation to other versions according to birch-hirschfeld, 111-115, 116, 118-20, martin's views, 121-124, 125, 131, 171, secret words, 186, 188, fisher king in, 207-9, 220, 221, 222, his conception, 239, chastity ideal in, 245, 247, 251, 252. bors, 66, exemplification of spirit of queste, 239. bötticher, wolfram and chrestien, 261. bran (the blessed), 108, and cernunnos, 211, connection with conversion of britain, 218-20, 226, connection with brandan legend, 265. bran the son of febal, 192, 194, 232, 265. brandan legend, 264-65. branwen (mabinogi of), 76, 97, 108, 167, 168, cauldron, 186, 211, 219, 260. britain, evangelisation of, 80, 91, 95, 105-106, 107, 124, 218, connection with the brons and joseph legends, 219-24. brons, 66, 70, 72, 75, 77, special form of early history, 78-79, 80, 81, two accounts respecting, 82-83, 84, 85, 86, 88, in the didot-perceval, 89, 91, 93, 94, 95, 106, 109, 112, 113, 123, 124, 125, 182, as fisher king, 208-11, as apostle of britain, 218-26, 235. bruillans, 84. brunhild, 232. bundling, 135. caesarius of heisterbach, 122. campbell, j. f., 102-03, 152, 159-60, cup of healing, 187, 210. campbell, no. 1 young king of easaidh ruadh, 187; no. 10 the three soldiers, 195-96; no. 41 the widow and her daughters, 187; no. 47 mac iain direach, 187, 212; no. 51 the fair gruagach, 213; no. 52 the knight of the red shield, 156-57, the resuscitating carlin, 166-67; no. 58 the rider of grianaig, 157, 209; no. 76 conall gulban, 167, 187; no. 82 how the een was set up, 158, 189; no. 84 manus, 189-90; no. 86 the daughter of king under the waves, 194-95, 246. campbell, j. g., muilearteach, 167. catheloys, 84. celidoine, 83, 84. celtic tradition, origin of or elements in grail legend, 7, how affected by placing of versions, 68-69, opinions of previous investigators, 97-107, birch-hirschfeld, 111-113-14-15-17-20, martin, 121-24, hertz, 125, grail apparently foreign to, 151, 164-65, carlin in, 167-69, 170-71, 181, 183-84, vessel in, 184-88, sword in, 188-90, 191, 195, 197, 199, 208, origin of legend, 215-18, 223-27, relation to mediæval romance, 230, individualism in, 231, woman in, 231-33, the supernatural in, 234, 235, chastity ideal, 247, 248, 251, transformation of, 255, 265. ceridwen, 186, 210-11. cernunnos, 211. cét mac magach, 231. chanson de roland, 248. charlemagne, carolingian saga, 197, 229, 230, 231. chastity ideal in the queste, 243-44, in later versions, 245-46, in popular and celtic tradition, 246-47. chessboard castle, 127-30, 139-41. chrestien, bibliographical description, 1, 2, statements of mss. respecting, 4, 5, 8, 66, 69, 70, 74, 76, 80, 81, 85, 86, 91, 92, 93, 95, views of previous investigators, 98-108, birch-hirschfeld, 108-121, 122, 124, 125, 126, relation to didot-perceval, 127-131, to mabinogi, 132-145, nature of model, 145-46, relation to sir perceval, 147-51, relation to great fool, 155-56-58-59, 164, 168, visit to grail castle in, 171-74, 175, represents mainly feud quest, 180-82, 199, 207, 208, 211, 218, his ideal, 237-38, 245, 249, 250, relation to wolfram, 261-63. christian origin of or elements in grail legend, christian tradition, legend, etc.; as affected by placing of versions, 68, 80, 123, 143, 146, 165, 170-73, 179, 181, 186, 209, as affected by my hypothesis, 215-18, 220, 224, 226-27, relation to the talismans, 238-39, 251-52, influence on the legend as a whole, 255. chronological arrangement of versions, 6, author's, 95-96, zarncke's, 107, birch-hirschfelds', 120-21. conall cearnach, 231. conan's delusions, 200. conchobor, 192, 231, 233. conduiramur, 204, and parzival, 249-51. connla, 188, 194, 196, 232. constituent elements in the romances, 215-16. corbenic, 83, 84. cormac's visit to the otherworld, 193-94, 234. counsels, the, in the romances, 150. crestiens, p. 83 = nasciens, p. 84. cuchulainn, 153, 185, 188, 189, conception of, 192, _gess_ of, 214, parallel of legend to mediæval romances, 231-34. cumhall, father of fionn, 158-59. curoi mac daire, 231. cynewulf, 221. dagda, the, and the cauldron, 184-85, 192. deirdre, 137, and the sons of usnech, 233. diarmaid, 202, _gess_ of, 214. didot-perceval, prose sequel to borron's poem, numbered as c 2, 65, 66, 68, 70, 72, 73, 75, 76, 78, 79, 82, the quest in, 89-91, 92, 93, 94, 96, zarncke's opinion of, 107, authorship of according to birch-hirschfeld, 112-15, 117, 120, 121, 125, 126, relationship to conte du graal, 127-30, origin of, 131, 138, 139, stag hunt in, 141-42, 145-46, 172-73, 179, 182, 191, 198-99, 208, 245. dietrich saga, 230. domanig, parzival-studien, 250. duvau, 192. dwarves incident in chrestien and mabinogi, 134. elton, 219. emer, wooing of, 232-33. encyclopædia britannica, 126. england, arrival of grail in 76-80, birch-hirschfeld 116, joseph legend in 221-22. enygeus (brons' wife), 81, 82. evangelium nicodemi, 221-22. espinogre, 142. expulsion and return formula (aryan), 144, 153-54, 156, 159, 163-64, 190, 210, 225, 256. fand, 232. faust, 253. fenian saga or cycle, sword in, 188-90, 230. feud-quest in the romances and in celtic tradition, 181-90. finn-eges, 209-11, 220. fionn (finn), fionn-saga, 153-54, 157, connection with great fool and boyhood of peredur, 158-59, 163-64, fionn's enchantment, 186-87, and sword, 189-90, 195, in the otherworld, 200-03, and salmon, 209-11, 214, 220, 224, 231, 234, 256. fish, according to birch-hirschfeld, 112, martin, 123-24, 224. see also salmon. fisher king, fisher or rich fisher, 77, 78, as grail-keeper, 80-86, relation the promised knight, 87-89, 107, 110, 113, 115, accounted for by birch-hirschfeld, 117, 123, 124, 134, 138, 139, 140, 142, 143, 144, 180, 206, author's explanation of, 207-11, 237, in wolfram, 249. fisher king's daughter, 140-42. fisher king's father, 74, 81, 110, 191. fitzgerald, 198, 231. fomori, 188, 230. förster on peredur, 132. frederick ii, 122, in the kyffhäuser, 196-97. frederick i (barbarossa), 196-97. furnivall, 2, 3, 102-03, estimate of queste criticised, 242-43. gaelic talismans = grail and lance, 103. gaidoz, 219. galahad, galahad quest, 66, 67, 83-86, as promised knight, 90-94, 102, 104, 106, 108, 109, 113, 131, 149, 226, comparison with perceval quest, 236, morality of, 240, 245-46, 252, 254. gaston paris on relation between chrestien and mabinogi, 132. gautier (de doulens), pseudo-gautier, numbered a ii., 1-2, statements respecting in ms., 4, berne ms. of, 19, 69-70, 72, 74-75, 76-77, 81, 87, 92-95, 101, 106, 110, 113, 114, 120-21, relation to didot-perceval, 128-30, to mabinogi ,133 and 140-44, 145, 146, visit to grail castle in, 171-72, gawain quest in, 174 and 178-79, 182, 189, 199, 237, 246. gautier (walter) de montbeliart and borron, 5, 103, 105, 120, 121. gawain (gauvain), 2, 67, 69, visit to grail king, 87, 92, 101, martin's view of, 122 and 124, 125, 164, 172, special form of quest, 176-78, 180, 189, 191, visit to magic castle, 199-200, in heinrich, 203-05, 237, and orgueilleuse, 240-41, 245, 251, 261-62. geasa, 212-14. geoffrey of monmouth, 91, 119, 219, 229. gerald (giraldus cambrensis), testimony respecting map's authorship, 117-18, 122. gerbert, numbered a iv., 1, 5, 69, love _motif_ in, 92, 95, 110, 121, 126, the witch who brings the dead to life in, 165-69, 172, 174-75, 179, 180, 199, chastity ideal in, 246, 249, relation to wolfram, 262-63. gervasius of tilbury, 122, 197. glastonbury, skeat's view, 105, zarncke, 107, 220, and avalon, 223-25. goethe, 253. gonemans, 130-34, and fisher king, 138, 140, and the witch, 165-68, advice to perceval, 211-12. see also gurnemanz. goon desert, 81, 142. grail, 66, hypothetical christian origin of, 68, first possessor of, 69-70, solace of joseph, 70-72, connection with sacrament, 71 and 73, and trinity, 72, properties and effect of, 74-76, name, 76, arrival in england, 76-79, 83-84, 89-90, 94, 96, 99, 100-112, phraseology used by romances in mentioning it, 113, 114-16, symbol of christ's body, 117, 120, symbol of avalon, 123, 124-26, 136, 140-142, absence of from mabinogi and thornton sir p., 164, apparently foreign to celtic legend, 165, 169, various forms of visit to castle of, 170-79, double nature of, 182-83, parallel to magic vessel of celtic tradition, 185-96, and fionn, 202, 218, 221, mode of transformation, 224, 245, 247, in wolfram, 250-52, in wagner, 254-55, 261-63. grail (early history of), two forms, 65-66, joseph form, 67, relation to christian origin hypothesis, 68, 69, brons form, 80, 86, two forms in french romances, 93-94, later than queste, 93, 95-96, 103, according to birch-hirschfeld, 108-21, 151, 208, origin of, 218 and 224. grail (quest of), two forms, 65-67, perceval form, 67, relation to celtic origin hypothesis, 68, 69, 80, 83, 86, object of according to different versions, 88-90, original form of, 91, 92, perceval form older, 93-94, 95-96, 105-06, 109-26, 131, 138, mabinogi form of, 139-44, 151, inconsistency of accounts respecting, 180-81, two formulas fused in, 181, constituent elements in, 215-16, mode of transformation, 220, 237-39, 243, 245, 248, 251, 252. grail legend, romance or cycle, origin of according to birch-hirschfeld, 120, 159, christian element in, 217, genesis and growth of, 225-27, popularity of, 228, 230, development of ethical ideas in, 235 _et seq._, 248, future of, 259, 265. grail-keeper and promised knight, 80-81. grail-messenger and rosette, 114. see also loathly damsel. graine, 214. gramoflanz, 193. grand st. graal, numbered e 3, authorship ascribed to borron, 5, helinandus' testimony, 52, 65-67, 70, 72-73, 75-76, 79, conflicting accounts respecting promised knight in, 84-86, 90, 91, 93, 94-96, 99, 102-112, 117, authorship of, 119-20, 121, 126, 146, 207-08, 219, 220, 247, prologue of and brandan legend, 264-65. great fool, lay or tale of the, 101-02, 144, prose opening, 152-53, comparison with romances, 154-56, originality of, 158, relation to fionn legend, 159, lay, 159-162, 163, 164, ethical import of, 256-57. gregory of tours and evangelium nicodemi, 221. greloguevaus, 81. grimm, no. 122, der krautesel, 195, 197, 198, 204-05, 247. gudrun, 233. guinevere, 83. gurnemanz, 113, 115, 249, 262-63. see also gonemans. guyot = kiot, 104. gwalchmai, 225-26, 228. see gawain. gwion and fionn, 210. hahn, j. g. von, 153-54. halliwell, 98, 147. haunted castle, 204-05. hawker, 244. hebron, 108 = brons, which see. hector, 187. heinrich von dem türlin, numbered k, 4, citation of chrestien, 6, 69, 91, martin's view of, 122, 125, visit to grail castle in, 172-73 and 178, double origin, 182, 191, special form of quest, 198-99 and 203, parallel with sleeping beauty, 203. hélie de borron, 105-06, testimony of, 118-19, 121. helinandus, 52, 95, 103, 121. helyas, 83 = ysaics, 84. hennessy, 159. henry ii, 118-19. herodias, 100, 254. hertz' views, 124-25. how the great tuairsgeul etc., 212. hucher, 2, attempt to harmonise conflicting accounts in borron, 82, statement of views, 105-06, criticised by birch-hirschfeld, 111 and 118, 130, and cauldron, 184. iduna, apples of, 182. john the baptist, 100. jonaans, 83, 84. joseph of arimathea, joseph legend, 65-67, 69, 70, and grail, 70-73, 74, 77, and england, 78-80, 81, 82, 84, 88, 89, 90, 93, 94, 99, 100, 104-109, 112-117, 124, 146, and the fisher, 208, 218, apocryphal legend of, 220-24, 226. joseph, metrical, poem by robert de borron, numbered b 2, author of, 5, 65-66, 68, 70-73, 74-76, 77-80, two accounts in, 81-82, 88, 91, 93-94, 102-103, relation to didot-perceval according to birch-hirschfeld, 112-14, 125. josephes (son of joseph), and veronica, 79, 84-86, 109. josue, 66, 84, 85. kay, 130. keating and the treasures of the tuatha de danann, 184. kennedy's fellow with the goat-skin, 134, castle knock, 159, great fool, 159-61, son of bad counsel, 199-200, fionn's visit to cuana, 201, haunted castle tale, 204, 257. kiot, 6, san marte's view, 99-100, 107-08, 121, and wolfram, 261-63. klinschor, 253, 263. knight errantry, 229. knighthood, prototype of in celtic tradition, 231. knights of the red branch, 231. knowles' said and saiyid, 196. koch, kyffhäuser sage, 197. köhler, 195. kundry in wagner, 254-55, 263. see loathly damsel. küpp on pseudo-chrestien, 8, 126, and the branch, 193, 262. kynddelw, 219. lambar, 83-84, 86, 183. lame king, see maimed king. lance, 109, and grail legend according to birch-hirschfeld, 111, 113, 121. lancelot, 83, 84, 108, 110, 112, 118, 119, 123, 172-173, 180, 240, 245. latin original of french romances probable, 122. liebrecht, 197-98. llyr llediath, 219-20. loathly damsel, 87, and rosette, 114, in mabinogi and chrestien, 136, hero's cousin, 139-41, double origin of in romances, 205-06, and wagner, 254. longis, 70. luces de gast, 118-19. luces (lucius), 91, 219. lufamour, 147. lug lamhfhada, 184, 189, 192. mabinogi of peredur (generally mabinogi sometimes peredur) numbered h 3, 5, 66, 68, 69, villemarqué on, 97-98, 89, simrock on, 100, 101, nash, 102, 104, hucher, 106, lateness of according to birch-hirschfeld, 114-115, 125-26, relation to conte du graal, 131-37, dwarves incident in, 134, greater delicacy in blanchefleur incident, 135, blood drops incident, 137-38, differences with chrestien, 138-39, machinery of quest in, 139-42, relation to manessier, 142-44, origin and development of, 143-145, special indebtedness to chrestien, 145, 146, relation to sir perceval, 148-49, counsels in, 150, apparent absence of grail from, 151, comparison with great fool tale, 154-57, with great fool lay, 161-62, 164, with gerbert's witch incident, 168-69, 171, visit to talismans castle in, 172-73 and 176, 180, 181, 183, 184, 190, 216, fusion of numerous celtic tales in, 225-26, sex-relations in, 241, 256. maidens' castle, parallels to in celtic tradition, 191-94. maimed or lame or sick king, 66, 83-88, 90, 91, 109, parallel with arthur, 122, probable absence from proto mabinogi, 145, belongs to feud quest, 198, parallel to fionn, 202, 237. malory, 236. manaal, 84. manannan mac lir, 192-94, 208, and bran, 219. manessier, numbered a iii, 1-2, date etc., 4-5, 69-71, 73-74, 77, 81, 88, 92, 95, 110, 121, 138, relation to the mabinogi, 142-46, 168-69, 171, 175, disregard of question, 180-82, 199, 245-46. manus, 189-90. mapes or map, 5, 104, 105, not author of queste or grand st. graal according to birch-hirschfeld, 117-19. martin's views, 121-26, kyffhäuser hypothesis criticised, 197, 198, wolfram and gerbert, 262. meaux, 120. menglad, 232. merlin, 92, 114, 124. merlin, borron's poem, 2, 64d, 105, 106, 112-13, 117. meyer, kuno, 209, 233. minnedienst, 240-41. modred, 122. montsalvatch, 66. mordrains, 90, 109-10, 120, 173. morgan la fay, 122. morvan lez breiz, 148, 158, 162. moys or moses, 88-90, 106, 109, 112, 116. mythic conceptions in the romances, 205. nasciens, 76, 83, 85, 120. nash, 102. nibelungenlied, 230, 234, 248. nicodemus, 71. noisi, 137, 233. o'daly, 159-61, 163. odin, 100-01. o'donovan, 185, 209, 213. oengus of the brug, 191-92, and swanmaid, 196. o'flanagan, 233. ogma, 188. oisin, 195, 200, and gwion, 210, 232. o'kearney, 201. orgueilleuse, celtic character of, 124 and 232, illustrates mediæval morality, 240-41, 263. osiris, 101. pagan essence of grail etc. in the christianised romances, 238. partinal, 81, 88, 142-43. parzival, 101, 252-53. see perceval and wolfram. paulin-paris, 5, explanation of word grail, 103, 111, 116-17, 119. pearson on the veronica legend, 222, and st. brandan, 265. peleur, 83. pelleans or pellehem, 83-86, 90. pelles, 83-86, 90. perceval, perceval-quest, type hero of quest, 66-67, 72, 78, relation to the grail-keeper, 80-86, 88-89, 91-92, oldest hero of quest, 93, 94, 98, 101, 102-04, according to birch-hirschfeld, 110-119, 125, in didot-perceval and conte du graal, 127-31, in mabinogi and conte du graal, 131-45, relation to (bespelled) cousin, 139-42, relation of existing versions to earliest form, 146, in the thornton ms. romance, 147-51, hero of expulsion and return formula, 153-56, parallel with highland folk-tales, 157-58, relation to twin brethren folk-tale and dualism in, 162-64, 169, versions of quest, 171-76, visit to the maidens' castle, 178-79, 180, 181, significance of didot-perceval form, 182, 187, and sword, 189, castle of maidens, 191, 195, 199, parallel with diarmaid, 202, possible hero of haunted castle form, 204-05, relation to fisher, 207, his silence, 211-14, 226, superiority to galahad quest, 236, 237-38, 240-41, 245, 247, 254, 256, 261-62. see also parzival and peredur. perceval's aunt, 79. perceval's sister, 83-84, 163. perceval's uncle, 78. perceval le gallois, numbered g 3, authorship, 6, 65-66, 69, 104, 121, 126, 246. peredur (hero of mabinogi = perceval), peredur-saga, 106, mother of, 115, 132-36, parallel to tom of the goat-skin, 134, the sword test, 138, hero of the stag hunt, 139-42, 143, original form of saga, 144-45, 153-54, 157, 162, 163, 164, 168-69, and fionn, 187 and 203, 220, fish absent from, 224, genesis and growth of, 225-227, 228, blanchefleur incident in, 241. see perceval. peronnik l'idiot, 125, 158. perseus, 256. petrus, 77, 82, 88-90, 106, 109, 112, connection with geoffrey conversion legend, 219. pfaffe amis, 265. pilate, 65, 70. potter thompson and arthur, 198, 262. potvin, 1, 2, 6, his views, 104, 174, 177. prester john, 100. procopius, 191. promised or good knight, and grail keeper, 80-86, galahad as, 85-86 work of, 86-91, qualifications of, 92-93, 107, 109. prophecy incident in grail romances, 156. pseudo-chrestien, 8, 209. pseudo-gautier, numbered aii_a_, 2, 15-16, 70, 72, 74, 77, 79, 81, 95. pseudo-manessier, numbered aiii_a_, 2, 19, 72-73. queste del st. graal, numbered d 2-3, varying redactions distinguished typographically, 38, 65-67, 72, 75-76, 79, three drafts of, 83-86, 90-91, glorification of virginity in, 93, 95, 103, 107, relation to grand st. graal, 108-09, to conte du graal, 110-11, 112, 113, authorship of, 117-20, 121, 126, 131, 146, visit to grail castle in, 172-73, 180, 183, 186, 207, 218, 220, 222, 224, 226, 236, ideal of, 238-40 and 243-44, ideal criticised, 243-44, merits of, 244-45, 246, inferiority to wolfram, 250, 251. question, birch-hirschfeld's opinion, 171, 180, belongs to unspelling quest, 181-82, 191, 196, 203, wolfram's presentment, 249-50. red knight, 147-49, 155-56, 162, 189. renan on celtic poetry, 234-35. rhys, 198, 209, 211, bran legend, 219-20, 265. rich fisher or king. see fisher king. riseut, 141. robert de borron. see borron. rochat, 19, his views, 101-02. roland, 229, 232. roménie, 118. rosette, 130, 141. see loathly damsel. salmon of wisdom, 209-10. san marte, views, 99-100, 101-02, and wolfram, 250-5. sarras, 72, 77, 79. schröder, brandan legend, 264-65. seat, empty or perillous, 81-82, 88-90. secret words, 73, 89, 179. seraphe, 108. sex-relations in middle ages, 240-42. siegfried, 157, 162, 203, 210, 232-33. simei, 90. simrock, views, 100-101, 103, 132, 134, 164, 251, 261-62. skeat, 104. skene, 219-20. sleep and the magic castle myth, 202-03. sleeping beauty, parallel with heinrich's version, 203, ethical import of, 258. solomon's sword, 84. see sword. sons of usnech, 137, 233. sorceresses of gloucester, 101, 139, 156. spontaneity of folk tradition, 254, 257-58. stag hunt in conte du graal and mabinogi, 139-40, in didot-perceval, 141, parallel with lay of great fool, 162. steinbach on sir perceval, 147-50. stephens, 219-20. stokes, 188, 200, 233. suetonius, 116. sword, 113, 142, belongs more to feud quest, 180-82, found also in unspelling quest, 183, of lug, 184, in celtic myth, 187-90, 198-99. taboo and geasa, 214. taliesin, 97, 186, and oisin, 210-11. templars, 100. tennyson, 236, 244. tethra, 188. thor, irish parallels to, 200-01. thornton ms. sir perceval (often simply sir perceval), numbered i 4, 66, 68-69, 101-02, 125, 126, steinbach's theory of, 147-50, criticised, 149, absence of grail from, 151, connection with great fool tale, 154-58, 162, 164-65, witch incident, 169, 190, 225. tír-na n-og, 191, 195, 223, 248, 264. titurel, 66. titus, 107. trinity, symbolizing of, 88. tuatha de danann, treasures of, 184-85, 189-92, 223, 230. two brothers tale, 157, 162-63. ultonian cycle, 185. unspelling quest, 181, celtic parallels to, 190-206, 208. urban (urlain), 83, 84, 183. van santen, 252. vanishing of bespelled castle, 202-03. veronica (verrine), 79, 116, ward's theory, 222. vespasian, 107, 116. vessel in celtic myth, 184, in ultonian cycle, 185, in welsh myth, 186, in celtic folk-tales, 187. see grail. villemarqué, views 97-98, 101, 131, 148. virginity, 247. wagner, 252-54. ward, 220, 222. wartburg krieg and brandan legend, 264. william of malmesbury, 105, zarncke's opinion of, 107, 115, ward's opinion of, 220. windisch, 188, 219. witch who brings the dead to life, 165-69. wolfram von eschenbach, numbered f 3, sources, 6, 25-26, 65-67, 69, and gerbert, 92, 99-102, 104, 107, 121-25, 150, 157, brother incident in, 164, 172-73, branch in, 193, magician lord, 199, account of mediæval morality, 240-41, 246, ideal of, 248-52, 254, 255, 256, pattern for future growth of legend, 261, relation to chrestien, 261-63. woman in celtic tradition, 231-33. wülcker, evangelium nicodemi, 220-21. zarncke, views, 106-07, 115, 132, 220. harrison and sons, printers in ordinary to her majesty, st. martin's lane, london. footnotes: [1] fully described by potvin, vi, lxix, etc. [2] potvin, vi, lxxv, etc. [3] birch-hirschfeld: die sage vom gral, 8vo., leipzig, 1877, p. 81. [4] birch-hirschfeld, p. 89. [5] birch-hirschfeld, p. 110. [6] birch-hirschfeld, p. 232, quoting the colophon of a paris ms., after paulin paris, cat. des mss. français, vol. ii, pp. 361, etc. [7] birch-hirschfeld, p. 143. [8] this prologue is certainly not chrestien's work; but there is no reason to doubt that it embodies a genuine tradition, and affords valuable hints for a reconstruction of the original form of the story. _cf._ otto küpp in zeitschrift für deutsche philologie, vol. xvii., no. 1. [9] potvin's text, from the mons ms., is taken as basis. [10] several mss. here intercalate the history of joseph of arimathea: joseph of barimacie had the dish made; with it he caught the blood running from the saviour's body as it hung on the cross, he afterwards begged the body of pilate; for the devotion showed the grail he was denounced to the jews, thrown into prison, delivered thence by the lord, exiled together with the sister of nicodemus, who had an image of the lord. joseph and his companions came to the promised land, the white isle, a part of england. there they warred against them of the land. when joseph was short of food he prayed to the creator to send him the grail wherein he had gathered the holy blood, after which to them that sat at table the grail brought bread and wine and meat in plenty. at his death, joseph begged the grail might remain with his seed, and thus it was that no one, of however high condition, might see it save he was of joseph's blood. the rich fisher was of that kin, and so was greloguevaus, from whom came perceval. it is hardly necessary to point out that this must be an interpolation, as if gauvain had really learnt all there was to be told concerning the grail, there would have been no point in the reproaches addressed him by the countryfolk. the gist of the episode is that he falls asleep before the tale is all told. [11] the existence of this fragment shows the necessity of collating all the mss. of the conte du graal and the impossibility of arriving at definite conclusions respecting the growth of the work before this is done. the writer of this version evidently knew nothing of queste or grand st. graal, whilst he had knowledge of borron's poem, a fact the more remarkable since none of the other poets engaged upon the conte du graal knew of borron, so far, at least, as can be gathered from printed sources. it is hopeless in the present state of knowledge to do more than map out approximately the leading sections of the work. [12] it is by no means clear to me that gerbert's portion of the conte du graal is an interpolation. i am rather inclined to look upon it as an independent finish. as will be shown later on, it has several features in common with both mabinogi and wolfram, features pointing to a common prototype. [13] in the solitary ms. which gives this version, it follows, as has already been stated, prose versions of robert de borron's undoubted poems, "joseph of arimathea" and "merlin." [14] birch-hirschfeld, in his summary (p. 37, l. 22) or his ms. authority, b.m., xix, e. iii., has transposed the relationships. [15] and buried it, adds b. h. in his summary, whether on ms. authority or not i cannot say, but the welsh translation has--"there was a period of 240 years" (an obvious mistake on the part of the translator) "after the passion of j. c. when jos. of a. came; he who buried j. c. and drew him down from the cross." [16] thus was evelach called as a christian, adds b. h. here w. agrees with furnivall. [17] here birch-hirschfeld's summary agrees with w. [18] b. h. agrees with w. [19] according to b. h., the recluse tells him he has fought with his friends, whereupon, ashamed, he hurries off. [20] b. h. here agrees with w. [21] b. h. has _five_ candles. [22] b. h.: "when will the holy vessel come to still the pain i feel? never suffered man as i." [23] b. h. agrees with w. [24] b. h. agrees with furnivall. [25] b. h., the _ninth_. [26] b. h., the vision is that of a crowned old man, who with two knights worships the cross. [27] b. h., nasciens. [28] b. h. has all this passage, save that the references to the vision at the cross-ways seem omitted. [29] b. h., the latter. [30] b. h., in chaldee. [31] b. h., labran slays urban. [32] the 1488 text has urban. [33] b. h., thus was the king wounded, and he was galahad's grandfather. [34] it does not appear from b. h.'s summary whether his text agrees with f. or w. [35] b. h., seven knights. [36] b. h., that was the castle of corbenic where the holy grail was kept. [37] b. h., the castle of the maimed king. [38] b. h., ten. obviously a mistake on the part of his text, as the nine with the three grail questers make up twelve, the number of christ's disciples. [39] b. h., three. [40] b. h. agrees with f. [41] one cannot see from b. h. whether his text agrees with f. or w. [42] b. h. agrees with f. [43] it will be advisable to give here the well-known passage from the chronicle of helinandus, which has been held by most investigators to be of first-rate importance in determining the date of the grand st. graal. the chronicle ends in the year 1204, and must therefore have been finished in that or the following year, and as the passage in question occurs in the earlier portion of the work it may be dated about two years earlier (birch-hirschfeld, p. 33). "hoc tempore (717-719) in britannia cuidam heremitae demonstrata fuit mirabilis quaedam visio per angelum de joseph decurione nobili, qui corpus domini deposuit de cruce et de catino illo vel paropside, in quo dominus caenavit cum discipulis suis, de quo ab eodem heremita descripta est historia quae dicitur gradale. gradalis autem vel gradale gallice dicitur scutella lata et aliquantulum profunda, in qua preciosae dapes divitibus solent apponi gradatim, unus morsellus post alium in diversis ordinibus. dicitur et vulgari nomine greal, quia grata et acceptabilis est in ea comedenti, tum propter continens, quia forte argentea est vel de alia preciosa materia, tum propter contentum .i. ordinem multiplicem dapium preciosarum. hanc historiam latine scriptam invenire non potui sed tantum gallice scripta habetur a quibusdem proceribus, nec facile, ut aiunt, tota inveniri potest." the grand st. graal is the only work of the cycle now existing to which helinandus' words could refer; but it is a question whether he may not have had in view a work from which the grand st. graal took over its introduction. helinandus mentions the punning origin of the word "greal" (_infra_, p. 76), which is only hinted at in the grand st. graal, but fully developed elsewhere, _e.g._, in the didot-perceval and in borron's poem. another point of great interest raised by this introduction will be found dealt with in appendix b. [44] the ms. followed by furnivall has an illustration, in which joseph is represented as sitting under the cross and collecting the blood from the sides and feet in the basin. [45] ms. reading. [46] i have not thought it necessary to give a summary of the prose romance perceval le gallois. one will be found in birch-hirschfeld, pp. 123-134. the version, though offering many interesting features, is too late and unoriginal to be of use in the present investigation. [47] _cf._ p. 78 as to this passage. [48] it is forty-two years, according to d. queste (p. 119), after the passion that joseph comes to sarras. [49] it is plain that b i is abridged in the passage dealt with, from the following fact: joseph (v. 2,448, etc.) praying to christ for help, reminds him of his command, that when he (joseph) wanted help he should come "devant ce veissel precieus où est votre sans glorieus." now christ's words to joseph in the prison say nothing whatever about any such recommendation; but e, grand st. graal, does contain a scene between our lord and joseph, in which the latter is bidden, "et quant tu vauras à moi parler si ouuerras l'arche en quel lieu que tu soies" (i, 38-39) from which the conclusion may be drawn that b i represents an abridged and garbled form of the prototype of e. [50] in the mabinogi of branwen, the daughter of llyr, the warriors cast into the cauldron of renovation come forth on the morrow fighting men as good as they were before, except that they are not able to speak (mab., p. 381). [51] the version summarised by birch-hirschfeld. [52] curiously enough this very text here prints urban as the name of the maimed king; urban is the antagonist of lambar, the father of the maimed king in the original draft of the queste, and his mention in this place in the 1488 text seems due to a misprint. in the episode there is a direct conflict of testimony between the first and second drafts, lambar slaving urlain in the former, urlain lambar in the latter. [53] this account agrees with that of the second draft of the queste, in which urlain slays lambar. [54] only _one_ beholder of the quest is alluded to, although in the queste, from which the grand st. graal drew its account, _three_ behold the wonders of the grail. [55] this, of course, belongs to the second of the two accounts we have found in the poem respecting the promised knight, the one which makes him the grandson and not the son merely of brons. [56] the object of the quest according to heinrich von dem türlin will be found dealt with in chapter vii. [57] this is one of a remarkable series of points of contact between gerbert and wolfram von eschenbach. [58] it almost looks as if the author of c were following here a version in which the hero only has to go once to the grail castle; nothing is said about perceval's first unsuccessful visit, and merlin addresses perceval as if he were telling him for the first time about matters concerning which he must be already fully instructed. [59] it is remarkable, considering the scanty material at his disposal, how accurate schulz' analysis is, and how correct much of his argumentation. [60] wagner has admirably utilised this hint of simrock's in his parsifal, when his kundry (the loathly damsel of chrestien and the mabinogi) is herodias. _cf._ _infra_, ch. x. [61] excepting, of course, the late fifteenth and early sixteenth century paris imprints, which represented as a rule, however, the latest and most interpolated forms, and mons. fr. michel's edition of borron's poem. [62] hucher's argument from v. 2817 (_supra_ p. 106) that the poem knew of the grand st. graal is, however, not met. [63] _vide_ p. 200, for birch-hirschfeld's summary comparison of the two works, and _cf._ _infra_ p. 127. [64] _cf._ _infra_ p. 128, for a criticism of this statement. [65] opera v. 410: unde et vir ille eloquio clarus w. mapus, oxoniensis archidiaconus (cujus animae propitietur deus) solita verborum facetia et urbanitate praecipua dicere pluris et nos in hunc modum convenire solebat: "multa, magister geralde, scripsistis et multum adhue scribitis, et nos multa diximus. vos scripta dedistis et nos verba." [66] printed in full, hucher, i. 156, etc. [67] printed by hucher, i. p. 35, etc. [68] the remainder of birch-hirschfeld's work is devoted to proving that chrestien was the only source of wolfram von eschenbach, the latter's kiot being imagined by him to justify his departure from chrestien's version; departures occasioned by his dissatisfaction with the french poet's treatment of the subject on its moral and spiritual side. this element in the grail problem will be found briefly dealt with, appendix a. [69] i have not thought it necessary, or even advisable, to notice what the "encyclopædia britannica" (part xli, pp. 34, 35) and some other english "authorities" say about the grail legends. [70] they are brought together by hucher, vol. i, p. 383, etc. [71] in the preface to the second volume of his edition of chrestien's works (halle, 1887), w. förster distinguishes peredur from the lady of the fountain and from geraint, which he looks upon as simple copies of chrestien's poems dealing with the same subjects. peredur has, he thinks, some welsh features. [72] it is perhaps only a coincidence that in gautier the "pucelle de malaire" is named riseut la bloie, and that rosette la blonde is the name of the loathly damsel whom perceval meets in company of the beau mauvais, and whom birch-hirschfeld supposes to have suggested to chrestien _his_ loathly damsel, the grail messenger. but from the three versions one gets the following:--riseut (gautier), loathly damsel (didot-perceval), grail messenger (chrestien), = peredur's cousin, who in the mabinogi is the loathly grail messenger, and the protagonist in the stag-hunt. [73] i have not thought it necessary to discuss seriously the hypothesis that chrestien may have used the mabinogi as we now have it. the foregoing statement of the facts is sufficient to negative it. [74] the counsels. _chrestien_ (v. 1,725, etc.): aid dames and damsels, for he who honoureth them not, his honour is dead; serve them likewise; displease them not in aught; one has much from kissing a maid if she will to lie with you, but if she forbid, leave it alone; if she have ring, or wristband, and for love or at your prayer give it, 'tis well you take it. never have comradeship with one for long without seeking his name; speak ever to worthy men and go with them; ever pray in churches and monasteries (then follows a dissertation on churches and places of worship generally). _mabinogi_ (p. 83): wherever a church, repeat there thy paternoster; if thou see meat and drink, and none offer, take; if thou hear an outcry, especially of a woman, go towards it; if thou see a jewel, take and give to another to obtain praise thereby; pay thy court to a fair woman, _whether she will or no_, thus shalt thou render thyself a better man than before. (in the italicised passage the mabinogi gives the direct opposite of chrestien, whom he has evidently misunderstood.) _sir perceval_ (p. 16): "luke thou be of mesure bothe in haulle and boure, and fonde to be fre." "there thou meteste with a knyghte, do thi hode off, i highte, and haylse hym in hy" (he interprets the counsel to be of measure by only taking half the food and drink he finds at the board of the lady of the tent. the kissing of the lady of the tent which follows is in no way connected with his mother's counsel.) _wolfram_: "follow not untrodden paths; bear thyself ever becomingly; deny no man thy greeting; accept the teaching of a greybeard; if ring and greeting of a fair woman are to be won strive thereafter, kiss her and embrace her dear body, for that gives luck and courage, if so she be chaste and worthy." beside the mother's counsels perceval is admonished by gonemans or the personage corresponding to him. in _chrestien_ (2,838, _et seq._) he is to deny mercy to no knight pleading for it; to take heed he be not over-talkful; to aid and counsel dames and damsels and all others needing his counsel; to go often to church; not to quote his mother's advice, rather to refer to him (gonemans). in the _mabinogi_ he is to leave the habits and discourse of his mother; if he see aught to cause him wonder not to ask its meaning. in _wolfram_ he is not to have his mother always on his lips; to keep a modest bearing; to help all in need, but to give wisely, not heedlessly; and in especial not to ask too much; to deny no man asking mercy; when he has laid by his arms to let no traces thereof be seen, but to wash hands and face from stain of rust, thereby shall ladies be pleased; to hold women in love and honour; never to seek to deceive them (as he might do many), for false love is fleeting and men and women are one as are sun and daylight.--there seems to me an evident progression in the ethical character of these counsels. originally they were doubtless purely practical and somewhat primitive of their nature. as it is, chrestien's words sound very strange to modern ears. [75] in the notes to my two articles in the "folk-lore record" will be found a number of references establishing this fact. [76] the hero renews his strength after his various combats by rubbing himself with the contents of a vessel of balsam. he has moreover to enter a house the door of which closes to of itself (like the grail castle portcullis in wolfram), and which kills him. he is brought to life by the friendly raven. the mysterious carlin also appears, "there was a turn of her nails about her elbows, and a twist of her hoary hair about her toes, and she was not joyous to look upon." she turns the hero's companions into stone, and to unspell them he must seek a bottle of living water and rub it upon them, when they will come out alive. this is like the final incident in many stories of the two brothers class. _cf._ note, p. 162. [77] o'daly's version consists of 158 quatrains; campbell's of 63. the correspondence between them, generally very close (frequently verbal), is shown by the following table:- o'd., 1, 2. c., 1, 2. - c., 3. o'd., 3. c., 4. o'd., 4-15. - o'd., 16. c., 4. o'd., 17-24. c., 5-12. o'd., 25. - - c., 13-15. o'd., 26-47. c., 16-36. o'd., 48-56. - o'd., 57-61. c., 37-40. o'd., 62. - o'd., 63-65. c., 41-43. o'd., 66. c., 45. o'd., 67. c., 44. o'd., 68, 69. c., 46, 47. o'd., 70. c., 49. o'd., 71. c., 48. - c., 50. o'd., 72. c., 52. o'd., 73. - o'd., 74. c., 53. o'd., 75. c., 54. o'd., 76-80. c., 55-59. o'd., 81-134. - o'd., 135, 136. c., 60, 61. - c., 62. o'd., 137. - o'd., 138. c., 63. o'd., 139-158. -[78] of this widely spread group, grimm's no. 60, die zwei brüder, may be taken as a type. the brethren eat heart and liver of the gold bird and thereby get infinite riches, are schemed against by a goldsmith, who would have kept the gold bird for himself, seek their fortunes throughout the world accompanied by helping beasts, part at crossways, leaving a life token to tell each one how the other fares; the one delivers a princess from a dragon, is cheated of the fruit of the exploit by the red knight, whom after a year he confounds, wins the princess, and, after a while, hunting a magic hind, falls victim to a witch. his brother, learning his fate through the life token, comes to the same town, is taken for the young king even by the princess, but keeps faith to his brother by laying a bare sword twixt them twain at night. he then delivers from the witch's spells his brother, who, learning the error caused by the likeness, and thinking advantage had been taken of it, in a fit of passion slays him, but afterwards, hearing the truth, brings him back to life again. grimm has pointed out in his notes the likeness between this story and that of siegfried (adventures with mimir, fafnir, brunhilde, and gunnar). in india the tale figures in somadeva's katha sarit sagara (brockhaus' translation, ii., 142, _et seq._). the one brother is transformed into a demon through accidental sprinkling from a body burning on a bier. he is in the end released from this condition by his brother's performing certain exploits, but there is no similarity of detail. other variants are _zingerle_ (p. 131) where the incident occurs of the hero's winning the king's favour by making his bear dance before him; this i am inclined to look upon as a weakened recollection of the incident of a hero's making a princess _laugh_, either by playing antics himself or making an animal of his play them (_see_ _supra_, p. 134, kennedy's irish tale). grimm also quotes _meier_ 29 and 58, but these are only variants of the dragon-killing incident. in the variant of 29, given p. 306, the hero makes the king laugh, and in both stories occurs the familiar incident of the hero coming unknown into a tournament and overcoming all enemies, as in peredur (inc. 9). _wolf._, p. 369, is closer, and here the hero is counselled by a grey mannikin whom he will unspell if he succeeds. _stier_, no. i. (not p. 67, as grimm erroneously indicates) follows almost precisely the same course as grimm's 60, save that there are three brothers. _graal_, p. 195, has the magic gold bird opening, but none of the subsequent adventures tally. _schott_, no. 11, is also cited by grimm, but mistakenly; it belongs to the faithful-servant group. very close variants come from sweden (cavallius-oberleitner, v_a_, v_b_) and italy (pentamerone, i. 7 and i. 9). the swedish tales have the miraculous conception opening, which is a prominent feature in tales belonging to the expulsion and return group (_e.g._, perseus, cu-chulaind, and taliesin), but present otherwise very nearly the same incidents as grimm. the second of the italian versions has the miraculous conception opening so characteristic of this group of folk-tales, and of the allied formula group, the attainment of riches consequent upon eating the heart of a sea dragon, the tournament incident (though without the disguise of the hero), the stag hunt, wherein the stag, an inimical wizard haunting the wood, is a cannibal and keeps the captured hero for eating. in the story of the delivery by the second brother, the separating sword incident occurs. the first version opens with what is apparently a distorted and weakened form of the hero's clearing a haunted house of its diabolical inmates (_see_ _infra_ ch. vii., gawain) and then follows very closely grimm's two brothers, save that the alluring witch is young and fair, the whole tale being made to point the moral, "more luck than wit." straparola, _a_ 3, is a variant of the dragon fight incident alone. it is impossible not to be struck by the fact that in this widely spread group of tales are to be found some of the most characteristic incidents of the perceval and allied great fool group. the only version, however, which brings the two groups into formal contact is o'daly's form of the great fool. [79] the brother feature appears likewise in wolfram von eschenbach, where parzival's final and hardest struggle is against the unknown brother, as the great fool's is against the gruagach. this may be added to other indications that wolfram _did_ have some other version before him besides chrestien's. [80] i cannot but think that these words have connection with the incident in the english sir perceval of the hero's throwing into the flames and thus destroying his witch enemy. [81] i must refer to my mabinogion studies, i. branwen for a discussion of the relation of this tale with branwen and with the teutonic heldensage. [82] another parallel is afforded by the tale of conall gulban (campbell, iii., 274). conall, stretched wounded on the field, sees "when night grew dark a great turkish carlin, and she had a white glaive of light with which she could see seven miles behind her and seven miles before her; and she had a flask of balsam carrying it." the dead men are brought to life by having three drops of balsam put into their mouths. the hero wins both flask and glaive. [83] _cf._ my branwen for remarks on the mythological aspect of the ballad. it should be noted that most of the ballads traditionally current in the highlands are of semi-literary origin, _i.e._, would seem to go back to the compositions of mediæval irish bards, who often sprinkled over the native tradition a profusion of classical and historical names. i do not think the foreign influence went farther than the "names" of some personages, and such as it is is more at work in the ballads than in the tales. [84] this may seem to conflict with the statement made above (p. 145), that the mabinogi probably took over the maimed uncle from chrestien. but there were in all probability several forms of the story; that hinted at in chrestien and found in manessier had its probable counterpart in celtic tradition as well as that found in gerbert. it is hardly possible to determine what was the form found in the proto-mabinogi, the possibility of its having been exactly the same as that of gerbert is in no way affected by the fact that the mabinogi, as we now have it, has in this respect been influenced by chrestien. meanwhile birch-hirschfeld's hypothesis that gerbert's section of the conte du graal is an interpolation between gautier and manessier is laid open to grave doubt. it is far more likely that gerbert's work was an independent and original attempt to provide an ending for chrestien's unfinished poem, and that he had before him a different version of the original from that used by gautier and manessier. [85] it occurs also in peredur (inc. 16), where the hero comes to the castle of the youths, who, fighting every day against the addanc of the cave, are each day slain, and each day brought to life by being anointed in a vessel of warm water and with precious balsam. [86] for the second time, if gerbert's continuation be really intended for our present text of gautier, and if potvin's summary of gerbert is to be relied upon; birch-hirschfeld seemingly differs from him here, and makes the king at once mention the flaw. [87] it may be worth notice that v. 35,473 is the same as chrestien, v. 4,533. [88] it is evident that, although in the ms. in which this version is found it is followed by manessier's section, the poem was intended by gerbert to end here. [89] told at other times, and notably by gautier himself (inc. 21), of perceval, where the feature of a dead knight lying on the altar is added. [90] according to the montpellier ms., which here agrees substantially with potvin's text (the mons ms.), this is gauvain's second visit to the grail castle. at his first visit he had been subjected to the sword test and had slept. the mystic procession is made up as follows:--squire with lance; maidens with plate; two squires with candlesticks; fair maiden weeping, in her hands a "graal;" four squires with the bier, on which lies the knight and the broken sword. gauvain would fain learn about these things, but is bidden first to make the sword whole. on his failure he is told vous n'avez par encore tant fet d'armes, que vous doiez savoir, etc., and then goes to sleep. his awakening finds him in a marsh. [91] it may be conjectured that the magic vessel which preserves to this enchanted folk the semblance of life passes into the hero's possession when he asks about it, and that deprived of it their existence comes to an end, as would that of the anses without the apples of iduna. i put this into a note, as i have no evidence in support of the theory. but read in the light of this conjecture some hitherto unnoticed legend may supply the necessary link of testimony. [92] nearly all the objections to the view suggested in the text may be put aside as due to insufficient recognition of the extent to which the two formulas have been mingled, but there is one which seems to me of real moment. the wasting of the land which i have looked upon as belonging to the unspelling formula, is traced by the queste to the blow struck by king lambar against king urlain, a story which, as we have seen, is very similar to that which forms the groundwork of one at least of the models followed by the conte du graal in its version of the feud quest. it does not seem likely that the queste story is a mere echo of that found in the conte du graal, nor that the fusion existed so far back as in a model common to both. but the second alternative is possible. [93] i do not follow m. hucher upon the (as it seems to me) very insecure ground of gaulish numismatic art. the object which he finds figured in pre-christian coins may be a cauldron--and it may not--and even if it is a cauldron it may have no such significance as he ascribes to it. [94] _cf._ as to lug d'arbois de jubainville, cycle mythologique irlandais; paris, 1884, p. 178. he was revered by all celtic races, and has left his trace in the name of several towns, chief among them lug-dunum = lyons. in so far as the celts had departmental gods, he was the god of handicraft and trade; but _cf._ as to this rhys, hibb. lect., p. 427-28. [95] _cf._ d'arbois de jubainville, _op. cit._, p. 269-290. the dagda--the good god--seems to have been head of the irish olympus. a legend anterior to the eleventh century, and belonging probably to the oldest stratum of celtic myth, ascribes to him power over the earth: without his aid the sons of miledh could get neither corn nor milk. it is, therefore, no wonder to find him possessor of the magic cauldron, which may be looked upon as a symbol of fertility, and, as such, akin to similar symbols in the mythology of nearly every people. [96] _cf._ as to the mythic character of the tuatha de danann, d'arbois de jubainville, _op. cit._, and my review of his work, folk-lore journal, june, 1884. [97] i at one time thought that the prohibition to reveal the "secret words," which is such an important element in robert de borron's version, might be referred to the same myth-root as the instances in the text. there is little or no evidence to sustain such a hazardous hypothesis. nevertheless it is worth while drawing attention in this place to that prohibition, for which i can offer no adequate explanation. [98] powers of darkness and death. tethra their king reigns in an island home. it is from thence that the maiden comes to lure away connla of the golden hair, as is told in the leabhar na-h-uidhre, even as the grail messenger comes to seek perceval--"'tis a land in which is neither death nor old age--a plain of never ending pleasure," the counterpart, in fact, of that avalon to which arthur is carried off across the lake by the fay maiden, that avalon which, as we see in robert de borron, was the earliest home of the grail-host. [99] _cf._ d'arbois de jubainville, _op. cit._ p. 188. [100] when cuchulainn was opposing the warriors of ireland in their invasion of ulster one of his feats is to make smooth chariot-poles out of rough branches of trees by passing them through his clenched hand, so that however bent and knotted they were they came from his hands even, straight, and smooth. _tain bo cualgne_, quoted by windisch, rev. celt., vol. v. [101] this epithet recalls lug, of whom it is the stock designation. now lug was _par excellence_ the craftsman's god; he, too, at the battle of mag tured acted as a sort of armourer-general to the tuatha de danann. a dim reminiscence of this may be traced in the words which the folk-tale applies to ullamh l.f., "he was the one special man for taking their arms." [102] _cf._ my aryan expulsion and return formula, pp. 8, 13, for variants of these incidents in other stories belonging to this cycle and in the allied folk-tales. [103] this incident is only found in the living fionn-_sage_, being absent from all the older versions, and yet, as the comparison with the allied perceval sage shows, it is an original and essential feature. how do the advocates of the theory that the ossianic cycle is a recent mass of legend, growing out of the lives and circumstances of historical men, account for this development along the lines of a formula with which, _ex hypothesi_, the legend has nothing to do? the fionn-_sage_, it is said, has been doctored in imitation of the cuchulainn-_sage_, but the assertion (which though boldly made has next to no real foundation) cannot be made in the case of the conte du graal. mediæval irish bards and unlettered highland peasants did not conspire together to make fionn's adventures agree with those of perceval. [104] in the gawain form of the feud quest found in gautier, the knight whose death he sets forth to avenge is slain by the cast of a dart. can this be brought into connection with the fact that perceval slays with a cast of his dart the red knight, who, according to the thornton romance, is his father's slayer. [105] this prose tale precedes an oral version of one of the commonest fenian poems, which in its present shape obviously goes back to the days when the irish were fighting against norse invaders. the poem, which still lives in ireland as well as in the highlands, belongs to that later stage of development of the fenian cycle, in which fionn and his men are depicted as warring against the norsemen. it is totally dissimilar from the prose story summarised above, and i am inclined to look upon the prose as belonging to a far earlier stage in the growth of the cycle, a stage in which the heroes were purely mythical and their exploits those of mythical heroes generally. [106] the prohibition seems to be an echo of the widely-spread one which forbids the visitor to the otherworld tasting the food of the dead, which, if he break, he is forfeit to the shades. the most famous instance of this myth is that of persephone. [107] _cf._ procopius quoted by elton, origins of english history, p. 84. [108] prof. rhys, hibbert lectures for 1886, looks upon him as a celtic zeus. he dispossessed his father of the brug by fraud, as zeus dispossessed kronos by force. [109] d'arbois de jubainville, _op. cit._, p. 275. rhys, _op. cit._, p. 149. [110] m. duvau, revue celtique, vol. ix., no. 1, has translated the varying versions of the story. [111] like many of the older irish tales the present form is confused and obscure, but it is easy to arrive at the original. [112] the part in brackets is found in one version only of the story. of the two versions each has retained certain archaic features not to be found in the other. [113] summarised by d'arbois de jubainville, _op. cit._, p. 323. [114] d'arbois de jubainville, p. 326. [115] otto küpp, z.f.d. phil. xvii, i, 68, examining wolfram's version sees in the branch guarded by gramoflanz and broken by parzival a trace of the original myth underlying the story. gramoflanz is connected with the magic castle (one of the inmates of which is his sister), or with the otherworld. küpp's conjecture derives much force from the importance given to the branch in the irish tales as part of the gear of the otherworld. [116] this recalls the fact that oengus of the brug fell in love with a swanmaid. see text and translation revue celtique, vol. iii., pp. 341, _et. seq._ the story is alluded to in the catalogue of epic tales (dating from the tenth century) found in the book of leinster. [117] in a variant from kashmir (knowles' folk-tales of kashmir, london, 1888, p. 75, _et. seq._), saiyid and said, this tale is found embedded in a twin-brethren one. [118] frederick (i.) barbarossa is a mistake, as old as the seventeenth century (_cf._ koch, sage vom kaiser friedrich in kyffhäuser, leipzig, 1886), for frederick ii., the first german emperor of whom the legend was told. the mistake was caused by the fact that frederick took the place of a german red-bearded god, probably thor, hence the later identification with the _red-bearded_ frederick, instead of with that great opponent of the papacy whose death away in italy the german party refused for many years to credit. [119] unless the passage relating to carl the great quoted by grimm (d.m., iii., 286) from mon. germ. hist., vol. viii., 215, "inde fabulosum illud confictum de carolo magno, quasi de mortuis in id ipsum resuscitato, et alio nescio quo nihilominus redivivo," be older. [120] liebrecht's edition of the otia imperialia, hanover, 1856, p. 12, and note p. 55. [121] martin zur gralsage, p. 31, arguing from the historical connection of frederick ii. with sicily, thinks that the localisation of this arthurian legend in that isle was the reason of its being associated with the hohenstauffen; in other words, the famous german legend would be an indirect offshot of the arthurian cycle. i cannot follow martin here. i see no reason for doubting the genuineness of the traditions collected by kuhn and schwartz, or for disbelieving that teutons had this myth as well as celts. it is no part of my thesis to exalt celtic tradition at the expense of german; almost all the parallels i have adduced between the romances and celtic mythology and folk-lore could be matched from those of germany. but the romances are historically associated with celtic tradition, and the parallels found in the latter are closer and more numerous than those which could be recovered from german tradition. it is, therefore, the most simple course to refer the romances to the former instead of to the latter. [122] see grimm, d.m., ch. xxxii.; fitzgerald, rev. celt., iv., 198; and the references in liebrecht, _op. cit._ [123] personally communicated by the rev. mr. sorby, of sheffield. [124] in chrestien the part of the magician lord is little insisted upon. but in wolfram he is a very important personage. it may here be noted that the effects which are to follow in chrestien the doing away with the enchantments of this castle, answer far more accurately to the description given by the loathly grail-maiden of the benefits which would have accrued had perceval put the question at the court of the fisher king than to anything actually described as the effect of that question being put, either by gautier, manessier, or gerbert. this castle seems, too, to be the one in which lodge the knights, each having his lady love with him, which the loathly maiden announces to be her home. [125] kennedy follows in the main oss. soc., vol. ii, pp. 118, _et. seq._, an eighteenth century version translated by mr. o'kearney. this particular episode is found, pp. 147, _et. seq._ i follow the oss. soc. version in preference to kennedy's where they differ. [126] the story as found in heinrich may be compared with the folk-tale of the sleeping beauty. she is a maiden sunk in a death-in-life sleep together with all her belongings until she be awakened by the kiss of the destined prince. may we not conjecture that in an older form of the story than any we now possess, the court of the princess vanished when the releasing kiss restored her to real life and left her alone with the prince? the comparison has this further interest, that the folk-tale is a variant of an old myth which figures prominently in the hero-tales of the teutonic race (lay of skirni, lay of swipday and menglad, saga of sigurd and brunhild), and that in its most famous form siegfried, answering in teutonic myth to fionn, is its hero. but peredur is a cymric fionn, so that the parallel between the two heroes, celtic and teutonic, is closer than at first appears when siegfried is compared only to his gaelic counterpart. [127] i have not examined gawain's visit to the magic castle in detail, in the first place because it only bears indirectly upon the grail-quest, and then because i hope before very long to study the personality of gawain in the romances, and to throw light upon it from celtic mythic tradition in the same way that i have tried in the foregoing pages to do in the case of perceval. [128] kennedy, legendary fictions, p. 154, _et. seq._ [129] grimm, vol. iii., p. 9 (note to märchen von einem der auszog das fürchten zu lernen), gives a number of variants. it should be noted that in this story there is the same mixture of incidents of the magic castle and haunted castle forms as in the romances. moreover, one of the trials to which the hero's courage is subjected is the bringing into the room of a coffin in which lies a dead man, just as in gawain's visit to the grail castle. again, as grimm notes, but mistakenly refers to perceval instead of to gawain, the hero has to undergo the adventures of the magic bed, which, when he lays himself down in it, dashes violently about through the castle and finally turns topsy turvy. in connection with this story, and with the whole series of mythical conceptions noted in the grail romances, chapter xxxii. of the deutsche mythologie deserves careful study. grimm compares conduiramur's (blanchefleur's) nightly visit to percival's chamber to the appearance at the bedside of the delivering hero of that white maiden, who is so frequently figured as the inmate of the haunted castle. as niece of the lord of the grail castle, blanchefleur is also a denizen of the otherworld, but i hardly think that the episode of perceval's delivering her from her enemies can be looked upon as a version of the removal of the spells of the haunted castle. in a recent number of the revue des traditions populaires (iii., p. 103), there is a good breton version of the bespelled castle sunk under the waves. a fair princess is therein held captive; once a year the waves part and permit access, and he who is bold enough to seize the right moment wins princess and castle, which are restored to earth. [130] whether it be the castle of the fisher king, _i.e._, the castle of the perceval quest; or the magic castle, _i.e._, the castle of the gawain quest. [131] for fuller information about this mysterious fish, see rhys, hibbert lectures, pp. 553-54. [132] in an already quoted tale of campbell's (lviii., the rider of grianaig) allusion is made to the "black fisherman working at his tricks." campbell remarks that a similar character appears in other tales. can this wizard fisher be brought into contact with the rich fisher of pseudo-chrestien (_supra_, p. 8), who knew much of black art, and could change his semblance a hundred times? [133] complete text, edited by kuno meyer, revue celt., vol. v. major portion of text with english translation by dr. j. o'donovan, oss. soc., vol. iv. the tract as a whole is only known to us from a fifteenth century ms.; but the earlier portion of it appears in the l.n.h., in a strongly euhemerised form, only such incidents being admitted as could be presented historically, and these being divested of all supernatural character. see my paper, "folk-lore record," vol. iv., for a discussion of the genuine and early character of the tract. [134] a reason for this concealment may be found in the idea, so frequently met with in a certain stage of human development, that the name is an essential portion of the personality, and must not be mentioned, especially to possible enemies or to beings possessed of magical powers, lest they should make hurtful use of it. [135] _cf._ the whole of the book of rights for an exemplification of the way in which the pre-christian irishman was hedged and bound and fettered by this amazingly complicated system of what he might and what he might not do. [136] they offer him dog's-flesh cooked on rowan spits, and, it has been conjectured that the _gess_ has a totemistic basis, culann's hound (cuchulainn) being forbidden to partake of the flesh of his totem. [137] it is only within the last 100 years that our knowledge of savage and semi-savage races has furnished us with a parallel to the "geasa" in the "taboo" of the polynesian. i am not advancing too much in the statement that this institution, although traces of it exist among all aryan races, had not the same importance among any as among the irish gael. it is another proof of the primitive character of irish social life, a character which may, perhaps, be ascribed to the assimilation by the invading celts of the beliefs and practices of much ruder races. [138] mr. elton (origins, pp. 291, 292) looks upon bran and caradoc as original war gods. caradoc, he thinks, was confounded with caractacus, bran with brennus, and hence the two personages were sent to rome in imitation of the presumed historical prototypes. [139] kynddelw's triad does not really refer to the "blessed" families at all, but to the "faithful" or "loyal" families. stephen's mistake arose from the fact of the name madawc occurring in two sets of triads, one relating to the "lordly" families of britain in which the family of llyr llediath also figures, and one to the faithful families. in both triads the name is probably a mistake for mabon. (note communicated by professor rhys.) i let the statement in the text stand, to exhort myself and others to that fear of trusting authorities which in scholarship is the beginning of wisdom. [140] professor rhys tells me this passage can only mean "blessed bran's head." [141] mr. ward endorses zarncke's contention. according to him there is no trace of any connection between joseph and the evangelisation of britain which can be said to be older than the romances. the statements of the "de ant. eccl. glast." are, he thinks, no guide to the knowledge or opinions of william of malmesbury. [142] i may here notice a theory to which my attention has only just been called. it is found cited in a work of great research, _die fronica_, by professor karl pearson, strassburg, 1887. the author quotes an opinion of mr. jenner, of the british museum, that the head in the platter of the mabinogi may be derived from a veronica portrait. professor pearson expresses doubt, because such a procession of the veronica portrait and the passion instruments as the scene in the mabinogi would, _ex hypothesi_, imply is not known to him before the fourteenth century, whereas the mabinogi must be attributed, at latest, to the middle of the thirteenth century. mr. h. l. d. ward informs me that the suggestion was his. noting the connection of the veronica and grail legends, testified to by borron, it occurred to him that the whole scene at the wounded king's might be derived from the former legends. the wounded king, healed by the grail, would thus be a counterpart of the leprous vespasian healed by the veronica portrait, which some wandering "jongleur" turned boldly into an actual head. but it must be noted that in borron, our authority for the connection of the two legends, there is no wounded king at all; in the conte du graal the maimed king is not healed by any special talisman, but by the death of his enemy, the visible sign of which is that enemy's head, whilst in the "procession" (which mr. ward thinks to have been intended as a vision), the grail is certainly a vessel, and has no connection whatever with any head or portrait. the theory thus requires that the version which gives the oldest form of the hypothetical remodelled veronica legend omitted the very feature which was its sole _raison d'être_. [143] mr. ward thinks the localisation a late one, and that practically there is no authority for it of an older date than the romances. he points out in especial that geoffrey's vita merlini, which has so much to say about the "insula pomorum" in no way connects it with glastonbury. there is considerable doubt as the etymology of glastonbury, but there is substantial unanimity of opinion among celtic scholars of the present day in referring it to a celtic rather than to a saxon source. be this as it may, the fact remains that at sometime in the course of the twelfth century the old christian site of glastonbury took, as it were, the place of the celtic paradise, and it seems far more likely that the transformation was effected in virtue of some local tradition than wholly through the medium of foreign romances. [144] the pre-christian irish annals, which are for the most part euhemerised mythology, contain also a certain amount of race history; thus the struggle between the powers of light and darkness typified by the antagonism between tuatha de danann and fomori, is doubled by that between the fair invading celts and the short dark aborigines. but the latter has only left the barest trace of its existence in the national sagas. not until we come to that secondary stage of the fenian saga, which must have been shaped in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, and which represents the fenians as warring against the harrying northmen, does the foreign element reappear in irish tradition. [145] the tochmarc emer, or the wooing of emer by cuchullain, has been translated by professor kuno meyer in the archæological review, nos. 1-4 (london, 1888). the original text is found partly in the leabhar na h-uidhre, partly in later mss. [146] the fate of the sons of usnech is known to us in two main redactions, one found in the book of leinster (compiled in the middle of the twelfth century from older ms.) printed by windisch, irische texte (first series) pp. 67-82, and translated by m. poinsignon, revue des traditions populaires, iii, pp. 201-207. a text printed and translated by j. o'flanagan (transactions of the gaelic society of dublin, 1808, pp. 146-177), agrees substantially with this. the second redaction has only been found in later mss. mr. whitley stokes has given text and translation from a fifteenth century ms. (irische texte, ii. 2, pp. 109-178), and o'flanagan has edited a very similar version (_loc. cit._ pp. 16-135). this second version is fuller and more romantic; in it alone is to be found deirdre's lament on leaving scotland, one of the earliest instances in post-classic literature of personal sympathy with nature. but the earlier version, though it bear like so much else in the oldest irish ms. obvious traces of abridgment and euhemerism, is also full of the most delicate romantic touches. part of deirdre's lament over the slain noisi may be paraphrased thus:--"fair one, loved one, flower of beauty; beloved, upright and strong; beloved, noble and modest warrior. when we wandered through the woods of ireland, sweet with thee was the night's sleep! fair one, blue-eyed, beloved of thy wife, lovely to me at the trysting place came thy clear voice through the woods. i cannot sleep; half the night my spirit wanders far among throngs of men. i cannot eat or smile. break not to-day my heart; soon enough shall i lie within my grave. strong are the waves of the sea, but stronger is sorrow, conchobor." [147] m. renan's article "de la poésie des races celtiques" (revue des deux mondes, 1854, pp. 473-506) only came into my hands after the bulk of this chapter was printed, or i should hardly have dared to state in my own words those conclusions in which we agree. it may be useful to indicate those points in which i think this suggestive essay no longer represents the present state of knowledge. when m. renan wrote, the nature of popular tradition had been little investigated in france--hence a tendency to attribute solely to the celtic genius what is common to all popular tradition. little or nothing was then known in france of early irish history or literature--hence the wild, primitive character of celtic civilization is ignored. the "bardic" literature of wales was still assigned wholesale to the age of its alleged authors--hence a false estimate of the relations between the profane and ecclesiastical writings of the welsh. finally the three mabinogion (the lady of the fountain, geraint, peredur), which correspond to poems of chrestien's, are unhesitatingly accepted as their originals. the influence of welsh fiction in determining the courtly and refined nature of mediæval romance is, in consequence, greatly exaggerated. it is much to be wished that m. renan would give us another review of celtic literature based on the work of the last thirty years. his lucid and sympathetic criticism would be most welcome in a department of study which has been rather too exclusively left to the specialist. [148] malory is a wonderful example of the power of style. he is a most unintelligent compiler. he frequently chooses out of the many versions of the legend, the longest, most wearisome, and least beautiful; his own contributions to the story are beneath contempt as a rule. but his language is exactly what it ought to be, and his has remained in consequence the classic english version of the arthur story. [149] see p. 112 for a brief summary of borron's conception; sin the cause of want among the people; the separation of the pure from the impure by means of the fish (symbol of christ); punishment of the self-willed false disciple; reward of brons by charge of the grail; symbolising of the trinity by the three tables and three grail keepers. [150] the greater delicacy of the welsh tale has already been noted. "to make him such a offer before i am wooed by him, that, truly, can i not do," says the counterpart of blanchefleur in the mabinogi. "go my sister and sleep," answers peredur, "nor will i depart from thee until i do that which thou requirest." i cannot help looking upon the prominence which the welsh story-teller has given to this scene as his protest against the strange and to him repulsive ways of knightly love. the older, mythic nature of peredur's beloved, who might woo without forfeiting womanly modesty, in virtue of her goddesshood, had died away in the narrator's mind, the new ideal of courtly passion had not won acceptance from him. [151] the perplexities which beset the modern reader of the queste are reflected in the laureate's retelling of the legend. nowhere else in the idylls has he departed so widely from his model. much of the incident is due to him, and replaces with advantage the nauseous disquisitions upon chastity which occupy so large a space in the queste. the artist's instinct, rather than the scholar's respect for the oldest form of the story, led him to practically restore perceval to his rightful place as hero of the quest. _his_ fortunes we can follow with an interest that passing shadow, galahad, wholly fails to evoke. nor, as may easily be seen, is the fundamental conception of the twelfth century romance to the laureate's taste. arthur is his ideal of manhood, and arthur's energies are practical and human in aim and in execution. what the "blameless king" speaks when he first learns of the quest represents, we may guess, the author's real attitude towards the whole fantastic business. it is much to be regretted by all lovers of english poetry that hawker's quest of the sangraal was never completed. the first and only chant is a magnificent fragment; with the exception of the laureate's sir galahad, the finest piece of pure literature in the cycle. hawker, alone, perhaps of moderns, could have kept the mediæval tone and spirit, and yet brought the quest into contact with the needs and ideas of to-day. [152] _cf._ grimm, deutsche mythologie, ii, 811, and his references. [153] the ideas held by many peoples in a primitive stage of culture respecting virginity are worthy careful study. some physiological basis may be found for them in the phenomena of hysteria, which must necessarily have appeared to such peoples evidences of divine or demoniac possession, and at that stage are hardly likely to have been met with save among unmarried women. in the french witch trials these phenomena are often presented by nuns, in whose case they were probably the outcome of a life at once celibate and inactive. on the other hand the persons accused of witchcraft were as a rule of the most abandoned character, and it is a, morally speaking, degraded class which has furnished professor charcot and his pupils with the subjects in whom they have identified all the phenomena that confront the student of witch trials. [154] domanig, parzival-studien, i, ii, 1878-80. [155] san-marte, parzival-studien, i-iii, 1861-63. [156] some readers may be anxious to read wolfram's work to whom twelfth-century german would offer great difficulties. a few words on the translation into modern german may, therefore, not be out of place. san-marte's original translation (1839-41) is full of gross blunders and mistranslations, and, what is worse, of passages foisted into the text to support the translator's own interpretation of the poem as a whole. simrock's, which followed, is extremely close, but difficult and unpleasing. san marte's second edition, corrected from simrock, is a great advance upon the first; but even here the translator has too often allowed his own gloss to replace wolfram's statement. a thoroughly faithful yet pleasing rendering is a desideratum. [157] j. van santen, zur beurtheilung wolfram von eschenbach, wesel, 1882, has attacked wolfram for his acceptance of the morality of the day, and has, on that ground, denied him any ethical or philosophic merit. the pamphlet is useful for its references, but otherwise worthless. the fact that wolfram does accept _minnedienst_ only gives greater value to his picture of a nobler and purer ideal of love, whilst to refuse recognition of his other qualities on this account is much as who should deny dante's claim to be regarded as a teacher and thinker because of his acceptance of the hideous mediæval hell. [158] in the geheimnisse goethe shows some slight trace of the parzival legend, and the words in which the teaching of the poem are summed up: "von der gewalt, die alle wesen bindet, befreit _der_ mensch sich der sich überwindet," may be looked upon as an eighteenth century rendering of wolfram's conception. [159] we may here note an admirable example of the inevitable, spontaneous character of the growth of certain conceptions, especially of such as have been partly shaped by the folk-mind. there is nothing in wolfram or in the french romances to show that the fortunes of the loathly damsel (wagner's kundry) are in any way bound up with the success of the quest. but we have seen that the celtic folk-tales represent the loathly damsel as the real protagonist of the story. she cannot be freed unless the hero do his task. precisely the same situation as in wagner, who was thus led back to the primitive _donnée_, although he can only have known intermediary stages in which its signification had been quite lost. [160] _cf._ the reproaches addressed to potter thompson (_supra_, p. 198). that the visitor to the bespelled castle should be reproached, at once, for his failure to do as he ought, seems to be a feature of the earliest forms of the story. _cf._ campbell's three soldiers (_supra_, p. 196). if wolfram had another source than chrestien it was one which partook more of the unspelling than of the feud quest formula. hence the presence of the feature here. [161] in wolfram's work there is a much closer connection between the gawain quest and the remainder of the poem than in chrestien. orgueilleuse, to win whose love gawain accomplishes his feats, is a former love of amfortas, the grail king, who won for her a rich treasure and was wounded in her service. klinschor, too, the lord of the magic castle, is brought into contact with orgueilleuse, whom he helps against gramoflanz. it is difficult to say whether this testifies to an earlier or later stage of growth of the legend. the winning of orgueilleuse as the consequence of accomplishing the feat of the ford perillous and plucking the branch is strongly insisted upon by wolfram and not mentioned by chrestien, though it is possible he might have intended to wed the two had he finished his poem. in this respect, however, and taking these two works as they stand, wolfram's account seems decidedly the earlier. in another point, too, he seems to have preserved the older form. besides his kundrie la sorcière (the loathly damsel) he has a kundrie la belle, whom i take to be the loathly damsel released from the transforming spell. transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. passages in bold are indicated by =bold=. superscripted characters are indicated by {superscript}. originally written in old french, sometime in the early half of the 13th century a.d., as a continuation of chretien detroyes' unfinished work "perceval, or the knight of the grail". author unknown. translation by sebastian evans, 1898. the high history of the holy graal selected bibliography: original text-potvin, ch. (ed.): "perceval le gallois ou le conte du graal", vol. i (soc. bibl. belges., mons., 1866). recommended reading-anonymous (trans. p.m. matarasso): "the quest for the holy graal" (penguin classics, london, 1969). detroyes, chretien (trans. william w. kibler & carleton w. carroll): "arthurian romances" (penguin classics, london, 1991). contains the unfinished work "perceval". eschenbach, wolfram von (trans. a.t. hatto): "parzival" (penguin classics, london, 1980). malory, sir thomas (ed. janet cowen): "le morte d'arthur", vol. i & ii (penguin classics, london, 1969). ***************************************************************** introduction this book is translated from the first volume of "perceval le gallois ou le conte du graal"; edited by m. ch. potvin for 'la societe des bibliophiles belges' in 1866, (1) from the ms. numbered 11,145 in the library of the dukes of burgundy at brussels. this ms. i find thus described in m. f. j. marchal's catalogue of that priceless collection: '"le roman de saint graal", beginning "ores lestoires", in the french language; date, first third of the sixteenth century; with ornamental capitals.' (2) written three centuries later than the original romance, and full as it is of faults of the scribe, this manuscript is by far the most complete known copy of the "book of the graal" in existence, being defective only in branch xxi. titles 8 and 9, the substance of which is fortunately preserved elsewhere. large fragments, however, amounting in all to nearly one-seventh of the whole, of a copy in handwriting of the thirteenth century, are preserved in six consecutive leaves and one detached leaf bound up with a number of other works in a ms. numbered 113 in the city library at berne. the volume is in folio on vellum closely written in three columns to the page, and the seven leaves follow the last poem contained in it, entitled "duremart le gallois". the manuscript is well known, having been lent to m. de sainte palaye for use in the monuments of french history issued by the benedictines of the congregation of st maur. selections from the poems it contains are given in sinner's "extraits de poesie du xiii. siecle", (3) and it is described, unfortunately without any reference to these particular leaves, by the same learned librarian in the "catalogus codicum mss. bibl. bernensis", j.r. sinner. (4) m. potvin has carefully collated for his edition all that is preserved of the romance in this manuscript, comprising all the beginning of the work as far as branch iii. title 8, about the middle, and from branch xix. title 23, near the beginning, to branch xxx. title 5, in the middle. making allowance for variations of spelling and sundry minor differences of reading, by no means always in favour of the earlier scribe, the berne fragments are identical with the corresponding portions of the brussels manuscript, and it is therefore safe to assume that the latter is on the whole an accurate transcript of the entire original romance. the only note of time in the book itself is contained in the declaration at the end. from this it appears that it was written by order of the seingnor of cambrein for messire jehan the seingnor of neele. m. potvin, without giving any reason for so doing, assumes that this lord of cambrein is none other than the bishop of cambrai. if this assumption be correct, the person referred to was probably either john of berhune, who held the see from 1200 till july 27, 1219, or his successor godfrey of fontaines (conde), who held it till 1237. to me, however, it seems more likely that the personage intended was in reality the 'seingnor' of cambrin, the chef-lieu of a canton of the same name, on a small hill overlooking the peat-marshes of bethune, albeit i can find no other record of any such landed proprietor's existence. be this as it may, the messire jehan, seingnor of neele, can hardly be other than the john de nesle who was present at the battle of bouvines in 1214, and who in 1225 sold the lordship of bruges to joan of flanders. (5) these dates therefore may be regarded as defining that of the original romance within fairly narrow limits. this conclusion is confirmed by other evidence. an early welsh translation of the story was published with an english version and a glossary by the rev. robert williams in the first volume of his "selections from the hengwrt mss". (6) the first volume of this work is entitled "y seint greal, being the adventures of king arthur's knights of the round table, in the quest of the holy grail, and on other occasions. originally written about the year 1200". the volume, following the manuscript now in the library of w.w.e. wynne, esq., at peniarth, is divided into two parts. the first, fol. 1-109 of the manuscript, represents the thirteenth to the seventeenth book of sir thomas malory's "morte d'arthur". of the second, which represents the romance here translated, mr williams writes: "the second portion of the welsh greal, folios 110-280, contains the adventures of gwalchmei peredur and lancelot, and of the knights of the round table; but these are not found in the "morte d'arthur". the peniarth ms. is beautifully written on vellum, and in perfect preservation, and its date is that of henry vi., the early part of the fifteenth century. the orthography and style of writing agrees literally with that of the "mabinogion of the llyvr coch hergest", which is of that date. this, of course, is a transcript of an earlier copy; but there is no certainty when it was first translated into welsh, though aneurin owen in his "catalogue of the hengwrt mss." assigns it to the sixth year of henry i. it is mentioned by davydd ab gwilym, who died in 1368." whatever may be the date of the welsh version, the translator had no great mastery of french, and is often at fault as to the meaning both of words and sentences, and when in a difficulty is only too apt to cut the knot by omitting the passage bodily. the book itself, moreover, is not entire. on page 275, all between branch ix. title 16 and branch xi. title 2, twenty-two chapters in all, is missing. again, on page 355, titles 10-16 in branch xxi. are left out, while the whole of the last branch, containing 28 titles, is crumpled up into one little chapter, from which it would seem that the welshman had read the french, but thought it waste of pains to translate it. in all, not to speak of other defects, there are fifty-six whole chapters in the present book, of which there is not a word in the welsh. in one matter, however, mr williams' english translation has stood me in good stead. in branch xxi., as i have said, the french manuscript makes default of two titles, but almost the whole of their substance is supplied by the welsh version. by an unlucky accident, before the hiatus in the french is fully filled up, the welsh version itself becomes defective, though the gap thus left open can hardly extend beyond a very few words. without this supplement, incomplete as it is, it would have been impossible to give the full drift of one of the romancer's best stories, which is equally unintelligible in both the french and welsh texts in their present state. as the welsh version gives a number of names both of persons and places widely differing from those in the french, it may be useful here to note the principal changes made. perceval in the welsh is called peredur, which is said to mean "steel suit". the welshman, however, adds that the name in french is "peneffresvo galief", which, unless it be a misreading or miswriting for perceval le galois, is to me wholly unintelligible. perceval's father, alain li gros, is in the welsh earl evrawg, and his sister dindrane, danbrann. king arthur is emperor arthur, his queen guenievre, gwenhwyvar, and their son lohot, lohawt or llacheu. messire gawain is gwalchmei; chaus, son of ywain li aoutres, gawns, son of owein vrych; messire kay or kex is kei the long; ahuret the bastard, anores; ygerne, wife of uther pendragon, eigyr; queen jandree, landyr; and king fisherman for the most part king peleur. of places, cardoil is caerlleon on usk, pannenoisance, penvoisins; tintagel, tindagoyl; and avalon, avallach. by a double stroke of ill-luck, the complete and wholly independent romance here translated has thus been printed by its two former editors as if it were only a part of some other story. m. potvin describes it as the "first part, the romance in prose," of his "perceval le gallois", and mr williams accepts it as the "second portion" of his "y seint greal". this unhappy collocation has led not a few of m. potvin's readers to neglect his first part, under the impression that the story is retold in the other volumes containing the romance in verse; while not a few of mr williams' readers have neglected his second portion under the impression that there could be nothing of any special importance in an adjunct referred to by the editor in so perfunctory a manner. in very truth, however, the story of the holy graal here told is not only the most coherent and poetic of all the many versions of the legend, but is also the first and most authentic. this seems to be proved beyond doubt by a passage in the history of fulke fitz-warine, originally written apparently between the years 1256 and 1264. the passage occurs at the end of the history, and is printed in verse of which i give a literal prose translation: "merlin saith that in britain the great a wolf shall come from the white launde. twelve sharp teeth shall he have, six below and six above. he shall have so fierce a look that he shall chase the leopard forth of the white launde, so much force shall he have and great virtue. we now know that merlin said this for fulke the son of waryn, for each of you ought to understand of a surety how in the time of the king arthur that was called the white launde which is now named the white town. for in this country was the chapel of s. austin that was fair, where kahuz, the son of ywein, dreamed that he carried off the candlestick and that he met a man who hurt him with a knife and wounded him in the side. and he, on sleep, cried out so loud that king arthur hath heard him and awakened from sleep. and when kahuz was awake, he put his hand to his side. there hath he found the knife that had smitten him through. so telleth us the graal, the book of the holy vessel. there the king arthur recovered his bounty and his valour when he had lost all his chivalry and his virtue. from this country issued forth the wolf as saith merlin the wise, and the twelve sharp teeth have we known by his shield. he bore a shield indented as the heralds have devised. in the shield are twelve teeth of gules and argent. by the leopard may be known and well understood king john, for he bore in his shield the leopards of beaten gold." (7) the story of kahuz or chaus here indicated by the historian is told at length in the opening chapters of the present work and, so far as is known, nowhere else. the inference is therefore unavoidable that we have here "the graal, the book of the holy vessel" to which the biographer of fulke refers. the use, moreover, of the definite article shows that the writer held this book to be conclusive authority on the subject. by the time he retold the story of fulke, a whole library of romances about perceval and the holy graal had been written, with some of which it is hard to believe that any historian of the time was unacquainted. he nevertheless distinguishes this particular story as "the graal", a way of speaking he would scarce have adopted had he known of any other "graals" of equal or nearly equal authority. several years later, about 1280, the trouveur sarrazin also cites "the graal" ("li graaus") in the same manner, in superfluous verification of the then-accepted truism that king arthur was at one time lord of great britain. this appeal to "the graal" as the authority for a general belief shows that it was at that time recognised as a well-spring of authentic knowledge; while the fact that the trouveur was not confounding "the graal" with the later version of the story is further shown by his going on presently to speak of "the romance that chrestien telleth so fairly of perceval the adventures of the graal." (8) perhaps, however, the most striking testimony to the fact that this work is none other than the original "book of the graal" is to be found in the "chronicle of helinand", well known at the time the romance was written not only as a historian but as a troubadour at one time in high favour at the court of philip augustus, and in later years as one of the most ardent preachers of the albigensian crusade. the passage, a part of which has been often quoted, is inserted in the chronicle under the year 720, and runs in english thus: "at this time a certain marvellous vision was revealed by an angel to a certain hermit in britain concerning s. joseph, the decurion who deposed from the cross the body of our lord, as well as concerning the paten or dish in the which our lord supped with his disciples, whereof the history was written out by the said hermit and is called "of the graal" (de gradali). now, a platter, broad and somewhat deep, is called in french "gradalis" or "gradale", wherein costly meats with their sauce are wont to be set before rich folk by degrees ("gradatim") one morsel after another in divers orders, and in the vulgar speech it is called "graalz", for that it is grateful and acceptable to him that eateth therein, as well for that which containeth the victual, for that haply it is of silver or other precious material, as for the contents thereof, to wit, the manifold courses of costly meats. i have not been able to find this history written in latin, but it is in the possession of certain noblemen written in french only, nor, as they say, can it easily be found complete. this, however, i have not hitherto been able to obtain from any person so as to read it with attention. as soon as i can do so, i will translate into latin such passages as are more useful and more likely to be true." (9) a comparison of this passage with the introduction to the present work (10) leaves no doubt that helinand here refers to this "book of the graal", which cannot therefore be of a later date than that at which he made this entry in his "chronicle". at the same time, the difficulty he experienced in obtaining even the loan of the volume shows that the work had at that time been only lately written, as in the course of a few years, copies of a book so widely popular must have been comparatively common. the date, therefore, at which helinand's "chronicle" was written determines approximately that of the "book of the graal". in its present state, the "chronicle" comes to an end with a notice of the capture of constantinople by the french in 1204, and it has been hastily assumed that helinand's labours as a chronicler must have closed in that year. as a matter of fact they had not then even begun. at that time helinand was still a courtly troubadour, and had not yet entered on the monastic career during which his "chronicle" was compiled. he was certainly living as late as 1229, and preached a sermon, which assuredly shows no signs of mental decrepitude, in that year at a synod in toulouse. (11) fortunately a passage in the "speculum historiale" of vincent of beauvais, himself a younger contemporary and probably a personal acquaintance of helinand, throws considerable light on the real date of helinand's "chronicle". after recounting certain matters connected with the early years of the thirteenth century, the last date mentioned being 1209, vincent proceeds:- "in those times, in the diocese of beauvais, was helinand monk of froid-mont, a man religious and distinguished for his eloquence, who also composed those verses on death in our vulgar tongue which are publicly read, so elegantly and so usefully that the subject is laid open clearer than the light. he also diligently digested into a certain huge volume a chronicle from the beginning of the world down to his own time. but in truth this work was dissipated and dispersed in such sort that it is nowhere to be found entire. for it is reported that the said helinand lent certain sheets of the said work to one of his familiars, to wit, guarin, lord bishop of senlis of good memory, and thus, whether through forgetfulness or negligence or some other cause, lost them altogether. from this work, however, as far as i have been able to find it, i have inserted many passages in this work of mine own also." it will thus be seen that about 1209, helinand became a monk at froid-mont, and it is exceedingly improbable that any portion of his "chronicle" was written before that date. on the other hand, his 'familiar' guarin only became bishop of senlis in 1214, and died in 1227, (12) so that it is certain helinand wrote the last part of his "chronicle" not later than the last-mentioned year. the limits of time, therefore, between which the "chronicle" was written are clearly circumscribed; and if it is impossible to define the exact year in which this particular entry was made, it is not, i fancy, beyond the legitimate bounds of critical conjecture. on the first page of the romance, helinand read that an angel had appeared to a certain hermit in britain and revealed to him the history of the holy graal. in transferring the record of this event to his "chronicle", he was compelled by the exigencies of his system, which required the insertion of every event recorded under some particular year, to assign a date to the occurrence. a vague "five hundred years ago" would be likely to suggest itself as an appropriate time at which the occurrence might be supposed to have taken place; and if he were writing in 1220, the revelation to the hermit would thus naturally be relegated to the year 720, the year under which the entry actually appears. this, of course, is pure guesswork, but the fact remains that the "chronicle" was written in or about 1220, and the "book of the graal" not long before it. the name of the author is nowhere recorded. he may possibly be referred to in the "elucidation" prefixed to the rhymed version of "percival le gallois" under the name of "master blihis", but this vague and tantalising pseudonym affords no hint of his real identity. (13) whoever he may have been; i hope that i am not misled by a translator's natural partiality for the author he translates in assigning him a foremost rank among the masters of medieval prose romance. with these testimonies to its age and genuineness, i commend the "book of the graal" to all who love to read of king arthur and his knights of the table round. they will find here printed in english for the first time what i take to be in all good faith the original story of sir perceval and the holy graal, whole and incorrupt as it left the hands of its first author. --sebastian evans, coombe lea, bickley, kent endnotes: (1) 6 vols. 8vo. mons, 1866-1871. (2) marchal "cat.", 2 vols. brussels, 1842. vol i.p. 223. (3) lausanne, 1759. (4) 3 vols. 8vo. berne, 1770, etc. vol. ii., introduc. viii. and p. 389 et seq. (5) rigord. "chron." 196, p. 288. wm. le breton, "phil." xi. 547. see also birch-hirschfeld, "die gralsage", p. 143. (6) 2 vols. 8vo. london, richards, 1876-1892. (7) "l'histoire de foulkes fitz-warin". ed. f. michel, paris, 1840; p. 110. ed. t. wright (warton club), london, 1855; p. 179. ed. j. stevenson ("roll, pub. chron." of r. coggeshall), london, 1875; p. 412. the ms. containing the history (ms. reg. 12. c. xii.) was first privately printed for the late sir t. duffus hardy from a transcript by a. berbrugger. (8) "le roman de ham", in the appendix to f. michel's "histoire des ducs de normandie". soc. de l'hist. de france, 1840, pp. 225, 230. (9) helinandi op. ed. migne. "patrol." vol. ccxii. col. 814. the former part of the passage is quoted with due acknowledgment by vincent of beauvais, "spec. hist." b. xxiii. c. 147. vincent, however, spells the french word "grail", and, by turning helinand's "nec" into "nune", makes him say that the french work can now easily be found complete. vincent finished his "speculum historialz in 1244" b. xxi. c. 105. (10) vol. i. p. 1, etc. (11) sermon xxvi., printed in minge, u.s. col. 692. it has been doubted whether this sermon, preached in the church of s. jacques, was addressed to the council held at toulouse in 1219, or to the one held in 1229, but a perusal of the sermon itself decides the question. it is wholly irrelevant to the topics discussed at the former gathering, while it is one continued commentary on the business transacted at the latter. see also dom brial, "hist. litt. de la france", xviii. 92. (12) "de mas latrie. tres. de chron.", col. 1488. (13) cf. potvin, "p. le g." ii. 1 and 7, with vol. i. p. 131 and vol. ii. p. 112 of the present work (see also the proceedings of the "hon. soc. of cymmrodorion", 1908-9. ed.) the high history of the holy graal branch i. incipit. hear ye the history of the most holy vessel that is called graal, wherein the precious blood of the saviour was received on the day that he was put on rood and crucified in order that he might redeem his people from the pains of hell. josephus set it in remembrance by annunciation of the voice of an angel, for that the truth might be known by his writing of good knights, and good worshipful men how they were willing to suffer pain and to travail for the setting forward of the law of jesus christ, that he willed to make new by his death and by his crucifixion. title i. the high book of the graal beginneth in the name of the father and of the son and of the holy ghost. these three persons are one substance, which is god, and of god moveth the high story of the graal. and all they that hear it ought to understand it, and to forget all the wickednesses that they have in their hearts. for right profitable shall it be to all them that shall hear it of the heart. for the sake of the worshipful men and good knights of whose deeds shall remembrance be made, doth josephus recount this holy history, for the sake of the lineage of the good knight that was after the crucifixion of our lord. good knight was he without fail, for he was chaste and virgin of his body and hardy of heart and puissant, and so were his conditions without wickedness. not boastful was he of speech, and it seemed not by his cheer that he had so great courage; natheless, of one little word that he delayed to speak came to pass so sore mischances in greater britain, that all the islands and all the lands fell thereby into much sorrow, albeit thereafter he put them back into gladness by the authority of his good knighthood. good knight was he of right, for he was of the lineage of joseph of abarimacie. and this joseph was his mother's uncle, that had been a soldier of pilate's seven years, nor asked he of him none other guerdon of his service but only to take down the body of our saviour from hanging on the cross. the boon him seemed full great when it was granted him, and full little to pilate seemed the guerdon; for right well had joseph served him, and had he asked to have gold or land thereof, willingly would he have given it to him. and for this did pilate make him a gift of the saviour's body, for he supposed that joseph should have dragged the same shamefully through the city of jerusalem when it had been taken down from the cross, and should have left it without the city in some mean place. but the good soldier had no mind thereto, but rather honoured the body the most he might, rather laid it along in the holy sepulchre and kept safe the lance whereof he was smitten in the side and the most holy vessel wherein they that believed on him received with awe the blood that ran down from his wounds when he was set upon the rood. of this lineage was the good knight for whose sake is this high history treated. yglais was his mother's name: king fisherman was his uncle, and the king of the lower folk that was named pelles, and the king that was named of the castle mortal, in whom was there as much bad as there was good in the other twain, and much good was there in them; and these three were his uncles on the side of his mother yglais, that was a right good lady and a loyal; and the good knight had one sister, that hight dindrane. he that was head of the lineage on his father's side was named nichodemus. gais li gros of the hermit's cross was father of alain li gros. this alain had eleven brethren, right good knights, like as he was himself. and none of them all lived in his knighthood but twelve years, and they all died in arms for their great hardiment in setting forward of the law that was made new. there were twelve brethren. alain li gros was the eldest; gorgalians was next; bruns brandnils was the third; bertholez li chauz the fourth; brandalus of wales was the fifth; elinant of escavalon was the sixth; calobrutus was the seventh; meralis of the palace meadow was the eighth; fortunes of the red launde was ninth; melaarmaus of abanie was the tenth; galians of the white tower the eleventh; alibans of the waste city was the twelfth. all these died in arms in the service of the holy prophet that had renewed the law by his death, and smote his enemies to the uttermost of their power. of these two manner of folk, whose names and records you have heard, josephus the good clerk telleth us was come the good knight of whom you shall well hear the name and the manner presently. ii. the authority of the scripture telleth us that after the crucifixion of our lord, no earthly king set forward the law of jesus christ so much as did king arthur of britain, both by himself and by the good knights that made repair to his court. good king arthur after the crucifixion of our lord, was such as i tell you, and was a puissant king, and one that well believed in god, and many were the good adventures that befel at his court. and he had in his court the table round that was garnished of the best knights in the world. king arthur after the death of his father led the highest life and most gracious that ever king led, in such sort that all the princes and all the barons took ensample of him in well-doing. for ten years was king arthur in such estate as i have told you, nor never was earthly king so praised as he, until that a slothful will came upon him and he began to lose the pleasure in doing largesse that he wont to have, nor was he minded to hold court neither at christmas-tide nor at easter nor at pentecost. the knights of the table round when they saw his well-doing wax slack departed thence and began to hold aloof from his court, insomuch as that of three hundred and three-score knights and six that he wont to have of his household, there were now not more than a five-and-twenty at most, nor did no adventure befal any more at his court. all the other princes had slackened of their well-doing for that they saw king arthur maintain so feebly. queen guenievre was so sorrowful thereof that she knew not what counsel to take with herself, nor how she might so deal as to amend matters so god amended them not. from this time beginneth the history. iii. it was one ascension day that the king was at cardoil. he was risen from meat and went through the hall from one end to the other, and looked and saw the queen that was seated at a window. the king went to sit beside her, and looked at her in the face and saw that the tears were falling from her eyes. "lady," saith the king, "what aileth you, and wherefore do you weep?" "sir," saith she, "and i weep, good right have i; and you yourself have little right to make joy." "certes, lady, i do not." "sir," saith she, "you are right. i have seen on this high day, or on other days that were not less high than this, when you have had such throng of knights at your court that right uneath might any number them. now every day are so few therein that much shame have i thereof, nor no more do no adventures befal therein. wherefore great fear have i lest god hath put you into forgetfulness." "certes, lady," saith the king, "no will have i to do largesse nor aught that turneth to honour. rather is my desire changed into feebleness of heart. and by this know i well that i lose my knights and the love of my friends." "sir," saith the queen, "and were you to go to the chapel of s. augustine, that is in the white forest, that may not be found save by adventure only, methinketh that on your back-repair you would again have your desire of well-doing, for never yet did none discounselled ask counsel of god but he would give it for love of him so he asked it of a good heart." "lady," saith the king, "and willingly will i go, forasmuch as that you say have i heard well witnessed in many places where i have been." "sir," saith she, "the place is right perilous and the chapel right adventurous. but the most worshipful hermit that is in the kingdom of wales hath his dwelling beside the chapel, nor liveth he now any longer for nought save only the glory of god." "lady," saith the king, "it will behove me go thither all armed and without knights." "sir," saith she, "you may well take with you one knight and a squire." "lady," saith the king, "that durst not i, for the place is perilous, and the more folk one should take thither, the fewer adventures there should he find." "sir," saith she, "one squire shall you take by my good will nor shall nought betide you thereof save good only, please god!" "lady," saith the king, "at your pleasure be it, but much dread i that nought shall come of it save evil only." thereupon the king riseth up from beside the queen, and looketh before him and seeth a youth tall and strong and comely and young, that was hight chaus, and he was the son of ywain li aoutres. "lady," saith he to the queen, "this one will i take with me and you think well." "sir," saith she, "it pleaseth me well, for i have heard much witness to his valour." the king calleth the squire, and he cometh and kneeleth down before him. the king maketh him rise and saith unto him, "chaus," saith he, "you shall lie within to-night, in this hall, and take heed that my horse be saddled at break of day and mine arms ready. for i would be moving at the time i tell you, and yourself with me without more company." "sir," saith the squire, "at your pleasure." and the evening drew on, and the king and queen go to bed. when they had eaten in hall, the knights went to their hostels. the squire remained in the hall, but he would not do off his clothes nor his shoon, for the night seemed him to be too short, and for that he would fain be ready in the morning at the king's commandment. the squire was lying down in such sort as i have told you, and in the first sleep that he slept, seemed him the king had gone without him. the squire was sore scared thereat, and came to his hackney and set the saddle and bridle upon him, and did on his spurs and girt on his sword, as it seemed him in his sleep, and issued forth of the castle a great pace after the king. and when he had ridden a long space he entered into a great forest and looked in the way before him and saw the slot of the king's horse and followed the track a long space, until that he came to a launde of the forest whereat he thought that the king had alighted. the squire thought that the hoof-marks on the way had come to an end and so thought that the king had alighted there or hard by there. he looketh to the right hand and seeth a chapel in the midst of the launde, and he seeth about it a great graveyard wherein were many coffins, as it seemed him. he thought in his heart that he would go towards the chapel, for he supposed that the king would have entered to pray there. he went thitherward and alighted. when the squire was alighted, he tied up his hackney and entered into the chapel. none did he see there in one part nor another, save a knight that lay dead in the midst of the chapel upon a bier, and he was covered of a rich cloth of silk, and had around him waxen tapers burning that were fixed in four candlesticks of gold. this squire marvelled much how this body was left there so lonely, insomuch that none were about him save only the images, and yet more marvelled he of the king that he found him not, for he knew not in what part to seek him. he taketh out one of the tall tapers, and layeth hand on the golden candlestick, and setteth it betwixt his hose and his thigh and issueth forth of the chapel, and remounteth on his hackney and goeth his way back and passeth beyond the grave-yard and issueth forth of the launde and entereth into the forest and thinketh that he will not cease until he hath found the king. iv. so, as he entereth into a grassy lane in the wood, he seeth come before him a man black and foul-favoured, and he was somewhat taller afoot than was himself a-horseback. and he held a great sharp knife in his hand with two edges as it seemed him. the squire cometh over against him a great pace and saith unto him, "you, that come there, have you met king arthur in this forest?" "in no wise," saith the messenger, "but you have i met, whereof am i right glad at heart, for you have departed from the chapel as a thief and a traitor. for you are carrying off thence the candlestick of gold that was in honour of the knight that lieth in the chapel dead. wherefore i will that you yield it up to me and so will i carry it back, otherwise, and you do not this, you do i defy!" "by my faith," saith the squire, "never will i yield it you! rather will i carry it off and make a present thereof to king arthur." "by my faith," saith the other, "right dearly shall you pay for it, and you yield it not up forthwith." howbeit, the squire smiteth with his spurs and thinketh to pass him by, but the other hasteth him, and smiteth the squire in the left side with the knife and thrusteth it into his body up to the haft. the squire, that lay in the hall at cardoil, and had dreamed this, awoke and cried in a loud voice: "holy mary! the priest! help! help, for i am a dead man!" the king and the queen heard the cry, and the chamberlain leapt up and said to the king: "sir, you may well be moving, for it is day!" the king made him be clad and shod. and the squire crieth with such strength as he hath: "fetch me the priest, for i die!" the king goeth thither as fast as he may, and the queen and the chamberlain carry great torches and candles. the king asketh him what aileth him, and he telleth him all in such wise as he had dreamed it. "ha," saith the king, "is it then a dream?" "yea, sir," saith he, "but a right foul dream it is for me, for right foully hath it come true!" he lifted his left arm. "sir," saith he, "look you there! lo, here is the knife that was run into my side up to the haft!" after that, he setteth his hand to his hose where the candlestick was. he draweth it forth and showeth it to the king. "sir," saith he, "for this candlestick that i present to you, am i wounded to the death!" the king taketh the candlestick, and looketh thereat in wonderment for none so rich had he never seen tofore. the king showeth it to the queen. "sir," saith the squire, "draw not forth the knife of my body until that i be shriven." the king sent for one of his own chaplains that made the squire confess and do his houselling right well. the king himself draweth forth the knife of the body, and the soul departed forthwith. the king made do his service right richly and his shrouding and burial. ywain li aoutres that was father to the squire was right sorrowful of the death of his son. king arthur, with the good will of ywain his father, gave the candlestick to s. paul in london, for the church was newly founded, and the king wished that this marvellous adventure should everywhere be known, and that prayer should be made in the church for the soul of the squire that was slain on account of the candlestick. v. king arthur armed himself in the morning, as i told you and began to tell, to go to the chapel of s. augustine. said the queen to him. "whom will you take with you?" "lady," saith he, "no company will i have thither, save god only, for well may you understand by this adventure that hath befallen, that god will not allow i should have none with me." "sir," saith she, "god be guard of your body, and grant you return safely so as that you may have the will to do well, whereby shall your praise be lifted up that is now sore cast down." "lady," saith he, "may god remember it." his destrier was brought to the mounting-stage, and the king mounted thereon all armed. messire ywain li aoutres lent him his shield and spear. when the king had hung the shield at his neck and held the spear in his hand, sword-girt, on the tall destrier armed, well seemed he in the make of his body and in his bearing to be a knight of great pith and hardiment. he planteth himself so stiffly in the stirrups that he maketh the saddlebows creak again and the destrier stagger under him that was right stout and swift, and he smiteth him of his spurs, and the horse maketh answer with a great leap. the queen was at the windows of the hall, and as many as five-and-twenty knights were all come to the mounting-stage. when the king departed, "lords," saith the queen, "how seemeth you of the king? seemeth he not a goodly man?" "yea, certes, lady, and sore loss is it to the world that he followeth not out his good beginning, for no king nor prince is known better learned of all courtesy nor of all largesse than he, so he would do like as he was wont." with that the knights hold their peace, and king arthur goeth away a great pace. and he entereth into a great forest adventurous, and rideth the day long until he cometh about evensong into the thick of the forest. and he espied a little house beside a little chapel, and it well seemed him to be a hermitage. king arthur rode thitherward and alighteth before this little house, and entereth thereinto and draweth his horse after him, that had much pains to enter in at the door, and laid his spear down on the ground and leant his shield against the wall, and hath ungirded his sword and unlaced his ventail. he looked before him and saw barley and provender, and so led his horse thither and smote off his bridle, and afterwards hath shut the door of the little house and locked it. and it seemed him that there was a strife in the chapel. the ones were weeping so tenderly and sweetly as it were angels, and the other spake so harshly as it were fiends. the king heard such voices in the chapel and marvelled much what it might be. he findeth a door in the little house that openeth on a little cloister whereby one goeth to the chapel. the king is gone thither and entereth into the little minster, and looketh everywhere but seeth nought there, save the images and the crucifixes. and he supposeth not that the strife of these voices cometh of them. the voices ceased as soon as he was within. he marvelleth how it came that this house and hermitage were solitary, and what had become of the hermit that dwelt therein. he drew nigh the altar of the chapel and beheld in front thereof a coffin all discovered, and he saw the hermit lying therein all clad in his vestments, and seeth the long beard down to his girdle, and his hands crossed upon his breast. there was a cross above him, whereof the image came as far as his mouth, and he had life in him yet, but he was nigh his end, being at the point of death. the king was before the coffin a long space, and looked right fainly on the hermit, for well it seemed him that he had been of a good life. the night was fully come, but within was a brightness of light as if a score of candles were lighted. he had a mind to abide there until that the good man should have passed away. he would fain have sate him down before the coffin, when a voice warned him right horribly to begone thence, for that it was desired to make a judgment within there, that might not be made so long as he were there. the king departed, that would willingly have remained there, and so returned back into the little house, and sate him down on a seat whereon the hermit wont to sir. and he heareth the strife and the noise begin again within the chapel, and the ones he heareth speaking high and the others low, and he knoweth well by the voices, that the ones are angels and the others devils. and he heareth that the devils are distraining on the hermit's soul, and that judgment will presently be given in their favour, whereof make they great joy. king arthur is grieved in his heart when he heareth that the angels' voices are stilled. the king is so heavy, that no desire hath he neither to eat nor to drink. and while he sitteth thus, stooping his head toward the ground, full of vexation and discontent, he heareth in the chapel the voice of a lady that spake so sweet and clear, that no man in this earthly world, were his grief and heaviness never so sore, but and he had heard the sweet voice of her pleading would again have been in joy. she saith to the devils: "begone from hence, for no right have ye over the soul of this good man, whatsoever he may have done aforetime, for in my son's service and mine own is he taken, and his penance hath he done in this hermitage of the sins that he hath done." "true, lady," say the devils, "but longer had he served us than he hath served you and your son. for forty years or more hath he been a murderer and robber in this forest, whereas in this hermitage but five years hath he been. and now you wish to thieve him from us." "i do not. no wish have i to take him from you by theft, for had he been taken in your service in suchwise as he hath been taken in mine, yours would he have been, all quit." the devils go their way all discomfit and aggrieved; and the sweet mother of our lord god taketh the soul of the hermit, that was departed of his body, and so commendeth it to the angels and archangels that they make present thereof to her dear son in paradise. and the angels take it and begin to sing for joy "te deum laudamus". and the holy lady leadeth them and goeth her way along with them. josephus maketh remembrance of this history and telleth us that this worthy man was named calixtus. vi. king arthur was in the little house beside the chapel, and had heard the voice of the sweet mother of god and the angels. great joy had he, and was right glad of the good man's soul that was borne thence into paradise. the king had slept right little the night and was all armed. he saw the day break clear and fair, and goeth his way toward the chapel to cry god mercy, thinking to find the coffin discovered there where the hermit lay; but so did he not! rather, was it covered of the richest tomb-stone that any might ever see, and had on the top a red cross, and seemed it that the chapel was all incensed. when the king had made his orison therein, he cometh back again and setteth on his bridle and saddle and mounteth, and taketh his shield and spear and departeth from the little house and entereth into the forest and rideth a great pace, until he cometh at right hour of tierce to one of the fairest laundes that ever a man might see. and he seeth at the entrance a spear set bar-wise, and looketh to the right or ever he should enter therein, and seeth a damsel sitting under a great leafy tree, and she held the reins of her mule in her hand. the damsel was of great beauty and full seemly clad. the king turneth thitherward and so saluteth her and saith: "damsel," saith he, "god give you joy and good adventure." "sir," saith she, "so may he do to you!" "damsel," saith the king, "is there no hold in this launde?" "sir," saith the damsel, "no hold is there save a most holy chapel and a hermit that is beside s. augustine's chapel." "is this then s. augustine's chapel?" saith the king. "yea, sir, i tell it you for true, but the launde and the forest about is so perilous that no knight returneth thence but he be dead or wounded; but the place of the chapel is of so great worthiness that none goeth thither, be he never so discounselled, but he cometh back counselled, so he may thence return on live. and lord god be guard of your body, for never yet saw i none aforetime that seemed more like to be good knight, and sore pity would it be and you were not, and never more shall i depart me hence and i shall have seen your end." "damsel," saith the king, "please god, you shall see me repair back thence." "certes," saith the damsel, "thereof should i be! right fain, for then should i ask you tidings at leisure of him that i am seeking." the king goeth to the bar whereby one entereth into the launde, and looketh to the right into a combe of the forest and seeth the chapel of s. augustine and the right fair hermitage. thitherward goeth he and alighteth, and it seemeth him that the hermit is apparelled to sing the mass. he reineth up his horse to the bough of a tree by the side of the chapel and thinketh to enter thereinto, but, had it been to conquer all the kingdoms of the world, thereinto might he not enter, albeit there was none made him denial thereof, for the door was open and none saw he that might forbid him. sore ashamed is the king thereof. howbeit, he beholdeth an image of our lord that was there within and crieth him of mercy right sweetly, and looketh toward the altar. and he looketh at the holy hermit that was robed to sing mass and said his "confiteor", and seeth at his right hand the fairest child that ever he had seen, and he was clad in an alb and had a golden crown on his head loaded with precious stones that gave out a full great brightness of light. on the left hand side, was a lady so fair that all the beauties of the world might not compare them with her beauty. when the holy hermit had said his "confiteor" and went to the altar, the lady also took her son and went to sit on the right hand side towards the altar upon a right rich chair and set her son upon her knees and began to kiss him full sweetly and saith: "sir," saith she, "you are my father and my son and my lord, and guardian of me and of all the world." king arthur heareth the words and seeth the beauty of the lady and of the child, and marvelleth much of this that she should call him her father and her son. he looketh at a window behind the altar and seeth a flame come through at the very instant that mass was begun, clearer than any ray of sun nor moon nor star, and evermore it threw forth a brightness of light such that and all the lights in the world had been together it would not have been the like. and it is come down upon the altar. king arthur seeth it who marvelleth him much thereof. but sore it irketh him of this that he may not enter therewithin, and he heareth, there where the holy hermit was singing the mass, right fair responses, and they seem him to be the responses of angels. and when the holy gospel was read, king arthur looked toward the altar and saw that the lady took her child and offered him into the hands of the holy hermit, but of this king arthur made much marvel, that the holy hermit washed not his hands when he had received the offering. right sore did king arthur marvel him thereof, but little right would he have had to marvel had he known the reason. and when the child was offered him, he set him upon the altar and thereafter began his sacrament. and king arthur set him on his knees before the chapel and began to pray to god and to beat his breast. and he looked toward the altar after the preface, and it seemed him that the holy hermit held between his hands a man bleeding from his side and in his palms and in his feet, and crowned with thorns, and he seeth him in his own figure. and when he had looked on him so long and knoweth not what is become of him, the king hath pity of him in his heart of this that he had seen, and the tears of his heart come into his eyes. and he looketh toward the altar and thinketh to see the figure of the man, and seeth that it is changed into the shape of the child that he had seen tofore. vii. when the mass was sung, the voice of a holy angel said "ite, missa est". the son took the mother by the hand, and they evanished forth of the chapel with the greatest company and the fairest that might ever be seen. the flame that was come down through the window went away with this company. when the hermit had done his service and was divested of the arms of god, he went to king arthur that was still without the chapel. "sir," saith he to the king, "now may you well enter herein and well might you have been joyous in your heart had you deserved so much as that you might have come in at the beginning of the mass." king arthur entered into the chapel without any hindrance. "sir," saith the hermit to the king, "i know you well, as did i also king uther pendragon your father. on account of your sins and your deserts might you not enter here while mass was being sung. nor will you to-morrow, save you shall first have made amends of that you have misdone towards god and towards the saint that is worshipped herewithin. for you are the richest king of the world and the most adventurous, wherefore ought all the world to take ensample of you in well-doing and in largesse and in honour; whereas you are now an ensample of evil-doing to all rich worshipful men that be now in the world. wherefore shall right sore mishap betide you and you set nor back your doing to the point whereat you began. for your court was the sovran of all courts and the most adventurous, whereas now is it least of worth. well may he be sorry that goeth from honour to shame, but never may he have reproach that shall do him ill, that cometh from shame to honour, for the honour wherein he is found rescueth him to god, but blame may never rescue the man that hath renounced honour for shame, for the shame and wickedness wherein he is found declare him guilty." viii. "sir," saith king arthur, "to amend me have i come hither, and to be better counselled than i have been. well do i see that the place is most holy, and i beseech you that you pray god that he counsel me and i will do my endeavour herein to amend me." "god grant you may amend your life," saith the holy hermit, "in such sort that you may help to do away the evil law and to exalt the law that is made new by the crucifixion of the holy prophet. but a great sorrow is befallen in the land of late through a young knight that was harboured in the hostel of the rich king fisherman, for that the most holy graal appeared to him and the lance whereof the point runneth of blood, yet never asked he to whom was served thereof nor whence it came, and for that he asked it not are all the lands commoved to war, nor no knight meeteth other in the forest but he runneth upon him and slayeth him and he may, and you yourself shall well perceive thereof or ever you shall depart of this launde." "sir," saith king arthur, "god defend me from the anguish of an evil death and from wickedness, for hither have i come for none other thing but to amend my life, and this will i do, so god bring me back in safety." "truly," saith the hermit, "he that hath been bad for three years out of forty, he hath not been wholly good." "sir," saith the king, "you speak truth." the hermit departeth and so commendeth him to god. the king cometh to his horse and mounteth the speediest that ever he may, and setteth his shield on his neck, and taketh his spear in his hand and turneth him back a great pace. howbeit, he had not gone a bowshot's length when he saw a knight coming disorderly against him, and he sate upon a great black horse and he had a shield of the same and a spear. and the spear was somewhat thick near the point and burned with a great flame, foul and hideous, and the flame came down as far as over the knight's fist. he setteth his spear in rest and thinketh to smite the king, but the king swerveth aside and the other passeth beyond. "sir knight, wherefor hate you me?" "of right ought i not to love you," saith the knight. "wherefore?" saith the king. "for this, that you have had my brother's candlestick that was foully stolen from him!" "know you then who i am?" saith the king. "yea," saith the knight; "you are the king arthur that aforetime were good and now are evil. wherefore i defy you as my mortal enemy." he draweth him back so that his onset may be the weightier. the king seeth that he may not depart without a stour. he setteth his spear in rest when he seeth the other come towards him with his own spear all burning. the king smiteth his horse with his spurs as hard as he may, and meeteth the knight with his spear and the knight him. and they melled together so stoutly that the spears bent without breaking, and both twain are shifted in their saddles and lose their stirrups. they hurtle so strongly either against other of their bodies and their horses that their eyes sparkle as of stars in their heads and the blood rayeth out of king arthur by mouth and nose. either draweth away from other and they take their breath. the king looketh at the black knight's spear that burneth, and marvelleth him right sore that it is not snapped in flinders of the great buffet he had received thereof, and him thinketh rather that it is a devil and a fiend. the black knight is not minded to let king arthur go so soon, but rather cometh toward him a great career. the king seeth him come toward him and so covereth him of his shield for fear of the flame. the king receiveth him on the point of his spear and smiteth him with so sore a shock that he maketh him bend backward over his horse croup. the other, that was of great might, leapeth back into the saddle-bows and smiteth the king upon the boss of his shield so that the burning point pierceth the shield and the sleeve of his habergeon and runneth the sharp iron into his arm. the king feeleth the wound and the heat, whereof is he filled with great wrath, and the knight draweth back his spear to him, and hath great joy at heart when he feeleth the king wounded. the king was rejoiced not a whit, and looked at the spear that was quenched thereof and burned no longer. "sir," saith the knight, "i cry you mercy. never would my spear have been quenched of its burning, save it were bathed in your blood." "now may never god help me," saith king arthur, "whenever i shall have mercy on you, and i may achieve!" he pricketh towards him a great run, and smiteth him in the broad of the breast and thrusted his spear half an ell into his body, and beareth him to the ground, both him and his horse all in a heap, and draweth his spear back to him and looketh at the knight that lay as dead and leaveth him in the launde, and draweth him towards the issue incontinent. and so as the king went, he heard a great clashing of knights coming right amidst the forest, so as it seemed there were a good score or more of them, and he seeth them enter the launde from the forest, armed and well horsed. and they come with great ado toward the knight that lay dead in the midst of the launde. king arthur was about to issue forth, when the damsel that he had left under the tree cometh forward to meet him. "sir," saith she, "for god's sake, return back and fetch me the head of the knight that lieth there dead." the king looketh back, and seeth the great peril and the multitude of knights that are there all armed. "ha, damsel," saith he, "you are minded to slay me." "certes, sir, that i am not, but sore need will there be that i should have it, nor never did knight refuse to do the thing i asked nor deny me any boon i demanded of him. now god grant you be not the most churlish." "ha, damsel, i am right sore wounded in the arm whereon i hold my shield." "sir," saith she, "i know it well, nor never may you be heal thereof save you bring me the head of the knight." "damsel," he saith, "i will essay it whatsoever may befal me thereof." ix. king arthur looketh amidst the launde and seeth that they that have come thither have cut the knight to pieces limb by limb, and that each is carrying off a foot or a thigh or an arm or a hand and are dispersing them through the forest. and he seeth that the last knight beareth on the point of his spear the head. the king goeth after him a great gallop and crieth out to him: "ha, sir knight, abide and speak to me!" "what is your pleasure?" saith the knight. "fair sir," saith the king, "i beseech you of all loves that you deign to give me the head of this knight that you are carrying on the point of your lance." "i will give it you," saith the knight, "on condition." "what condition?" saith the king. "that you tell me who slew the knight whose head i carry that you ask of me." "may i not otherwise have it?" saith the king. "in no wise," saith he. "then will i tell you," saith the king. "know of a very truth that king arthur slew him." "and where is he?" saith the knight. "seek him until you shall have found him," saith king arthur, "for i have told you the truth thereof. give me the head." "willingly," saith the knight. he lowereth his spear and the king taketh the head. the knight had a horn at his neck. he setteth it to his mouth and soundeth a blast right loud. the knights that were set within the forest hear the horn and return back a great gallop, and king arthur goeth his way toward the oak-tree at the issue of the launde where the damsel is awaiting him. and the knights come presently to him that had given the head to the king and ask him wherefore he hath sounded the horn. "for this," saith he, "that this knight that is going away yonder hath told me that king arthur slew the black knight, and i was minded you should know it that we may follow him." "we will not follow him," say the knights, "for it is king arthur himself that is carrying off the head, and no power have we to do evil to him nor other sith that he hath passed the bar. but you shall aby it that let him go when he was so nigh you!" they rush in upon him and slay him and cut him up, and each one carrieth off his piece the same as they had done with the other. king arthur is issued forth of the bar, and cometh to the maiden that is waiting for him and presenteth her the head. "sir," saith the damsel, "gramercy." "damsel," saith he, "with a good will!" "sir," saith the damsel, "you may well alight, for nought have you to fear on this side the bar." with that, the king alighteth. "sir," saith she, "do off your habergeon heedfully and i will bind up the wound in your arm, for of none may you be made whole save of me only." the king doeth off his habergeon, and the damsel taketh of the blood of the knight's head that still ran all warm, and therewith washeth king arthur his wound, and thereafter maketh him do on his habergeon again. "sir," saith she, "never would you have been whole save by the blood of this black knight. and for this carried they off the body piecemeal and the head, for that they well knew you were wounded; and of the head shall i have right sore need, for thereby shall a castle be yielded up to me that was reft from me by treason, so i may find the knight that i go seek, through whom it ought to be yielded up to me." "damsel," saith the king, "and who is the knight?" "sir," saith she, "he was the son of alain li gros of the valleys of camelot, and is named perlesvax." "wherefore perlesvax?" saith the king. "sir," saith she, "when he was born, his father was asked how he should be named in right baptism, and he said that he would he should have the name perlesvax, for the lord of the moors had reft him of the greater part of the valleys of camelot, and therefore he would that his son should by this name be reminded thereof, and god should so multiply him as that he should be knight. the lad was right comely and right gentle and began to go by the forests and launch his javelins, welsh-fashion, at hart and hind. his father and his mother loved him much, and one day they were come forth of their hold, whereunto the forest was close anigh, to enjoy them. now, there was between the hold and the forest, an exceeding small chapel that stood upon four columns of marble; and it was roofed of timber and had a little altar within, and before the altar a right fair coffin, and thereupon was the figure of a man graven. sir," saith the damsel to the king, "the lad asked his father and mother what man lay within the coffin. the father answered: 'fair son,' saith he, 'certes, i know not to tell you, for the tomb hath been here or ever that my father's father was born, and never have i heard tell of none that might know who it is therein, save only that the letters that are on the coffin say that when the best knight in the world shall come hither the coffin will open and the joinings all fall asunder, and then will it be seen who it is that lieth therein.'" x. "damsel," saith the king, "have many knights passed thereby sithence that the coffin was set there?" "yea, sir, so many that neither i nor none other may tell the number. yet natheless hath not the coffin removed itself for none. when the lad heareth his father and mother talking thus, he asketh what a knight may be? 'fair son,' saith his mother, 'of right ought you well to know by your lineage.' she telleth the lad that he had eleven uncles on his father's side that had all been slain in arms, and not one of them lived knight but twelve years. sir," saith she to the king, "the lad made answer that this was nor that he had asked, but how knights were made? and the father answered that they were such as had more valour than any other in the world. after that he said, 'fair son, they are clad in habergeons of iron to protect their bodies, and helms laced upon their heads, and shields and spears and swords girded wherewithal to defend their bodies.'" xi. "sir," saith the damsel to the king, "when that the father had thus spoken to the lad, they returned together to the castle. when the morrow morning came, the lad arose and heard the birds sing and bethought him that he would go for disport into the forest for the day sith that it was fair. so he mounted on one of his father's horses of the chase and carried his javelins welshman-fashion and went into the forest and found a stag and followed him a good four leagues welsh, until that he came into a launde and found two knights all armed that were there doing battle, and the one had a red shield and the other a white. he left of tracking the stag to look on at the melly and saw that the red knight was conquering the white. he launched one of his javelins at the red knight so hard that he pierced his habergeon and made it pass through the heart. the knight fell dead. "sir," saith the damsel, "the knight of the white shield made great joy thereof, and the lad asked him, 'were knights so easy to slay? methought,' saith the lad, 'that none might never pierce nor damage a knight's armour, otherwise would i not have run him through with my javelin,' saith the lad. sir, the lad brought the destrier home to his father and mother, and right grieved were they when they heard the tidings of the knight he had slain. and right were they, for thereof did sore trouble come to them thereafter. sir, the squire departed from the house of his father and mother and came to the court of king arthur. right gladly did the king make him knight when he knew his will, and afterward he departed from the land and went to seek adventure in every kingdom. now is he the best knight that is in the world. so go i to seek him, and full great joy shall i have at heart and i may find him. sir, and you should meet him by any adventure in any of these forests, he beareth a red shield with a white hart. and so tell him that his father is dead, and that his mother will lose all her land so he come not to succour her; and that the brother of the knight of the red shield that he slew in the forest with his javelin warreth upon her with the lord of the moors." "damsel," saith the king, "and god grant me to meet him, right fain shall i be thereof, and right well will i set forth your message." "sir," saith she, "now that i have told you him that i seek, it is your turn to tell me your name." "damsel," saith the king, "willingly. they that know me call me arthur." "arthur? have you indeed such name?" "yea, damsel," saith he. "so help me god," saith she, "now am i sorrier for you than tofore, for you have the name of the worst king in the world, and i would that he were here in such sort as you are now. but never again will he move from cardoil, do what he may, such dread hath the queen lest any should take him from her, according as i have heard witness, for never saw i neither the one nor the other. i was moved to go to his court, but i have met full a score knights one after other, of whom i asked concerning him, and one told me the same tale as another, for each told me that the court of king arthur is the vilest in the world, and that all the knights of the table round have renounced it for the badness thereof." "damsel," saith the king, "hereof may he well be sorry, but at the beginning i have heard say he did right well." "and who careth," saith the damsel, "for his good beginning when the end is bad? and much it misliketh me that so seemly knight and so worshipful man as are you should have the name of so evil a king." "damsel," saith the king, "a man is not good by his name, but by his heart." "you say true," saith the damsel, "but for the king's name have i despite of yours. and whitherward are you going?" "i shall go to cardoil, where i shall find king arthur when i shall come thither." "go to, then, and bestir!" saith she. "one bad man with another! no better hope have i of you, sith that you go thither!" "damsel, you may say your pleasure, for thither i go! god be with you!" "and may never god guide you," saith she, "and you go the court of king arthur!" xii. with that the king mounted again and departed, and left the damsel under the tree and entered into the deep forest and rode with much ado as fast as he might to come to cardoil. and he had ridden a good ten leagues welsh when he heard a voice in the thick of the forest that began to cry aloud: "king arthur of great britain, right glad at heart mayst thou be of this that god hath sent me hither unto thee. and so he biddeth thee that thou hold court at the earliest thou mayst, for the world, that is now made worse of thee and of thy slackness in well-doing, shall thereof be greatly amended!" with that the voice is silent, and the king was right joyous in his heart of that he had heard. the story speaketh no more here of other adventure that befel king arthur in his returning nor on his arriving. anyway, he hath ridden so long that he is come back to cardoil. the queen and the knights made great feast of him and great joy. the king was alighted on the mounting-stage and went up into the hall and made him be disarmed. and he showed the queen the wound that he had on his arm, that had been right great and painful, but it was healing full fairly. the king goeth into the chamber and the queen with him, and doeth the king be apparelled in a robe of cloth of silk all furred of ermine, with coat, surcoat and mantle. "sir," saith the queen, "sore pain and travail have you had." "lady, in such wise behoveth worshipful man to suffer in order that he may have honour, for hardly shall none without travail come to honour." he recounteth to the queen all the adventures that have befallen him sithence that he was departed, and in what manner he was wounded in the arm, and of the damsel that had so blamed him of his name. "sir," saith the queen, "now may you well know how meet it is that a man high and rich and puissant should have great shame of himself when he becometh evil." "lady," saith the king, "so much did the damsel do me well to wot, but greatly did a voice recomfort me that i heard in the forest, for it told me that god bade me hold court presently, and that i shall see there the fairest adventure befal that ever i may see." "sir," saith she, "right joyous ought you to be that your saviour hath had you in remembrance. now, therefore, fulfil his commandment." "certes, lady, so will i do. for never had none better desire of well-doing than have i as at this time, nor of honour nor of largesse." "sir," saith she, "god be praised thereof." branch ii. now beginneth here the second branch of the holy graal the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost. title i king arthur was at cardoil with the queen and right few knights. by god's pleasure, the wish and the will had come back to him to win honour and to do largesse as most he might. he made seal his letters and sent them throughout all his lands and all the islands, and gave notice to the barons and knights that he would hold court at pannenoisance, that is situate the sea of wales, at the feast of s. john after whitsuntide. and he was minded to put it off until that day, for that suntide was already too nigh, and they that should be thereat might not all come by the earlier day. the tidings went through all lands, so that knights come in great plenty thereunto, for well-doing had so waxed feeble in all the kingdoms, that every one had avoided king arthur as one that should do nought more for ever. wherefore all began now to marvel whence his new desire had come. the knights of the table round that were scattered through the lands and the forests, by god's will learnt the tidings and right great joy had they thereof, and came back to the court with great ado. but neither messire gawain nor lancelot came thither on that day. but all the other came that were then on live. s. john's day came, and the knights were come from all parts, marvelling much that the king had not held the court at whitsuntide, but they knew not the occasion thereof. the day was fair and clear and the air fresh, and the hall was wide and high and garnished of good knights in great plenty. the cloths were spread on the tables whereof were great plenty in the hall. the king and the queen had washen and went to sit at the head of one table and the other knights sate them down, whereof were full five score and five as the story telleth. kay the seneschal and messire ywain the son of king urien served that day at the tables at meat, and five-and-twenty knights beside. and lucan the butler served the golden cup before the king. the sun shone through the windows everywhere amidst the hall that was strown of flowers and rushes and sweet herbs and gave out a smell like as had it been sprinkled of balm. and straightway after the first meat had been served, and while they were yet awaiting the second, behold you three damsels where they enter into the hall! she that came first sate upon a mule white as driven snow and had a golden bridle and a saddle with a bow of ivory banded with precious stones and a saddle-cloth of a red samite dropped of gold. the damsel that was seated on the mule was right seemly of body but scarce so fair of face, and she was robed in a rich cloth of silk and gold and had a right rich hat that covered all her head. and it was all loaded of costly stones that flamed like fire. and great need had she that her head were covered, for she was all bald without hair, and carried on her neck her right arm slung in a stole of cloth of gold. and her arm lay on a pillow, the richest that ever might be seen, and it was all charged of little golden bells, and in this hand held she the head of a king sealed in silver and crowned with gold. the other damsel that came behind rode after the fashion of a squire, and carried a pack trussed behind her with a brachet thereupon, and at her neck she bore a shield banded argent and azure with a red cross, and the boss was of gold all set with precious stones. the third damsel came afoot with her kirtle tucked up like a running footman; and she had in her hand a whip wherewith she drove the two steeds. each of these twain was fairer than the first, but the one afoot surpassed both the others in beauty. the first cometh before the king, there where he sitteth at meat with the queen. "sir," saith she, "the saviour of the world grant you honour and joy and good adventure and my lady the queen and all them of this hall for love of you! hold it not churlishness and i alight not, for there where knights be may i not alight, nor ought i until such time as the graal be achieved." "damsel," saith the king, "gladly would i have it so." "sir," saith she, "that know i well, and may it not mislike you to hear the errand whereon i am come." "it shall not mislike me," saith the king, "say your pleasure!" "sir," saith she, "the shield that this damsel beareth belonged to joseph, the good soldier knight that took down our lord of hanging on the rood. i make you a present thereof in such wise as i shall tell you, to wit, that you keep the shield for a knight that shall come hither for the same, and you shall make hang it on this column in the midst of your hall, and guard it in such wise as that none may take it and hang at his neck save he only. and of this shield shall he achieve the graal, and another shield shall he leave here in the hall, red, with a white hart; and the brachet that the damsel carrieth shall here remain, and little joy will the brachet make until the knight shall come." "damsel," saith the king, "the shield and the brachet will we keep full safely, and right heartily we thank you that you have deigned to bring them hither." "sir," saith the damsel, "i have not yet told you all that i have in charge to deliver. the best king that liveth on earth and the most loyal and the most righteous, sendeth you greeting; of whom is sore sorrow for that he hath fallen into a grievous languishment." "damsel," saith the king, "sore pity is it and it be so as you say; and i pray you tell me who is the king?" "sir," saith she, "it is rich king fisherman, of whom is great grief." "damsel," saith the king, "you say true; and god grant him his heart's desire!" "sir," saith she, "know you wherefore he hath fallen into languishment?" "nay, i know not at all, but gladly would i learn." "and i will tell you," saith she. "this languishment is come upon him through one that harboured in his hostel, to whom the most holy graal appeared. and, for that he would not ask unto whom one served thereof, were all the lands commoved to war thereby, nor never thereafter might knight meet other but he should fight with him in arms without none other occasion. you yourself may well perceive the same, for your well-doing hath greatly slackened, whereof have you had much blame, and all the other barons that by you have taken ensample, for you are the mirror of the world alike in well-doing and in evil-doing. sir, i myself have good right to plain me of the knight, and i will show you wherefore." she lifteth the rich hat from her head and showeth the king and queen and the knights in the hall her head all bald without hair. "sir," saith she, "my head was right seemly garnished of hair plaited in rich tresses of gold at such time as the knight came to the hostel of the rich king fisherman, but i became bald for that he made not the demand, nor never again shall i have my hair until such time as a knight shall go thither that shall ask the question better than did he, or the knight that shall achieve the graal. sir, even yet have you not seen the sore mischief that hath befallen thereof. there is without this hall a car that three white harts have drawn hither, and lightly may you send to see how rich it is. i tell you that the traces are of silk and the axletrees of gold, and the timber of the car is ebony. the car is covered above with a black samite, and below is a cross of gold the whole length, and under the coverlid of the car are the heads of an hundred and fifty knights whereof some be sealed in gold, other some in silver and the third in lead. king fisherman sendeth you word that this loss i hath befallen of him that demanded not unto whom one serveth of the graal. sir, the damsel that beareth the shield holdeth in her hand the head of a queen that is sealed in lead and crowned with copper, and i tell you that by the queen whose head you here behold was the king betrayed whose head i bear, and the three manner of knights whose heads are within the car. sir, send without to see the costliness and fashion of the car." the king sent kay the seneschal to see. he looked straitly thereat within and without and thereafter returned to the king. "sir," saith he, "never beheld i car so rich, and there be three harts withal that draw the car, the tallest and fattest one might ever see. but and you will be guided by me, you will take the foremost, for he is scarce so far, and so might you bid make right good collops thereof." "avoid there, kay!" saith the king. "foul churlishness have you spoken! i would not such a deed were done for another such kingdom as is this of logres!" "sir," saith the damsel, "he that hath been wont to do churlishness doth right grudgingly withdraw himself therefrom. messire kay may say whatsoever him pleaseth, but well know i that you will pay no heed to his talk. sir," saith the damsel, "command that the shield be hung on this column and that the brachet be put in the queen's chamber with the maidens. we will go on our way, for here have we been long enough." messire ywain laid hold on the shield and took it off the damsel's neck by leave of the king, and hung it on the column in the midst of the hall, and one of the queen's maidens taketh the brachet and carrieth him to the queen's chamber. and the damsel taketh her leave and turneth again, and the king commendeth her to god. when the king eaten in hall, the queen with the king and the knights go to lean at the windows to look at the three damsels and the three white harts that draw the car, and the more part said that the damsel afoot that went after the two that were mounted should have the most misease. the bald damsel went before, and set not her hat on her head until such time as behoved her enter into the forest; and the knights that were at the windows might see them no longer. then set she her hat again upon her head. the king, the queen, and the knights when they might see them no more, came down from the windows, and certain of them said that never until this time had they seen bald-headed damsel save this one only. ii. hereupon the story is silent of king arthur, and turneth again to speak of the three damsels and the car that was drawn by the three white harts. they are entered into the forest and ride on right busily. when they had left the castle some seven leagues welsh behind them, they saw a knight coming toward them on the way they had to go. the knight sat on a tall horse, lean and bony. his habergeon was all rusty and his shield pierced in more than a dozen places, and the colour thereon was so fretted away that none might make out the cognizance thereof. and a right thick spear bore he in his hand. when he came anigh the damsel, he saluted her right nobly. "fair welcome, damsel, to you and your company." "sir," saith she, "god grant you joy and good adventure!" "damsel," saith the knight, "whence come you?" "sir, from a court high-plenary that king arthur holdeth at pannenoisance. go you thither, sir knight," saith the damsel, "to see the king and the queen and the knights that are there?" "nay, not so!" saith he. "many a time have i seen them, but right glad am i of king arthur that he hath again taken up his well-doing, for many a time hath he been accustomed thereof." "whitherward have you now emprised your way?" saith the damsel. "to the land of king fisherman, and god allow me." "sir," saith she, "tell me your name and bide awhile beside me." the knight draweth bridle and the damsels and the car come to a stay. "damsel," saith he, "well behoveth me tell you my name. messire gawain am i called, king arthur's nephew." "what? are you messire gawain? my heart well told me as much." "yea, damsel," saith he, "gawain am i." "god be praised thereof, for so good knight as are you may well go see the rich king fisherman. now am i fain to pray you of the valour that is in you and the courtesy, that you return with me and convoy me beyond a certain castle that is in this forest whereof is some small peril." "damsel," saith messire gawain, "willingly, at your pleasure." he returneth with the damsel through the midst of the forest that was tall and leafy and little haunted of folk. the damsel relateth to him the adventure of the heads that she carried and that were in the car, like as she did at the court of king arthur, and of the shield and the brachet she had left there, but much it misliked messire gawain of the damsel that was afoot behind them. "damsel," saith messire gawain, "wherefore doth not this damsel that goeth afoot mount upon the car?" "sir," saith she, "this shall she not, for behoveth her go not otherwise than afoot. but and you be so good knight as men say, betimes will she have done her penance." "how so?" saith gawain. "i will tell you," saith she. "and it shall so be that god bring you to the hostel of rich king fisherman, and the most holy graal appear before you and you demand unto whom is served thereof, then will she have done her penance, and i, that am bald, shall receive again my hair. and so you also make not demand thereof, then will it behove us suffer sore annoy until such time as the good knight shall come and shall have achieved the graal. for on account of him that first was there and made not the demand, are all the lands in sorrow and warfare, and the good king fisherman is yet in languishment." "damsel," saith messire gawain, "god grant me courage and will herein that i may come to do this thing according to your wish, whereof may i win worship both of god and of the world." iii. messire gawain and the damsels go on their way a great pace through the high forest, green and leafy, where the birds are singing, and enter into the most hideous forest and most horrible that any might ever see, and seemed it that no greenery never there had been, so bare and dry were all the branches and all the trees black and burnt as it had been by fire, and the ground all parched and black atop with no green, and full of great cracks. "damsel," saith messire gawain, "right loathly is this forest and right hideous. goeth it on far like this?" "sir." saith she, "for nine leagues welsh goeth it on the same, but we shall pass not through the whole thereof." messire gawain looketh from time to time on the damsel that cometh arbor, and sore it irketh him that he may not amend her estate. they ride on until that they come to a great valley and messire gawain looketh along the bottom and seeth appear a black castle that was enclosed within a girdle of wall, foul and evilseeming. the nigher he draweth to the castle the more hideous it seemeth him, and he seeth great halls appear that were right foully mis-shapen, and the forest about it he seeth to be like as he had found it behind. he seeth a water come down from the head of a mountain, foul and horrible and black, that went amidst the castle roaring so loud that it seemed to be thunder. messire gawain seeth the entrance of the gateway foul and horrible like as it had been hell, and within the castle heard he great outcries and lamentations, and the most part heard he saying: "ha, god! what hath become of the good knight, and when will he come?" "damsel," saith messire gawain, "what is this castle here that is so foul and hideous, wherein is such dolour suffered and such weary longing for the coming of the good knight?" "sir, this is the castle of the black hermit. wherefore am i fain to pray you that you meddle not herein for nought that they within may do to me, for otherwise it may well be that your death is at hand, for against them will you have no might nor power." they come anigh the castle as it were a couple of bow-shots, and behold, through the gateway come knights armed on black horses and their arms all black and their shields and spears, and there were a hundred and fifty and two, right parlous to behold. and they come a great gallop toward the damsel, and toward the car, and take the hundred and fifty-two heads, each one his own, and set them upon their spears and so enter into the castle again with great joy. messire gawain seeth the insolence that the knights have wrought, and right great shame hath he of himself that he hath not moved withal. "messire gawain," saith the damsel, "now may you know how little would your force have availed you herein." "damsel, an evil castle is this where folk are robbed on such wise." "sir, never may this mischief be amended, nor this outrage be done away, nor the evil-doer therein be stricken down, nor they that cry and lament within the prison there be set free until such time as the good knight shall come for whom are they yearning as you have heard but now." "damsel, right glad may the knight be that by his valour and his hardiment shall destroy so many evil folk!" "sir, therefore is he the best knight in the world, and he is yet young enough of age, but right sorrowful am i at heart that i know not true tidings of him; for better will have i to see him than any man on live." "damsel, so also have i," saith messire gawain, "for then by your leave would i turn me again." "not so, sir, but and you shall come beyond the castle, then will i teach you the way whereby you ought to go." iv. with that they go toward the castle all together. just as they were about to pass beyond the castle wall, behold you where a knight cometh forth of a privy postern of the castle, and he was sitting upon a tall horse, his spear in his fist, and at his neck had he a red shield whereon was figured a golden eagle. "sir knight," saith he to messire gawain, "i pray you bide." "what is your pleasure?" "you must needs joust with me," saith he "and conquer this shield, or otherwise i shall conquer you. and full precious is the shield, insomuch as that great pains ought you to take to have it and conquer it, for it belonged to the best knight of his faith that was ever, and the most puissant and the wisest." "who, then, was he?" saith messire gawain. "judas machabee was he, and he it was that first wrought how by one bird to take another." "you say true," saith messire gawain; "a good knight was he." "therefore right joyful may you be," saith he, "and you may conquer the same, for your own is the poorest and most battered that ever saw i borne by knight. for hardly may a man know the colour thereof." "thereby may you well see," saith the damsel to the knight, "that his own shield hath not been idle, nor hath the horse whereon he sitteth been stabled so well as yours." "damsel," saith the knight, "no need is here of long pleading. needs must he joust with me, for him do i defy." saith messire gawain, "i hear well that you say." he draweth him back and taketh his career and the knight likewise, and they come together as fast as their horses may carry them, spear in rest. the knight smiteth messire gawain on the shield whereof he had no great defence, and passeth beyond, and in the by-pass the knight to-brake his spear; and messire gawain smiteth him with his spear in the midst of his breast and beareth him to the ground over the croup of his horse, all pinned upon his spear, whereof he had a good full hand's breadth in his breast. he draweth his spear back to him, and when the knight felt himself unpinned, he leaped to his feet and came straight to his horse and would fain set his foot in the stirrup when the damsel of the car crieth out: "messire gawain, hinder the knight! for and he were mounted again, too sore travail would it be to conquer him!" when the knight heard name messire gawain, he draweth him back: "how?" saith he; "is this then the good gawain, king arthur's nephew?" "yea," saith the damsel, "he it is without fail!" "sir," saith the knight to messire gawain, "are you he?" "yea," saith he, "gawain i am!" "sir, so please you," saith he, "i hold me conquered, and right sorry am i that i knew you not or ever i had ado with you." he taketh the shield from his neck and holdeth it to him. "sir," saith he, "take the shield that belonged to the best knight that was in his time of his faith, for none know i of whom it shall be better employed than of you. and of this shield were vanquished all they that be in prison in this castle." messire gawain taketh the shield that was right fair and rich. "sir," saith the knight, "now give me yours, for you will not bear two shields." "you say true," saith messire gawain. he taketh the guige from his neck and would have given him the shield, when the damsel afoot: "hold, sir knight, you that are named messire gawain! what would you do? and he bear your shield into the castle there, they of the castle will hold you recreant and conquered, and will come forth thence and carry you into the castle by force, and there will you be cast into his grievous prison; for no shield is borne thereinto save of a vanquished knight only." "sir knight," saith messire gawain, "no good you wish me, according to that this damsel saith." "sir," saith the knight, "i cry you mercy, and a second time i hold me conquered, and right glad should i have been might i have borne your shield within yonder, and right great worship should i have had thereof, for never yet hath entered there the shield of knight so good. and now ought i to be right well pleased of your coming, sith that you have set me free of the sorest trouble that ever knight had." "what is the trouble?" saith messire gawain. "sir," saith he, "i will tell you. heretofore many a time hath there been a passing by of knights both of hardy and of coward, and it was my business to contend and joust with them and do battle, and i made them present of the shield as did i you. the more part found i hardy and well able to defend themselves, that wounded me in many places, but never was knight so felled me to the ground nor dealt me so sore a buffet as have you. and sith that you are carrying away the shield and i am conquered, never here-after shall knight that passeth before this castle have no dread of me nor of no knight that is herein." "by my head," saith messire gawain, "now am i gladder of my conquest than i was before." "sir," saith the knight, "by your leave will i go my way, for, and i may hide not my shame in the castle, needs must i show it openly abroad." "god grant you do well!" saith messire gawain. "messire gawain," saith the damsel of the car, "give me your shield that the knight would fain have carried off." "willingly, damsel," saith he. the damsel that went afoot taketh the shield and setteth it in the car. howbeit, the knight that was conquered mounted again upon his horse, and entered again into the castle, and when he was come thereinto, arose a noise and great outcry so loud that all the forest and all the valley began to resound thereof. "messire gawain," saith the damsel of the car, "the knight is shamed and there cast in prison another time. now haste, messire gawain! for now may you go!" with that they all set forward again upon their way together, and leave the castle an english league behind. "damsel," saith messire gawain, "when it shall please you, i shall have your leave to go." "sir," saith she, "god be guard of your body, and right great thanks of your convoy." "lady," saith he, "my service is always ready at your command." "sir," saith the damsel, "gramercy, and your own way see you there by yonder great cross at the entrance of yonder forest. and beyond that, will you find the fairest forest and most delightsome when you shall have passed through this that sore is wearisome." messire gawain turneth him to go, and the damsel afoot crieth out to him: "sir, not so heedful are you as i supposed." messire gawain turneth his horse's head as he that was startled: "wherefore say you so, damsel?" saith he. "for this," saith she, "that you have never asked of my damsel wherefore she carrieth her arm slung at her neck in this golden stole, nor what may be the rich pillow whereon the arm lieth. and no greater heed will you take at the court of the rich king fisherman." "sweet, my friend," saith the damsel of the car, "blame not messire gawain only, but king arthur before him and all the knights that were in the court. for not one of them all that were there was so heedful as to ask me. go your ways, messire gawain, for in vain would you now demand it, for i will tell you not, nor shall you never know it save only by the most coward knight in the world, that is mine own knight and goeth to seek me and knoweth not where to find me." "damsel," saith messire gawain, "i durst not press you further." with that the damsel departeth, and messire gawain setteth him forward again on the way that she had taught him. branch iii. incipit. here beginneth another branch of the graal in the name of the father, and in the name of the son, and in the name of the holy ghost. title i here is the story silent of the three damsels and the car and saith that messire gawain hath passed throughout the evil forest and is entered into the forest passing fair, the broad, the high, the plenteous of venison. and he rideth a great pace, but sore abashed is he of that the damsel had said to him, and misdoubteth him but he shall have blame thereof in many places. he rode hard the day long till that it was evensong and the sun was about to set. and he looketh before him and seeth the house of a hermit and the chapel in the thick of the forest; and a spring flowed forth in front of the chapel right clear and fresh, and above it was a tree full broad and tall that threw a shadow over the spring. a damsel sate under the tree and held a mule by the reins and at the saddle-bow had she the head of a knight hanging. and messire gawain cometh thitherward and alighteth. "damsel," saith he, "god give you good adventure!" "sir," saith she, "and you always." when she was risen up over against him, "damsel," saith he, "for whom are you a-waiting here?" "sir," saith she, "i am waiting for the hermit of this holy chapel, that is gone into the forest, and i would fain ask him tidings of a knight." "think you he will tell you them and he knoweth any?" "yea, sir, i think so, according to that i have been told." therewithal behold you the hermit that was coming, and saluteth the damsel and messire gawain and openeth the door of the house and setteth the two steeds within and striketh off the bridles and giveth them green-meat first and barley after, and fain would he have taken off the saddles when messire gawain leapeth before: "sir," saith he, "do not so! this business is not for you!" "hermit though i be," saith he, "yet well know i how to deal withal, for at the court of king uther pendragon have i been squire and knight two-score years, and a score or mort have i been in this hermitage." and messire gawain looketh at him in wonderment. "sir," saith he, "meseemeth you are not of more than forty years." "that know i well of a truth," saith the hermit, and messire gawain taketh off the saddles and bethinketh him more of the damsel's mule than of his own horse. and the hermit taketh messire gawain by the hand and the damsel and leadeth them into the chapel. and the place was right fair. "sir," saith the hermit to messire gawain, "you will disarm you not," saith he, "for this forest is passing adventurous, and no worshipful man behoveth be disgarnished." he goeth for his spear and for his shield and setteth them within the chapel. he setteth before them such meat as he hath, and when they have eaten giveth them to drink of the spring. "sir," saith the damsel, "of a knight that i go seek am i come to ask you tidings." "who is the knight?" saith the hermit. "sir, he is the chaste knight of most holy lineage. he hath a heart of gold, the look of a lion, the navel of a virgin maid, a heart of steel, the body of an elephant, and without wickedness are all his conditions." "damsel," saith the hermit, "nought will i tell you concerning him, for i know not of a certainty where he is, save this, that he hath lain in this chapel twice, not once only, within this twelvemonth." "sir," saith she, "will you tell me no more of him, nor none other witting?" "in no wise," saith the hermit. "and you, messire gawain?" saith she. "damsel," saith he, "as fainly would i see him as you, but none find i that may tell me tidings of him." "and the damsel of the car, sir, have you seen her?" "yea, lady," saith he, "it is but just now sithence that i left her." "carried she still her arm slung at her neck?" "yea," saith messire gawain, "in such wise she carried it." "of a long while," saith the damsel, "hath she borne it thus." "sir," saith the hermit, "how are you named?" "sir," saith he, "gawain am i called, king arthur's nephew." "thereof i love you the better," saith the hermit. "sir," saith the damsel, "you are of kindred to the worst king that is." "of what king speak you?" saith messire gawain. "i speak," saith she, "of king arthur, through whom is all the world made worser, for he began doing well and now hath become evil. for hatred of him hate i a knight that found me nigh s. augustine's chapel, and yet was he the comeliest knight that saw i ever. he slew a knight within the bar right hardily. i asked him for the head of the knight and he went back for the same and set himself in sore peril. he brought it me, and i made him great joy, but when he told me his name was arthur i had no fainness of the bounty he had done me, for that he had the name of that evil king." ii. "damsel," saith messire gawain, "you may say your pleasure. i tell you that king arthur hath held the richest court that he hath held ever, and these evil conditions whereof you blame him is he minded to put away for evermore, and more will he do of good and more of largesse than was ever known aforetime so long as he shall live; nor know i none other knight that beareth his name." "you are right," saith the damsel, "to come to his rescue, for that he is your uncle, but your rescue will scarce avail him and he deliver not himself." "sir," saith the hermit to messire gawain, "the damsel will say her pleasure. may god defend king arthur, for his father made me knight. now am i priest, and in this hermitage ever sithence that i came hither have i served king fisherman by the will of our lord and his commandment, and all they that serve him do well partake of his reward, for the place of his most holy service is a refuge so sweet that unto him that hath been there a year, it seemeth to have been but a month for the holiness of the place and of himself, and for the sweetness of his castle wherein have i oftentimes done service in the chapel where the holy graal appeareth. therefore is it that i and all that serve him are so youthful of seeming." "sir," saith messire gawain, "by what way may a man go to his castle?" "sir," saith the hermit, "none may teach you the way, save the will of god lead you therein. and would you fain go thither?" "sir," saith messire gawain, "it is the most wish that i have." "sir," saith the hermit, "now god give you grace and courage to ask the question that the others to whom the graal hath appeared would ask not, whereof have many mischances sithence befallen much people." iii. with that, they left of talking, and the hermit led messire gawain into his house to rest, and the damsel abode still in the chapel. on the morrow when dawn appeared, messire gawain that had lain all armed, arose and found his saddle ready and the damsel, and the bridles set on, and cometh to the chapel and findeth the hermit that was apparelled to sing mass, and seeth the damsel kneeling before an image of our lady, and she prayed god and the sweet lady that they would counsel her that whereof she had need, and wept right tenderly so that the tears ran down her face. and when she had prayed of a long space she ariseth, and messire gawain biddeth her god give her good day, and she returneth his salute. "damsel," saith he, "meseemeth you are not over joyous." "sir," saith she, "i have right, for now am i nigh unto my desolation, sith that i may not find the good knight. now must i needs go to the castle of the black hermit, and bear thither the head that hangeth at my saddle-bow, for otherwise shall i not be able to pass through the forest but my body should there be cast in prison or shamed, and this shall be the quittance for my passing. then will i seek the damsel of the car and so shall i go in safer through the forest." with that the hermit had begun the mass and messire gawain and the damsel heard it. when mass was sung, messire gawain took leave of the hermit and the damsel also. and messire gawain goeth one way and the damsel the other, and either biddeth other to god. iv. hereupon the story is now silent of the damsel, and saith that messire gawain goeth through the high forest and rideth a great pace, and prayeth god right sweetly that he will set him in such way as that thereby he may go to the land of the rich king fisherman. and he rideth until the hour of noon, and cometh into the fulness of the forest and seeth under a tree a squire alighted of a horse of the chase. messire gawain saluteth him, and the squire saith: "sir, right welcome may you be!" "fair sweet friend," saith messire gawain, "whither go you?" "sir, i go to seek the lord of this forest." "whose is the forest?" saith messire gawain. "sir, it belongeth to the best knight in the world." "can you tell me tidings of him?" "he ought to bear a shield banded azure and argent with a red cross thereon and a boss of gold. i say that he is good knight, but little call have i to praise him, for he slew my father in this forest with a javelin. the good knight was squire what time he slew him, and fain would i avenge my father upon him and i may find him, for he reft me of the best knight that was in the realm of logres when he slew my father. well did he bereave me of him what time he slew him with his javelin without defiance, nor shall i never be at ease nor at rest until i shall have avenged him." "fair sweet friend," saith messire gawain, "sith that he is knight so good take heed you increase not your wrong of your own act, and i would fain that you had found him, so as that no evil had befallen him thereof." v. "so would not i," saith the squire, "for never shall i see him in this place but i shall run upon him as my mortal enemy!" "fair sweet friend," saith messire gawain, "you may say your pleasure, but tell me is there no hold in this forest wherein i may harbour me the night?" "sir," saith the squire, "no hold know i within twenty league of your way in any quarter. wherefore no leisure have you to tarry, for it is high noon already." so messire gawain saluteth the squire and goeth a great pace as he that knoweth neither highway nor byway save only as adventure may lead him. and the forest pleaseth him well for that it is so fair and that he seeth the deer pass by before him in great herds. he rode on until it drew toward evensong at a corner of the forest. the evening was fair and calm and the sun was about to set. and a score league welsh had he ridden sithence that he parted from the squire, and sore he misdoubted him that he should find no hold. he found the fairest meadow-land in the world, and looked before him when he had ridden a couple of bow-shot lengths and saw a castle appear nigh the forest on a mountain. and it was enclosed of high walls with battlements, and within were fair halls whereof the windows showed in the outer walls, and in the midst was an ancient tower that was compassed round of great waters and broad meadow-lands. thitherward messire gawain draweth him and looketh toward the gateway of the castle and seeth a squire issue forth a great pace upon a hackney, and he came the way that messire gawain was coming. and when the squire seeth him, and hath drawn somewhat anigh, he saluteth him right nobly. vi. "sir, right welcome may you be!" "good adventure may you have!" saith messire gawain. "fair sweet friend, what is this castle here, sir?" "sir, it is the castle of the widow lady." "what is the name thereof;" "camelot; and it belonged to alain li gros, that was a right loyal knight and worshipful man. he is dead this long time, and my lady hath remained without succour and without counsel. wherefore is the castle warred upon of them that would fain reave her thereof by force. the lord of the moors and another knight are they that war upon her and would fain reave her of this castle as they have reft her of seven other already. greatly desireth she the return of her son, for no counsel hath she save only of her one daughter and of five old knights that help her to guard the castle. sir," saith he, "the door is made fast and the bridge drawn up, for they guard the castle closely, but, so please you, you will tell me your name and i will go before and make the bridge be lowered and the gate unfastened, and will say that you will lodge within to-night." "gramercy," saith messire gawain, "right well shall my name be known or ever i depart from the castle." the squire goeth his way a great pace, and messire gawain tided softly at a walk for he had yet a long way to go. and he found a chapel that stood between the forest and the castle, and it was builded upon four columns of marble and within was a right fair sepulchre. the chapel had no fence of any kind about it so that he seeth the coffin within full clearly, and messire gawain bideth awhile to look thereon. and the squire entered into the castle and hath made the bridge be lowered and the door opened. he alighteth and is come into the hall when was the widow lady and her daughter. saith the lady to the squire: "wherefore have you returned from doing my message? lady, for the comeliest knight that i have seen ever, and fain would he harbour within to-night, and he is garnished of all arms and rideth without company." "and what name hath he?" saith the lady. "lady, he told me you should know it well or ever he depart from this castle." therewithal the lady gan weep for joy and her daughter also, and, lifting her hands towards heaven, "fair lord god!" saith the widow lady, "and this be indeed my son, never before have i had joy that might be likened to this! now shall i not be disherited of mine honour, neither shall i lose my castle whereof they would fain reave me by wrong, for that no lord nor champion have i!" vii. thereupon the widow lady ariseth up and her daughter likewise, and they go over the bridge of the castle and see messire gawain that was yet looking on the coffin within the chapel. "now haste!" saith the lady; "at the tomb shall we be well able to see whether it be he!" they go to the chapel right speedily, and messire gawain seeth them coming and alighteth. "lady," saith he, "welcome may you be, you and your company." the lady answereth never a word until that they are come to the tomb. when she findeth it not open she falleth down in a swoon. and messire gawain is sore afraid when he seeth it. the lady cometh back out of her swoon and breaketh out into great lamentation. "sir," saith the damsel to messire gawain, "welcome may you be! but now sithence my mother supposed that you had been her son and made great joy thereof, and now seeth she plainly that you are not he, whereof is she sore sorrowful, for so soon as he shall return, this coffin behoveth open, nor until that hour shall none know who it is that lieth therein." the lady riseth up and taketh messire gawain by the hand. "sir," saith she, "what is your name?" "lady," saith he, "i am called gawain, king arthur's nephew." "sir," saith she, "you shall be he that is welcome both for the sake of my son and for your own sake." the lady biddeth a squire lead his horse into the castle and carry his shield and spear. then they enter into the castle and lead messire gawain into the hall, and make disarm him. after that, they fetch him water to wash his hands and his face, for he was distained of the rust of his habergeon. the lady maketh apparel him in a rich robe of silk and gold, and furred of ermine. the widow lady cometh forth of her chamber and maketh messire gawain sit beside her. "sir," saith she, "can you tell me any tidings of my son that i have not seen of this long time past, and of whom at this present am i sore in need?" viii. "lady," saith he, "no tidings of him know i to tell you, and right heavy am i thereof, for he is the knight of the world that fainest i would see and he be your son as i am told. what name hath he?" "sir," saith she, "his name in right baptism is perceval, and a right comely squire was he when he departed hence. now as at this time is it said that he is the comeliest knight on live and the most hardy and the cleanest of all wickedness. and sore need have i of his hardiment, for what time that he departed hence he left me in the midst of a great warfare on behalf of the knight of the red shield that he slew. within the se'nnight thereafter he went away, nor never once have i seen him sithence, albeit a full seven year hath passed already. and now the brother of the knight that he slew and the lord of the moors are warring upon me and are fain to reave me of my castle and god counsel me not. for my brothers are too far away from me, and king pelles of the lower folk hath renounced his land for god's sake and entered into a hermitage. but the king of castle mortal hath in him as much of wickedness and felony as these twain have in them of good, and enough thereof have they. but neither succour nor help may they give me, for the king of castle mortal challengeth my lord king fisherman both of the most holy graal and of the lance whereof the point bleedeth every day, albeit god forbid he should ever have them." ix. "lady," saith messire gawain, "there was at the hostel of king fisherman a knight before whom the holy graal appeared three times, yet never once would he ask whereof it served nor whom it honoured." "sir," saith the widow lady's daughter, "you say true, and the best knight is he of the world. this say i for love of my brother, and i love all knights for the love of him, but by the foolish wit of the knight hath mine uncle king fisherman fallen into languishment." "sir," saith the lady, "behoveth all good knights go see the rich king fisherman. will you not therefore go?" "lady," saith messire gawain, "yea, that will i, so speedily as i may, for not elsewhither have i emprised my way." "sir," saith she, "then are you going to see my son, wherefore tell my son, and you see him, of mine evil plight and my misease, and king fisherman my brother. but take heed, messire gawain, that you be better mindful than was the knight." "lady," saith messire gawain, "i shall do as god shall teach me." in the meanwhile as they were speaking thus together, behold you therewithal the widow lady's five knights that were come in from the forest and make bring harts and hinds and wild swine. so they alighted and made great joy of messire gawain when they knew who he was. x. when the meat was ready they sate to eat, and full plenteously were they provided and right well were they served. thereupon, behold, cometh the squire that had opened the door for messire gawain, and kneeleth before the widow lady. "and what tidings?" saith she. "lady, there is to be a right great assembly of tourney in the valleys that aforetime were ours. already have they spread the welsh booths, and thither are come these two that are warring upon you and great store other knights. and they have ordained that he which shall do best at the assembly shall undertake the garrison of this castle in such sort as that he shall hold it for his own alone against all other." the widow lady beginneth to weep: "sir," saith she to messire gawain, "now may you understand that the castle is not mine own, sith that these knights say it is theirs as you hear." "certes, lady," saith he, "herein do they great dishonour and a sin." xi. when the table was removed the damsel fell at messire gawain's feet, weeping. he raiseth her forthwith and saith to her, "damsel, herein do you ill." "for god's sake, sir, take pity on my lady mother and me!" "certes, damsel, great pity have i of you." "sir, now shall it be seen in this strait whether you be good knight, for good is the knighthood that doeth well for god's sake." the widow lady and her daughter go into the chamber, and messire gawain's bed was made in the midst of the hall. so he went and lay down as did also the five knights. all the night was messire gawain in much thought. the morrow, when he was risen, he went to hear mass in a chapel that was within and ate thereafter three sops in wine and then armed him, and at the same time asked the five knights that were there in the hall whether they would go see the assembly. "yea, sir," say they, "and you be going thither." "in faith, thither verily will i go!" saith messire gawain. the knights are armed forthwith, and their horses brought and messire gawain's, and he goeth to take leave of the widow lady and her daughter. but great joy make they of this that they have heard say that he will go with their knights to the assembly. xii. messire gawain and the five knights mounted and issued forth of the castle and rode a great gallop before a forest. messire gawain looketh before him about the foreclose of the forest, and seeth the fairest purlieus that he had seen ever, and so broad they be that he may not see nor know the fourth part thereof. they are garnished of tall forests on one hand and on the other, and there are high rocks in the midst with wild deer among. "sir," say the knights, "lo, these be the valleys of camelot whereof my lady and her daughter have been bereft, and bereft also hath she been of the richest castles that be in wales to the number of seven." "a wrong is it and a sin!" saith messire gawain. so far have they ridden that they see the ensigns and the shields there where the assembly is to be held, and they see already mounted the more part of the knights all armed and running their horses down the meadow-land. and they see the tents stretched on the one hand and on another. and messire gawain bideth, and the five knights under a tree, and see the knights assembling on one hand and on another. one of the five knights that were with him gave him witting of the lord of the moors and the brother of the knight of the red shield that had to name chaos the red. so soon as the tournament was assembled, messire gawain and the knights come to the assembly, and messire gawain goeth to a welsh knight and beareth him to the ground, both him and his horse, all in a heap. and the five come after at a great gallop and each overthroweth his own, and greatly pride they themselves of messire gawain. chaos the red seeth messire gawain but knoweth him not. he goeth toward him a full career, and messire gawain receiveth him on the point of his spear and hurtleth against him so sore that he all to-brast his collarbone and maketh the spear fly from his fist. and messire gawain searcheth the fellowships of one part and the other, and findeth not nor encountereth no knight before him in his way but he putteth him off his horse or woundeth him, either by himself or by one of the five knights, that make right great joy of that they see him do. they show him the lord of the moors that was coming with a full great fellowship of folk. he goeth thitherward a great gallop. they mell together either upon other of their spears that they bent and all to-brast in flinders, and hurtle together so stoutly both of their horses and their bodies that the lord of the moors loseth his stirrups and hath the hinder saddlebow to-frushed, and falleth down to the ground over his horse croup in such sort that the peak of his helm dinteth a full palm's breadth into the turf. and messire gawain taketh the horse that was right rich and good, maugre all of his fellowship, and giveth it to one of the five knights that maketh it be led to camelot of a squire. messire gawain searcheth the ranks on the one hand and on the other, and doeth such feats of arms as never no knight might do the same again. the five knights also showed great hardiment, and did more of arms that day than ever had they done tofore, for not one of them but had overthrown at least a single knight and won his horse. the lord of the moors was mounted again on another rich horse and had great shame for that messire gawain had overthrown him. he espieth messire gawain and goeth toward him a great gallop and thinketh to avenge his shame. they come together either on other with a great shock, and messire gawain smiteth him with the truncheon of his spear that he had still left, in the midst of his breast, so that it was all to-splintered. the lord of the moors likewise again to-brast his spear upon him. messire gawain draweth his sword and flingeth the truncheon to the ground. the lord of the moors doth likewise and commandeth his folk not to mell betwixt them twain, for never yet had he found no knight that he had not conquered. they deal them great buffets on the helms, either upon other, in such sort that the sparks fly thereout and their swords are blunted. the buffets of messire gawain are heavier than the other's, for he dealeth them so mighty and horrible that the blood rayeth out from the lord of the moors by the mouth and the nose so that his habergeon is all bloody thereof and he may no more endure. thereupon he yieldeth him prisoner to messire gawain, that is right glad thereof and his five knights likewise. the lord of the moors goeth to his tent to alight, and messire gawain with him and alighteth. and messire gawain taketh the horse and saith to one of the knights, "keep this for me." and all the knights are repaired to their tents, and with one accord say they all that the knight of the red shield with the eagle of gold thereon hath done better than we, and they ask the lord of the moors whether he accordeth with them, and he saith "aye." "sir," saith he to messire gawain, "you, then, are the warden of this castle of camelot." "gramercy, lord!" saith messire gawain. he calleth the five knights and saith unto them: "lords, my will is that you be there on my behalf and that you shall safeguard the same by consent of the knights that are here present." "sir, right gladly do we agree thereto." "sir," saith messire gawain to the lord of the moors, "i give you moreover as my prisoner to the widow lady that harboured me last night." "sir," saith he, "this have you no right to do. assembly of tourney is not war. hence have you no right to imprison my body in castle, for well am i able to pay my ransom here. but tell me, what is your name?" "i am called gawain." "ha, messire gawain, many a time have i heard tell of you albeit never tofore have i seen you. but sith that the castle of camelot is in your keeping, i promise you loyally that before a year and a day neither the castle nor none of the lady's land need fear nought from me nor from any other so far forth as i may hinder him, and hereto do i pledge me in the presence of all these knights that are here. and, so you would have of me gold or silver, thereof will i give you at your will." "sir," saith messire gawain, "gramercy! i consent freely to as much as you have said." messire gawain taketh leave and turneth him again toward the castle of camelot, and sendeth by a squire the horse of the lord of the moors to the daughter of the widow lady, that made great joy thereof. and the five knights drive before them the horses they have taken booty. whereof great also was the joy. no need to wonder whether messire gawain were well harboured that night at the castle. he recounted to the lady how the castle was in the keeping of these knights. when it came to morning-tide, messire gawain took leave and departed from the castle, but not before he had heard mass, for such was his custom. the widow lady and her daughter commend him to god, and the castle remaineth in better keeping than he had found it. branch iv. incipit. here beginneth another branch of the graal in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost. title i. and the story is silent here of the mother of the good knight, and saith that messire gawain goeth so as god and adventure lead him toward the land of the rich king fisherman. and he entereth into a great forest, all armed, his shield at his neck and his spear in his hand. and he prayeth our lord that he counsel him of this holy errand he hath emprised so as that he may honourably achieve it. he rode until that he came at evensong to a hold that was in the midst of the forest. and it was compassed about of a great water, and had about it great clumps of trees so as that scarce with much pains might he espy the hall, that was right large. the river that compassed it about was water royal, for it lost not its right name nor its body as far as the sea. and messire gawain bethought him that it was the hold of a worshipful man, and draweth him thitherward to lodge. and as he drew anigh the bridge of the hold, he looketh and seeth a dwarf sitting on a high bench. he leapeth up: "messire gawain," saith he, "welcome may you be!" "fair, sweet friend," saith messire gawain, "god give you good adventure! you know me, then?" saith he. "well do i know you," saith the dwarf, "for i saw you at the tournament. at a better moment could you not have come hither, for my lord is not here. but you will find my lady, the fairest and most gentle and most courteous in the realm of logres, and as yet is she not of twenty years." "fair friend," saith messire gawain, "what name hath the lord of the hold?" "sir, he is called of little gomeret. i will go tell my lady that messire gawain is come, the good knight, and bid her make great joy." howbeit, messire gawain marvelleth much that the dwarf should make him such cheer, for many knaveries hath he found in many places within the bodies of many dwarfs. the dwarf is come into the chamber where the lady was. "now, haste, lady!" saith he, "make great joy, for messire gawain is come to harbour with you." "certes," saith she, "of this am i right glad and right sorry; glad, for that the good knight will lie here to-night, sorry, for that he is the knight that my lord most hateth in the world. wherefore he warneth me against him for love of him, for oftentimes hath he told me that never did messire gawain keep faith with dame nor damsel but he would have his will of them." "lady," saith the dwarf, "it is not true albeit it is so said." ii. thereupon messire gawain entereth into the courtyard and alighteth, and the lady cometh to meet him and saith to him: "may you be come to joy and good adventure." "lady," saith he, "may you also have honour and good adventure." the lady taketh him by the hand and leadeth him into the hall and maketh him be seated on a cushion of straw. and a squire leadeth his horse to stable. and the dwarf summoneth two other squires and doeth messire gawain be disarmed, and helpeth them right busily, and maketh fetch water to wash his hands and his face. "sir," saith the dwarf, "your fists are still all swollen of the buffets you gave and received at the tournament." messire gawain answered him nought. and the dwarf entereth into the chamber and bringeth a scarlet robe furred of ermine and maketh it be done on messire gawain. and meat was made ready and the table set, and the lady sate to eat. many a time looked he upon the lady by reason of her great beauty, and, had he been minded to trust to his heart and his eyes, he would have all to-changed his purpose; but so straitly was his heart bound up, and so quenched the desires thereof, that nought would he allow himself to think upon that might turn to wickedness, for the sake of the high pilgrimage he had emprised. rather 'gan he withdraw his eyes from looking at the lady, that was held to be of passing great beauty. after meat messire gawain's bed was made, and he apparelled himself to lie down. the lady bade him god give him good adventure, and he made answer the like. when the lady was in her chamber, the dwarf said to messire gawain: "sir, i will lie before you, so as to keep you company until you be asleep." "gramercy," saith he, "and god allow me at some time to reward you of the service." the dwarf laid himself down on a mattress before messire gawain, and when he saw that he slept, he ariseth as quickly as he may, and cometh to a boat that was on the river that ran behind the hall, and entereth thereinto and roweth up-stream of the river. and he cometh to a fishery, where was a right fair hall on a little eyot enclosed by a marshy arm of the river. the jealous knight was come thither for disport, and lay in the midst of the hall upon a couch. the dwarf cometh forth of his boat thereinto, and lighteth a great candle in his fist and cometh before the couch. "what ho, there!" saith the dwarf, "are you sleeping?" and the other waketh up sore startled, and asketh what is the matter and wherefore is he come? "in god's name," saith he, "you sleep not so much at your ease as doth messire gawain!" "how know you that?" saith he. "well know i," saith the dwarf, "for i left him but now in your hall, and methinketh he and your lady are abed together arm to arm." "how?" saith he, "i forbade her she should ever harbour messire gawain." "in faith," said the dwarf, "she hath made him greater cheer than ever saw i her make to none other! but haste you and come, for great fear have i lest he carry her away!" "by my head!" saith the knight; "i will go not, howsoever it be! but she shall pay for it, even though she go!" "then of wrong will it be!" saith the dwarf, "as methinketh!" iii. messire gawain lay in the hall that was ware of nought of this. he seeth that day hath broken fair and clear, and ariseth up. the lady cometh to the door of the hall and seeth not the dwarf, whereby well she understandeth his treachery. she saith to messire gawain, "sir, for god's sake have pity upon me, for the dwarf hath betrayed me! and you withdraw yourself forth of our forest and help not to rescue me from the smart that my lord will make me suffer, great sin will you have thereof. for well know you, that of right ought i not to be held guilty toward my lord nor toward any other, for aught that you have done toward me or i toward you." "you say true," saith messire gawain. thereupon is he armed, and taketh leave of the lady and issueth forth of the fair hold and setteth him in an ambush in the forest nigh thereby. straightway behold the jealous knight where he cometh, he and his dwarf. he entereth into the hall. the lady cometh to meet him. "sir," saith she, "welcome may you be!" "and you," saith he, "shame and evil adventure may you have, as the most disloyal dame on live, for that this night have you harboured in my hostel and in my bed him that most have i warned you against!" "sir," saith she, "in your hostel did i harbour him, but never hath your bed been shamed by me, nor never shall be!" "you lie!" saith he, "like a false woman!" he armeth himself all incontinent and maketh his horse be armed, then maketh the lady go down and despoil her to her shirt, that crieth him mercy right sweetly and weepeth. he mounteth his horse and taketh his shield and his spear, and maketh the lady be taken of the dwarf by her tresses and maketh her be led before him into the forest. and he bideth above a pool where was a spring, and maketh her enter into the water that flowed forth full cold, and gathereth saplings in the forest for rods and beginneth to smite and beat her across upon her back and her breast in such sort that the stream from the spring was all bloody therewithal. and she began to cry out right loud, until at last messire gawain heareth her and draweth forth of the ambush wherein he was, and cometh thitherward a great gallop. "by my faith," saith the dwarf, "look you here where messire gawain cometh!" "by my faith," saith the knight, "now know i well that nought is there here but treachery, and that the matter is well proven!" by this time, messire gawain is come, and saith: "avoid, sir knight! wherefore slay you the best lady and most loyal that ever have i seen? never tofore have i found lady that hath done me so much honour, and this ought you to be well pleased to know, for neither in her bearing, nor in her speech, nor in herself found i nought save all goodness only. wherefore i pray you of franchise and of love that you forbear your wrath and that you set her forth of the water. and so will i swear on all the sacred hallows in this chapel that never did i beseech her of evil nor wantonness nor never had i no desire thereof." the knight was full of great wrath when he saw that messire gawain had not gone his way thence, and an anguish of jealousy burneth him heart and body and overburdeneth him of folly and outrage, and messire gawain that is still before him moveth him to yet further transgression. natheless, for the fear that he hath of him he speaketh to him: "messire gawain," saith he, "i will set her forth thence on one condition, that you joust at me and i at you, and, so you conquer me, quit shall she be of misdoing and of blame, but and if i shall conquer you, she shall be held guilty herein. such shall be the judgment in this matter." "i ask no better," saith messire gawain. iv. thereupon, the knight biddeth the dwarf make set the lady forth of the pool of the spring and make her sit in a launde whereas they were to joust. the knight draweth him back the better to take his career, and messire gawain cometh as fast as his horse may carry him toward marin the jealous. and when marin seeth him coming, he avoideth his buffet and lowereth his spear and cometh to his wife that was right sore distraught, and wept as she that suffered blameless, and smote her through, out the body and slew her, and then turneth him again so fast as his horse might carry him toward his hold. messire gawain seeth the damsel dead and the dwarf that fleeth full speed after his lord. he overtaketh him and trampleth him under his horses feet so that he bursteth his belly in the midst. then goeth he toward the hold, for he thinketh to enter therein. but he found the bridge shut up and the gate barred. and marin crieth out upon him. "this shame and misadventure hath befallen me along of you, but you shall pay for it yet and i may live." messire gawain hath no mind to argue with him, but rather draweth him back and cometh again to where the lady lay dead, and setteth her on the neck of his horse all bleeding, and then beareth her to a chapel that was without the entrance of the hold. then he alighted and laid her within the chapel as fairly as most he might, as he that was sore grieved and wrathful thereof. after that, he shut the door of the chapel again as he that was afeared of the body for the wild beasts, and bethought him that one should come thither to set her in her shroud and bury her after that he was departed. v. thereupon messire gawain departeth, sore an-angered, for it seemed him that never had no thing tofore befallen him that weighed so heavy on his heart. and he rideth thoughtful and down-cast through the forest, and seeth a knight coming along the way he came. and in strange fashion came he. he bestrode his horse backwards in right outlandish guise, face to tail, and he had his horse's reins right across his breast and the base of his shield bore he topmost and the chief bottommost, and his spear upside down and his habergeon and chausses of iron trussed about his neck. he seeth messire gawain coming beside the forest, that hath great wonderment of him when he seeth him. natheless, when they draw nigh, he turneth him not to look at messire gawain, but crieth to him aloud: "gentle knight, you that come there, for god's sake do me no hurt, for i am the knight coward." "by god," saith messire gawain, "you look not like a man to whom any ought to do hurt!" and, but for the heaviness of his heart and the sore wrath that he had, he would have laughed at his bearing with a right good will. "sir knight," saith messire gawain, "nought have you to be afeard of from me!" with that he draweth anigh and looketh on him in the face and the knight coward on him. "sir," saith he, "welcome may you be!" "and you likewise!" saith messire gawain. "and whose man are you, sir knight?" "the damsel's man of the car." "thereof i love you the better," saith messire gawain. "god be praised thereof," saith the knight coward, "for now shall i have no fear of you." "nay, truly," saith messire gawain, "thereof be well assured!" the knight coward seeth messire gawain's shield and knoweth it. "ha, sir," saith he, "now know i well who you are. now will i alight and ride the right way and set my arms to rights. for you are messire gawain, nor hath none the right to claim this shield but only you." the knight alighteth and setteth his armour to rights, and prayeth messire gawain abide until he be armed. so he abideth right willingly, and helpeth him withal. thereupon behold you a knight where he cometh a great gallop athwart the forest like a tempest, and he had a shield party black and white. "abide, messire gawain!" saith he, "for on behalf of marin the jealous do i defy you, that hath slain his wife on your account." "sir knight," saith messire gawain, "thereof am i right heavy of heart, for death had she not deserved." "that availeth nor," saith the party knight, "for i hold you to answer for the death. so i conquer you, the wrong is yours; but, and you conquer me, my lord holdeth his blame and shame for known and will hold you to forfeit and you allow me to escape hence on live." "to this will i not agree," saith messire gawain, "for god well knoweth that no blame have i herein." "ha, messire gawain," saith the knight coward, "fight him not as having affiance in me, for of me will you have neither succour nor help!" "heretofore," saith messire gawain, "have i achieved adventures without you, and this also, and god help me, will i yet achieve." they come together a full career and break their lances on their shields, and messire gawain hurtleth against the horse and passeth beyond and overthroweth him and his horse together. then draweth he his sword and runneth upon him. and the knight crieth out: "hold, messire gawain! are you minded to slay me? i yield me conquered, for no mind have i to die for another's folly, and so i cry you mercy hereof." messire gawain thinketh that he will do him no further harm, for that of right behoveth him do his lord's bidding. messire gawain holdeth his hands, and he doth him homage on behalf of his lord for his hold and all of his land and becometh his man. vi. thereupon the knight departeth and messire gawain remaineth there. "sir," saith the knight coward to messire gawain, "i have no mind to be so hardy as are you; for, so god help me, had he defied me in such-wise as he defied you, should have fled away forthwith, or elsewise i should hay fallen at his feet and cried him of mercy." "you wish for nought but peace," saith messire gawain. "by s. james," saith the coward, "therein are you quite right, for of war cometh nought but evil; nor never have i had no hurt nor wound saw some branch of a tree or the like gave it me, and i see your face all seamed and scarred in many places. so god help me, of such hardiesse make i but small account, and every day i pray god that he defend me. and so to god i commend you, for i am going after my damsel of the car." "not thus shall you go," saith messire gawain, "save you tell me first wherefore your damsel of the car beareth her arm slung to her neck in such-wise." "sir, this may i well tell you. with this hand serve she of the most holy-graal the knight that was in the hostel of king fisherman that would not ask whereof the graal served; for that she held therein the precious vessel whereinto the glorious blood fell drop by drop from the point of the lance, so that none other thing is she minded to hold therein until such time as she shall come back to the holy place where it is. sir," saith the knight coward, "now, so please you, may i well go hence, and see, here is my spear that i give you, for nought is there that i have to do therewithal." messire gawain taketh it, for his own was broken short, and departeth from the knight and commendeth him to god. and he goeth his way a great pace, and messire gawain also goeth amidst the forest, and full weary is he and forspent with travail. and he rode until the sun was due to set. and he meeteth a knight that was coming athwart the forest and came toward messire gawain a great gallop like as he were smitten through the body, and crieth over all the forest: "what is your name, sir knight?" "my name is gawain." "ha, messire gawain," saith the other, "in your service am i wounded thus!" "how in my service?" saith messire gawain. "sir, i was minded to bury the damsel that you bare into the chapel, and marin the jealous ran upon me and wounded me in many places in such manner as you see. and i had already dug a grave with my sword to bury the body when he seized it from me and abandoned it to the wild beasts. now go i hence yonder to the chapel of a hermit that is in this forest to confess me, for well know i that i have not long to live for that the wound lieth me so nigh my heart. but i shall die the more easily now that i have found you and shown you the hurt that hath been done me for your sake." "certes," saith messire gawain, "this grieveth me." vii. therewithal the knights depart asunder, and messire gawain rode on until he found in the forest a castle right fair and rich, and met an ancient knight that was issued forth of the castle for disport, and held a bird on his fist. he saluteth messire gawain and he him again, and he asked him what castle is this that he seeth show so fair? and he telleth him it is the castle of the proud maiden that never deigned ask a knight his name. "and we, that are her men, durst not do it on her behalf. but right well will you be lodged in the castle, for right courteous is she otherwise and the fairest that ever any may know. nor never hath she had any lord, nor deigned to love no knight save she heard tell that he was the best knight in the world. and i will go to her with you of courtesy." "gramercy, sir," saith messire gawain. they enter into the castle both twain together, and alight at the mounting-stage before the hall. the knight taketh messire gawain by the hand and leadeth him up, and maketh disarm him, and bringeth him a surcoat of scarlet purfled of vair and maketh him do it on. then leadeth he the lady of the castle to messire gawain, and he riseth up to meet her. "lady," saith he "welcome may you be!" "and you, sir, be welcome!" saith she, "will you see my chapel?" "damsel," saith he, "at your pleasure." and she leadeth him and taketh messire gawain by the hand, and he looketh at the chapel and it well seemeth him that never before had he come into none so fair nor so rich, and he seeth four tombs within, the fairest that he had seen ever. and on the right hand side of the chapel were three narrow openings in the wall that were wrought all about with gold and precious stones, and beyond the three openings he seeth great circlets of lighted candles that were before three coffers of hallows that were there, and the smell thereof was sweeter than balm. "sir knight," saith the damsel, "see you these tombs?" "yea, damsel," saith messire gawain. "these three are made for the three best knights in the world and the fourth for me. the one hath for name messire gawain and the second lancelot of the lake. each of them do i love for love's sake, by my faith! and the third hath for name perceval. him love i better than the other two. and within these three openings are the hallows set for love of them. and behold what i would do to them and their three heads were therein; and so i might not do it to the three together, yet would i do it to two, or even to one only." she setteth her hand toward the openings and draweth forth a pin that was fastened into the wall, and a cutting blade of steel droppeth down, of steel sharper than any razor, and closeth up the three openings. "even thus will i cut off their heads when they shall set them into those three openings thinking to adore the hallows that are beyond. afterward will i make take the bodies and set them in the three coffins, and do them be honoured and enshrouded right richly, for joy of them in their life may i never have. and when the end of my life shall be come as god will, even so will i make set me in the fourth coffin, and so shall i have company of the three good knights." messire gawain heard the word, whereof he marvelled right sore, and would right fain that the night were overpassed. they issue forth of the chapel. the damsel maketh messire gawain be greatly honoured that night, and there was great company of knights within that served him and helped guard the castle. they show messire gawain much worship, but they knew not that it was he, nor did none ask him, for such was the custom of the castle. but well she knew that he oftentimes passed to and fro amidst the forest, and four of the knights that watched the forest and the passers-by had she commanded that and if any of these three knights should pass they should bring him to her without gainsay, and she would increase the land of each for so doing. viii. messire gawain was in the castle that night until the morrow, and went to hear mass in the chapel or ever he removed thence. afterward, when he had heard mass and was armed, he took leave of the damsel and issued forth of the castle as he that had no desire to abide there longer. and he entereth into the forest and rideth a long league welsh and findeth two knights sitting by a narrow path in the forest. and when they see him coming they leap up on their horses all armed and come against messire gawain, shields on sides and spears in fists. "bide, sir knight!" say they, "and tell us your name without leasing!" "lords," saith he, "right willingly! never hath my name been withholden when it hath been asked for. i am called gawain, king arthur's nephew." "nay, then, sir, welcome may you be! one other demand have we to make of you. will you come with us to the lady in the world who most desireth you, and will make much joy of you at castle orguelleux where she is?" "lord," saith messire gawain, "no leisure have i at this time, for i have emprised my way else-whither." "sir," say they, "needs must you come thither without fail, for in such wise hath she commanded us that we shall take you thither by force an you come not of your own good-will." "i have told you plainly that thither will i not go," saith messire gawain. with that, they leap forward and take him by the bridle, thinking to lead him away by force. and messire gawain hath shame thereof, and draweth his sword and smiteth one of them in such wrath that he cutteth off his arm. and the other letteth the bridle go and turneth him full speed; and his fellow with him that was maimed. and away go they toward castle orguelleux and the proud maiden of the castle and show her the mischief that hath befallen them. "who hath mis-handled you thus?" saith she. "certes, lady, messire gawain." "where found you him?" "lady," say they, "in the forest, where he came toward us a full gallop, and was minded to pass by the narrows of the way, when we bade him abide and come to you. but come he would not. we offered him force, and he smote my fellow's arm off." she biddeth a horn be sounded incontinent, and the knights of the castle arm, and she commandeth them follow messire gawain, and saith that she will increase the land and the charge of him that shall bring him to her. they were a good fifteen knights armed. just as they were about to issue out of the castle, behold you forthwith two keepers of the forest where they come, both twain of them smitten through the body. the damsel and the knights ask who hath done this to them, and they say it was messire gawain that did it, for that they would have brought him to the castle. "is he far away?" saith the damsel. "yea," say they, "four great leagues welsh." "wherefore the greater folly would it be to follow him," saith one of the sixteen knights, "for nought should we increase thereby save only our own shame and hurt, and my lady hath lost him through her own default, for well know we that he it was that lay within, for that he beareth a shield sinople with a golden eagle." "yea," saith the wounded knight, "without fail." "is this then he?" saith the damsel. "i know him well now that i have lost him by my pride and by my outrage; nor never more will knight lie in my hostel sith that he will be estranged for that i ask not his name. but it is too late! herein have i failed of this one for ever and ever save god bring him back to me, and through this one shall i lose the other two!" ix. herewithal cometh to a stay the pursuit of messire gawain, that goeth his way and prayeth god that he send him true counsel of that he hath emprised, and that he allow him to come into some place where he may hear true witting of the hostel of king fisherman. and while he was thus thinking, he heareth a brachet questing, and he cometh toward him a great pace. when he is come anigh messire gawain he setteth his nose to the ground and findeth a track of blood through a grassy way in the forest, and when messire gawain was minded to leave the way where the track of blood was, the brachet came over against him and quested. messire gawain is minded not to abandon the track, wherefore he followeth the brachet a great pace until he cometh to a marish in the midst of the forest, and seeth there in the marish a house, ancient and decayed. he passeth with the brachet over the bridge, that was right feeble, and there was a great water under it, and cometh to the hall, that was wasted and old. and the brachet leaveth of his questing. messire gawain seeth in the midst of house a knight that was stricken right through the breast unto the heart and there lay dead. a damsel was issuing forth of the chamber and bare the winding-sheet wherein to enshroud him. "damsel," saith messire gawain, "good adventure may you have!" the damsel that was weeping right tenderly, saith to him: "sir, i will answer you not." she cometh toward the dead knight, thinking that his wounds should have begun to bleed afresh, but they did not. "sir," saith she to messire gawain, "welcome may you be!" "damsel," saith he. "god grant you greater joy than you have!" and the damsel saith to the brachet: "it was not this one i sent you back to fetch, but him that slew this knight." "know you then, damsel, who hath slain him?" saith messire gawain. "yea," saith she, "well! lancelot of the lake slew him in this forest, on whom god grant me vengeance, and on all them of king arthur's court, for sore mischief and great hurt have they wrought us! but, please god, right well shall this knight yet be avenged, for a right fair son hath he whose sister am i, and so hath he many good friends withal." "damsel, to god i commend you!" saith messire gawain. with that, he issueth forth of the waste manor and betaketh him back to the way he had abandoned, and prayeth god grant he may find lancelot of the lake. branch v. incipit. here beginneth again another branch of the graal in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost. title i. messire gawain goeth his way and evening draweth on; and on his right hand was there a narrow pathway that seemed him to be haunted of folk. thitherward goeth he, for that he seeth the sun waxeth low, and findeth in the thick of the forest a great chapel, and without was a right fair manor. before the chapel was an orchard enclosed of a wooden fence that was scarce so high as a tall man. a hermit that seemed him a right worshipful man was leaning against the fence, and looked into the orchard and made great cheer from time to time. he seeth messire gawain, and cometh to meet him, and messire gawain alighteth. "sir," saith the hermit, "welcome may you be." "god grant you the joy of paradise," saith messire gawain. the hermit maketh his horse be stabled of a squire, and then taketh him by the hand and maketh him sit beside him to look on the orchard. "sir," saith the hermit, "now may you see that whereof i was making cheer." messire gawain looketh therewithin and seeth two damsels and a squire and a child that were guarding a lion. "sir," saith the hermit, "here see my joy, which is this child. saw you ever so fair a child his age?" "never," saith messire gawain. they go into the orchard to sit, for the evening was fair and calm. he maketh disarm him, and thereupon the damsel bringeth him a surcoat of right rich silk furred of ermine. and messire gawain looketh at the child that rode upon the lion right fainly. "sir," saith the hermit, "none durst guard him or be master over him save this child only, and yet the lad is not more than six years of age. sir, he is of right noble lineage, albeit he is the son of the most cruel man and most felon that is. marin the jealous is his father, that slew his wife on account of messire gawain. never sithence that his mother was dead would not the lad be with his father, for well knoweth he that he slew her of wrong. and i am his uncle, so i make him be tended here of these damsels and these two squires, but no one thing is there that he so much desireth to see as messire gawain. for after his father's death ought he of right to be messire gawain's man. sir, if any tidings you know of him, tell us them." "by my faith, sir," saith he, "tidings true can i give you. lo, there is his shield and his spear, and himself shall you have this night for guest." "fair sir, are you he?" saith the hermit. "so men call me," saith messire gawain, "and the lady saw i slain in the forest, whereof was i sore an-angered." ii. "fair nephew," saith the hermit, "see here your desire. come to him and make him cheer." the lad alighteth of the lion and smiteth him with a whip and leadeth him to the den and maketh the door so that he may not issue forth, and cometh to messire gawain, and messire gawain receiveth him between his arms. "sir," saith the child, "welcome may you be!" "god give you growth of honour!" saith messire gawain. he kisseth him and maketh cheer with him right sweetly. "sir," saith the hermit, "he will be of right your man, wherefore ought you to counsel him and help him, for through you came his mother by her death, and right sore need will he have of your succour." the child kneeleth before him and holdeth up his joined hands. "look, sir," saith the hermit, "is he not right pitiful? he offereth you his homage." and messire gawain setteth his hands within his own: "certes," saith messire gawain, "both your honour and your homage receive i gladly, and my succour and my counsel shall you have so often as you shall have need thereof. but fain would i know your name?" "sir, i am called meliot of logres." "sir," saith the hermit, "he saith true, for his mother was daughter of a rich earl of the kingdom of logres." iii. messire gawain was well harboured the night and lay in a right fair house and right rich. in the morning, when messire gawain had heard mass, the hermit asked him, "whitherward go you?" and he said, "toward the land of king fisherman, and god allow me." "messire gawain," saith the hermit, "now god grant you speed your business better than did the other knight that was there before you, through whom are all the lands fallen into sorrow, and the good king fisherman languisheth thereof." "sir," saith messire gawain, "god grant me herein to do his pleasure." thereupon he taketh his leave and goeth his way, and the hermit commendeth him to god. and messire gawain rideth on his journeys until he hath left far behind the forest of the hermitage, and findeth the fairest land in the world and the fairest meadowlands that ever had he seen, and it lasted a good couple of great leagues welsh. and he seeth a high forest before him, and meeteth a squire that came from that quarter, and seeth that he is sore downcast and right simple. "fair friend," saith messire gawain, "whence come you?" "sir," saith he, "i come from yonder forest down below." "whose man are you?" saith messire gawain. "i belong to the worshipful man that owneth the forest." "you seem not over joyful," saith messire gawain. "sir, i have right to be otherwise," saith the squire, "for he that loseth his good lord ought not to be joyful." "and who is your lord?" "the best in the world." "is he dead?" saith messire gawain. "nay, of a truth, for that would be right sore grief to the world, but in joy hath he not been this long time past." "and what name hath he?" "they call him parlui there where he is." "and where then, is he, may i know?" "in no wise, sir, of me; but so much may i well tell you that he is in this forest, but i ought not to learn you of the place more at large, nor ought i to do any one thing that may be against my master's will." messire gawain seeth that the squire is of passing comeliness and seeth him forthwith bow his head toward the ground and the tears fall from his eyes. thereupon he asketh what aileth him. "sir," saith he, "never may i have joy until such time as i be entered into a hermitage to save my soul. for the greatest sin that any man may do have i wrought; for i have slain my mother that was a queen, for this only that she told me i should not be king after my father's death, for that she would make me monk or clerk, and that my other brother, who is younger-born than i, should have the kingdom. when my father knew that i had slain my mother, he withdrew himself into this forest, and made a hermitage and renounced his kingdom. i have no will to hold the land for the great disloyalty that i have wrought, and therefore am i resolved that it is meeter i should set my body in banishment than my father." "and what is your name?" saith messire gawain. "sir, my name is joseus, and i am of the lineage of joseph of abarimacie. king pelles is my father, that is in this forest, and king fisherman mine uncle, and the king of castle mortal, and the widow lady of camelot my aunt, and the good knight par-lui-fet is of this lineage as near akin as i." iv. with that, the squire departeth and taketh leave of messire gawain, and he commendeth him to god and hath great pity of him, and entereth into the forest and goeth great pace, and findeth the stream of a spring that ran with a great rushing, and nigh thereunto was a way that was much haunted. he abandoneth his high-way, and goeth all along the stream from the spring that lasteth a long league plenary, until that he espieth a right fair house and right fair chapel well enclosed within a hedge of wood. he looketh from without the entrance under a little tree and seeth there sitting one of the seemliest men that he had ever seen of his age. and he was clad as a hermit, his head white and no hair on his face, and he held his hand to his chin, and made a squire hold a destrier right fair and strong and tail, and a shield with a sun thereon; and he was looking at a habergeon and chausses of iron that he had made bring before him. and when he seeth messire gawain he dresseth him over against him and saith: "fair sir," saith he, "ride gently and make no noise, for no need have we of worse than that we have." and messire gawain draweth rein, and the worshipful man saith to him: "sir, for god's sake take it not of discourtesy; for right fainly would i have besought you to harbour had i not good cause to excuse me, but a knight lieth within yonder sick, that is held for the best knight in the world. wherefore fain would i he should have no knight come within this close, for and if he should rise, as sick as he is, none might prevent him nor hold him back, but presently he should arm him and mount on his horse and joust at you or any other; and so he were here, well might we be the worse thereof. and therefore do i keep him so close and quiet within yonder, for that i would not have him see you nor none other, for and he were so soon to die, sore loss would it be to the world." "sir," saith messire gawain, "what name hath he?" "sir," saith he, "he hath made him of himself, and therefore do i call him par-lui-fer, of dearness and love." "sir," saith messire gawain, "may it not be in any wise that i may see him?" "sir," saith the hermit, "i have told you plainly that nowise may it not be. no strange man shall not see him within yonder until such time as he be whole and of good cheer." "sir," saith messire gawain, "will you in nowise do nought for me whatsoever i may say?" "certes, sir, no one thing is there in the world that i would tell him, save he spake first to me." hereof is messire gawain right sorrowful that he may not speak to the knight. "sir," saith he to the hermit, "of what age is the knight, and of what lineage?" "of the lineage of joseph of abarimacie the good soldier." v. thereupon behold you a damsel that cometh to the door of the chapel and calleth very low to the hermit, and the hermit riseth up and taketh leave of messire gawain, and shutteth the door of the chapel; and the squire leadeth away the destrier and beareth the arms within door and shutteth the postern door of the house. and messire abideth without and knoweth not of a truth whether it be the son of the widow lady, for many good men there be of one lineage. he departeth all abashed and entereth again into the forest. the history telleth not all the journeys that he made. rather, i tell you in brief words that he wandered so far by lands and kingdoms that he found a right fair land and a rich, and a castle seated in the midst thereof. thitherward goeth he and draweth nigh the castle and seeth it compassed about of high walls, and he seeth the entrance of the castle far without. he looketh and seeth a lion chained that lay in the midst of the entrance to the gate, and the chain was fixed in the wall. and on either side of the gate he seeth two serjeants of beaten copper that were fixed to the wall, and by engine shot forth quarrels from their cross-bows with great force and great wrath. messire gawain durst not come anigh the gate for that he seeth the lion and these folk. he looketh above on the top of the wall and seeth a sort of folk that seemed him to be of holy life, and saw there priests clad in albs and knights bald and ancient that were clad in ancient seeming garments. and in each crenel of the wall was a cross and a chapel. above the wall, hard by an issue from a great hall that was in the castle, was another chapel, and above the chapel was a tall cross, and on either side of this cross another that was somewhat lower, and on the top of each cross was a golden eagle. the priests and the knights were upon the walls and knelt toward this chapel, and looked up to heaven and made great joy, and well it seemed him that they beheld god in heaven with his mother. messire gawain looketh at them from afar, for he durst not come anigh the castle for these that shoot their arrows so strongly that none armour might defend him. way seeth he none to right nor left save he go back again. he knoweth not what to do. he looketh before him and seeth a priest issue forth of the gateway. "fair sir," saith messire gawain, "welcome may you be!" "good adventure to you also," saith the good man, "what is your pleasure?" "sir," saith messire gawain, "so please you, i would fain ask you to tell me what castle is this?" "it is," saith he, "the entrance to the land of the rich king fisherman, and within yonder are they beginning the service of the most holy graal." "allow me then," saith messire gawain, "that i may pass on further, for toward the land of king fisherman have i emprised my way." "sir," saith the priest, "i tell you of a truth that you may not enter the castle nor come nigher unto the holy graal, save you bring the sword wherewith s. john was beheaded." "what?" saith messire gawain, "shall i be evilly entreated and i bring it not?" "so much may you well believe me herein," saith the priest, "and i tell you moreover that he who hath it is the fellest misbelieving king that lives. but so you bring the sword, this entrance will be free to you, and great joy will be made of you in all places wherein king fisherman hath power." "then must i needs go back again," saith messire gawain, "whereof i have right to be sore sorrowful." "so ought you not to be," saith the priest, "for, so you bring the sword and conquer it for us, then will it be well known that you are worthy to behold the holy graal. but take heed you remember him who would not ask whereof it served." thereupon messire gawain departeth so sorrowful and full of thought that he remembereth not to ask in what land he may find the sword nor the name of the king that hath it. but he will know tidings thereof when god pleaseth. vi. the history telleth us and witnesseth that he rode so far that he came to the side of a little hill, and the day was right fair and clear. he looketh in front of him before a chapel and seeth a tall burgess sitting on a great destrier that was right rich and fair. the burgess espieth messire gawain and cometh over against him, and saluteth him right courteously and messire gawain him. "sir," saith messire gawain, "god give you joy." "sir," saith the goodman, "right sorrowful am i of this that you have a horse so lean and spare of flesh. better would it become so worshipful man as you seem to be that he were better horsed." "sir," saith messire gawain, "i may not now amend it, whereof am i sorry; another shall i have when it shall please god." "fair sir," saith the burgess, "whither are you bound to go?" "i go seek the sword wherewith the head of s. john baptist was cut off." "ha, sir," saith the burgess, "you are running too sore a peril. a king hath it that believeth not in god, and is sore fell and cruel. he is named gurgalain, and many knights have passed hereby that went thither for the sword, but never thence have they returned. but, and you are willing to pledge me your word that so god grant you to conquer the sword, you will return hither and show it me on your return, i will give you this destrier, which is right rich, for your own." "will you?" saith messire gawain, "then are you right courteous, for you know me not." "certes, sir," saith he, "so worshipful man seem you to be, that you will hold well to this that you have covenanted with me." "and to this do i pledge you my word," saith messire gawain, "that, so god allow me to conquer it, i will show it to you on my return." vii. thereupon the burgess alighteth and mounteth upon messire gawain's horse, and messire gawain upon his, and taketh leave of the burgess and goeth his way and entereth into a right great forest beyond the city, and rideth until sundown and findeth neither castle nor city. and he findeth a meadow in the midst of the forest, right broad, and it ran on beyond, like as there were the stream of a spring in the midst. he looketh toward the foot of the meadow close by the forest, and seeth a right large tent, whereof the cords were of silk and the pegs of ivory fixed in the ground, and the tops of the poles of gold and upon each was a golden eagle. the tent was white round about, and the hanging above was of the richest silk, the same as red samite. thitherward goeth messire gawain and alighteth before the door of the tent, and smiteth off the bridle of his horse, and letteth him feed on the grass, and leaneth his spear and his shield without the tent, and looketh narrowly within and seeth a right rich couch of silk and gold, and below was a cloth unfolded as it were a feather-bed, and above a coverlid of ermine and vair without any gold, and at the head of the couch two pillows so rich that fairer none ever saw, and such sweet smell gave they forth that it seemed the tent was sprinkled of balm. and round about the couch were rich silken cloths spread on the ground. and at the head of the couch on the one side and the other were two seats of ivory, and upon them were two cushions stuffed with straw, right rich, and at the foot of the couch, above the bed, two candlesticks of gold wherein were two tall waxen tapers. a table was set in the midst of the tent, that was all of ivory banded of gold, with rich precious stones, and upon the table was the napkin spread and the basin of silver and the knife with an ivory handle and the rich set of golden vessels. messire gawain seeth the rich couch and setteth him down thereon all armed in the midst, and marvelleth him wherefore the tent is so richly apparelled and yet more that therein he seeth not a soul. howbeit, he was minded to disarm him. viii. thereupon, behold you, saluteth a dwarf that entereth the tent and saluteth messire gawain. then he kneeleth before him and would fain disarm him. then messire gawain remembereth him of the dwarf through whom the lady was slain. "fair sweet friend, withdraw yourself further from me, for as at this time i have no mind to disarm." "sir," saith the dwarf, "without misgiving may you do so, for until to-morrow have you no occasion to be on your guard, and never were you more richly lodged than to-night you shall be, nor more honourably." with that messire gawain began to disarm him, and the dwarf helpeth him. and when he was disarmed, he setteth his arms nigh the couch and his spear and sword and shield lying within the tent, and the dwarf taketh a basin of silver and a white napkin, and maketh messire gawain wash his hands and his face. afterward, he unfasteneth a right fair coffer, and draweth forth a robe of cloth of gold furred of ermine and maketh messire gawain be clad therewithal. "sir," saith the dwarf, "be not troubled as touching your destrier, for you will have him again when you rise in the morning. i will lead him close hereby to be better at ease, and then will i return to you." and messire gawain giveth him leave. thereupon, behold you, two squires that bear in the wine and set the meats upon the table and make messire gawain sit to eat, and they have great torches lighted on a tall cresset of gold and depart swiftly. whilst messire gawain was eating, behold you, thereupon, two damsels that come into the tent and salute him right courteously. and he maketh answer, the fairest he may. "sir," say the damsels, "god grant you force and power tomorrow to destroy the evil custom of this tent." "is there then any evil custom herein, damsel?" saith he. "yea, sir, a right foul custom, whereof much it grieveth me, but well meseemeth that you are the knight to amend it by the help of god." ix. therewith he riseth from the table, and one of the squires was apparelled to take away the cloths. and the two damsels take him by the hand and lead him without the tent, and they set them down in the midst of the meadow. "sir," saith the elder damsel, "what is your name?" "damsel," saith he, "gawain is my name." "thereof do we love you the better, for well we know that the evil custom of the tent shall be done away on condition that you choose to-night the one of us two that most shall please you." "damsel, gramercy," saith he. thereupon he riseth up, for he was weary, and draweth him toward the couch, and the damsels help him and wait upon his going to bed. and when he was lien down, they seated themselves before him and lighted the taper and leant over the couch and prospered him much service. messire gawain answered them naught save "gramercy," for he was minded to sleep and take his rest. "by god," saith the one to the other, "and this were messire gawain, king arthur's nephew, he would speak to us after another sort, and more of disport should we find in him than in this one. but this is a counterfeit gawain, and the honour we have done him hath been ill bestowed. who careth? to-morrow shall he pay his reckoning." x. thereupon, lo you, the dwarf where he cometh. "fair friend," say they, "keep good watch over this knight that he flee not away, for he goeth a-cadging from, hostel to hostel and maketh him be called messire gawain, but messire gawain meseemeth is he not. for, and it were he, and we had been minded to watch with him two nights, he would have wished it to be three or four." "damsel," saith the dwarf, "he may not flee away save he go afoot, for his horse is in my keeping." and messire gawain heareth well enough that which the damsels say, but he answereth them never a word. thereupon they depart, and say: god give him an ill night, for an evil knight and a vanquished and recreant, and command the dwarf that he move not on any occasion. messire gawain slept right little the night, and so soon as he saw the day, arose and found his arms ready and his horse that had been led all ready saddled before the tent. he armed himself as swiftly as he might, and the dwarf helpeth him and saith to him: "sir, you have not done service to our damsels as they would fain you should, wherefore they make sore complaint of you." "that grieveth me," saith messire gawain, "if that i have deserved it." "it is great pity," saith the dwarf, "when knight so comely as be you is so churlish as they say." "they may say their pleasure," saith he, "for it is their right. i know not to whom to render thanks for the good lodging that i have had save to god, and if i shall see the lord of the tent or the lady i shall con them much thanks thereof." xi. thereupon, lo you, where two knights come in front of the tent on their horses, all armed, and see messire gawain that was mounted and had his shield on his neck and his spear in his fist, as he that thinketh to go without doing aught further. and the knights come before him: "sir," say they, "pay for your lodging! last night did we put ourselves to misease on your account and left you the tent and all that is therein at your pleasure, and now you are fain to go in this fashion." "what pleaseth it you that i should do?" saith messire gawain. "it is meet i should requite you of my victual and the honour of the tent." thereupon, lo you, where the two damsels come that were of right great beauty. "sir knight," say they, "now shall we see whether you be king arthur's nephew!" "by my faith," saith the dwarf, "methinketh this is not he that shall do away the evil custom whereby we lose the coming hither of knights! albeit if he may do it, i will forego mine ill will toward him." messire gawain thus heard himself mocked by day as well as by night and had great shame thereof. he seeth that he may not depart without a fight. one of the knights drew to backward and was alighted; the other was upon his horse all armed, his shield on his neck and grasping his spear in his fist. and he cometh toward messire gawain full career and messire gawain toward him, and smiteth him so wrathfully that he pierceth his shield and pinneth his shield to his arm and his arm to his rib and thrusteth his spear into his body, and hurtleth against him so sore that he beareth him to the ground, him and his horse together at the first blow. "by my head! look at messire gawain the counterfeit! better doth he to-day than he did last night!" he draweth back his spear, and pulleth forth his sword and runneth upon him, when the knight crieth him mercy and saith that he holdeth himself vanquished. messire gawain bethinketh him what he shall do and whether the damsels are looking at him. "sir knight," saith the elder, "need you not fear the other knight until such time as this one be slain, nor will the evil custom be done away so long as this one is on live. for he is the lord of the other and because of the shameful custom hath no knight come hither this right long space." "hearken now," saith the knight, "the great disloyalty of her! nought in the world is there she loved so well in seeming as did she me, and now hath she adjudged me my death!" "again i tell you plainly," saith she, "that never will it be done away unless he slay you." thereupon messire gawain lifteth the skirt of his habergeon and thrusteth his sword into his body. thereupon, lo you, the other knight, right angry and sorrowful and full of wrath for his fellow that he seeth dead, and cometh in great rage to messire gawain and messire gawain to him, and so stoutly they mell together that they pierce the shields and pierce the habergeons and break the flesh of the ribs with the points of their spears, and the bodies of the knights and their horses hurtle together so stiffly that saddle-bows are to-frushed and stirrups loosened and girths to-brast and fewtres splintered and spears snapped short, and the knights drop to the ground with such a shock that the blood rayeth forth at mouth and nose. in the fall that the knight made, messire gawain brake his collar-bone in the hurtle. thereupon the dwarf crieth out: "damsel, your counterfeit gawain doth it well!" "our gawain shall he be," say they, "so none take him from us!" messire gawain draweth from over the knight and cometh toward his horse, and right fain would he have let the knight live had it not been for the damsels. for the knight crieth him mercy and messire gawain had right great pity of him. howbeit the damsels cry to him; "and you slay him not, the evil custom will not be overthrown." "sir," saith the younger damsel, "and you would slay him, smite him in the sole of his foot with your sword, otherwise will he not die yet." "damsel," saith the knight, "your love of me is turned to shame! never more ought knight to set affiance nor love on damsel. but god keep the other that they be not such as you!" messire gawain marvelleth at this that the damsel saith to him, and draweth him back, and hath great pity of the knight, and cometh to the other side whither the horses were gone, and taketh the saddle of the knight that was dead and setteth it on his own horse and draweth him away. and the wounded knight was remounted, for the dwarf had helped him, and fleeth toward the forest a great gallop. and the damsels cry out, "messire gawain, your pity will be our death this day! for the knight without pity is gone for succour, and if he escape, we shall be dead and you also!" xii. thereupon messire gawain leapeth on his horse and taketh a spear that was leaning against the tent and followeth the knight in such sort that he smiteth him to the ground. afterward he saith to him: "no further may you go!" "that grieveth me," saith the knight, "for before night should i have been avenged of you and of the damsels." and messire gawain draweth his sword and thrusteth it into the sole of his foot a full palm's breadth, and the knight stretcheth himself forth and dieth. and messire gawain returneth back, and the damsels make great joy of him and tell him that never otherwise could the evil custom have been done away. for, and he had gone his way, all would have been to begin over again, for he is of such kind seeing that he was of the kindred of achilles, and that all his ancestors might never otherwise die. and messire gawain alighteth, and the damsels would have searched the wound in his side, and he telleth them that he taketh no heed thereof. "sir," say they, "again do we proffer you our service, for well we know that you are a good knight. take for your lady-love which of us you will." "gramercy, damsel," saith messire gawain, "your love do i refuse not and to god do i commend you." "how?" say the damsels, "will you go your way thus? certes, meeter were it to-day for you to sojourn in this tent and be at ease." "it may not be," saith he, "for leisure have i none to abide here." "let him go!" saith the younger, "for the falsest knight is he of the world." "by my head," saith the elder, "it grieveth me that he goeth, for stay would have pleased me well." therewithal messire gawain departeth and is remounted on his horse. then he entereth into the forest. branch vi. incipit. another branch that josephus telleth us recounteth and witnesseth of the holy graal, and here beginneth for us in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost. title i. messire gawain rode until he came to a forest, and seeth a land right fair and rich in a great enclosure of wall, and round the land and country-side within, the wall stretched right far away. thitherward he cometh and seeth but one entrance thereinto, and he seeth the fairest land that ever he beheld and the best garnished and the fairest orchards. the country was not more than four leagues welsh in length, and in the midst thereof was a tower on a high rock. and on the top was a crane that kept watch over it and cried when any strange man came into the country. messire gawain rode amidst the land and the crane cried out so loud that the king of wales heard it, that was lord of the land. thereupon, behold you, two knights that come after messire gawain and say to him: "hold, sir knight, and come speak with the king of this country, for no strange knight passeth through his land but he seeth him." "lords," saith messire gawain, "i knew not of the custom. willingly will i go." they led him thither to the hall where the king was, and messire gawain alighteth and setteth his shield and his spear leaning against a mounting stage and goeth up into the hall. the king maketh great joy of him and asketh him whither he would go? "sir," saith messire gawain, "into a country where i was never." "well i know," saith the king, "where it is, for that you are passing through my land. you are going to the country of king gurgalain to conquer the sword wherewith s. john was beheaded." ii. "sir," saith messire gawain, "you say true. god grant me that i may have it!" "that may not be so hastily," saith the king, "for you shall not go forth of my land before a year." "ha, sir," saith messire gawain, "for god's sake, mercy!" "none other mercy is here," saith the king. straightway he maketh messire gawain be disarmed and afterward maketh bring a robe wherewith to apparel him, and showeth him much honour. but ill is he at ease, wherefore he saith to him: "sir, wherefore are you fain to hold me here within so long?" "for this, that i know well you will have the sword and will not return by me." "sir," saith messire gawain, "i pledge you my word that, so god give me to conquer it, i will return by you." "and i will allow you to depart from me at your will. for nought is there that i so much desire to see." he lay the night therewithin, and on the morrow departed thence and issued forth of the land right glad and joyful. and he goeth toward the land of king gurgalain. and he entereth into a noisome forest at the lower part and findeth at the right hour of noon a fountain that was enclosed of marble, and it was overshadowed of the forest like as it were with leaves down below, and it had rich pillars of marble all round about with fillets of gold and set with precious stones. against the master-pillar hung a vessel of gold by a silver chain, and in the midst of the fountain was an image so deftly wrought as if it had been alive. when messire appeared at the fountain, the image set itself in the water and was hidden therewith. messire gawain goeth down, and would fain have taken hold on the vessel of gold when a voice crieth out to him: "you are not the good knight unto whom is served thereof and who thereby is made whole." messire gawain draweth him back and seeth a clerk come to the fountain that was young of age and clad in white garments, and he had a stole on his arm and held a little square vessel of gold, and cometh to the little vessel that was hanging on the marble pillar and looketh therein, and then rinseth out the other little golden vessel that he held, and then setteth the one that he held in the place of the other. therewithal, behold, three damsels that come of right great beauty, and they had white garments and their heads were covered with white cloths, and they carried, one, bread in a little golden vessel, and the other wine in a little ivory vessel, and the third flesh in one of silver. and they come to the vessel of gold that hung against the pillar and set therein that which they have brought, and afterward they make the sign of the cross over the pillar and come back again. but on their going back, it seemed to messire gawain that only one was there. messire gawain much marvelled him of this miracle. he goeth after the clerk that carried the other vessel of gold, and saith unto him: "fair sir, speak to me." "what is your pleasure?" saith the clerk. "whither carry you this golden vessel and that which is therein?" "to the hermits," saith he, "that are in this forest, and to the good knight that lieth sick in the house of his uncle king hermit." "is it far from hence?" saith messire gawain. "yea, sir," saith the clerk, "to yourself. but i shall be there sooner than will you." "by god," saith messire gawain, "i would fain i were there now, so that i might see him and speak to him." "that believe i well," saith the clerk, "but now is the place not here." messire gawain taketh leave and goeth his way and rideth until he findeth a hermitage and seeth the hermit therewithout. he was old and bald and of good life. "sir," saith he to messire gawain, "whither go you?" "to the land of king gurgalain, sir; is this the way?" "yea," saith the hermit, "but many knights have passed hereby that hither have never returned." "is it far?" saith he. "he and his land are hard by, but far away is the castle wherein is the sword." messire gawain lay the night therewithin. on the morrow when he had heard mass, he departed and rode until he cometh to the land of king gurgalain, and heareth the folk of the land making dole right sore. and he meeteth a knight that cometh a great pace to a castle. iv. "sir," saith messire gawain, "wherefore make the folk of this castle such dole, and they of all this land and all this country? for i hear them weep and beat their palms together on every side." "sir," saith he, "i will tell you. king gurgalain had one only son of whom he hath been bereft by a giant that hath done him many mischiefs and wasted much of his land. now hath the king let everywhere be cried that to him that shall bring back his son and slay the giant he will give the fairest sword of the world, the which sword he hath, and of all his treasure so much as he may be fain to take. as at this time, he findeth no knight so hardy that he durst go; and much more blameth he his own law than the law of the christians, and he saith that if any christian should come into his land, he would receive him." right joyous is messire gawain of these tidings, and departeth from the castle and rideth on until he cometh to the castle of king gurgalain. the tidings come to the king that there is a christian come into his castle. the king maketh great joy thereof, and maketh him come before him and asketh him of his name and of what land he is. "sir," saith he, "my name is gawain and i am of the land of king arthur." "you are," saith he, "of the land of the good knight. but of mine own land may i find none that durst give counsel in a matter i have on hand. but if you be of such valour that you be willing to undertake to counsel me herein, right well will i reward you. a giant hath carried off my son whom i loved greatly, and so you be willing to set your body in jeopardy for my son, i will give you the richest sword that was ever forged, whereby the head of s. john was cut off. every day at right noon is it bloody, for that at that hour the good man had his head cut off." the king made fetch him the sword, and in the first place showeth him the scabbard that was loaded of precious stones and the mountings were of silk with buttons of gold, and the hilt in likewise, and the pommel of a most holy sacred stone that enax, a high emperor of rome, made be set thereon. then the king draweth it forth of the scabbard, and the sword came forth thereof all bloody, for it was the hour of noon. and he made hold it before messire gawain until the hour was past, and thereafter the sword becometh as clear as an emerald and as green. and messire looketh at it and coveteth it much more than ever he did before, and he seeth that it is as long as another sword, albeit, when it is sheathed in the scabbard, neither scabbard nor sword seemeth of two spans length. v. "sir knight," saith the king, "this sword will i give you, and another thing will i do whereof you shall have joy." "sir," saith messire gawain, "and i will do your need, if god please and his sweet mother." thereupon he teacheth him the way whereby the giant went, and the place where he had his repair, and messire gawain goeth his way thitherward and commendeth himself to god. the country folk pray for him according to their belief that he may back repair with life and health, for that he goeth in great peril. he hath ridden until that he cometh to a great high mountain that lay round about a land that the giant had all laid waste, and the enclosure of the mountain went round about for a good three leagues welsh, and therewithin was the giant, so great and cruel and horrible that he feared no man in the world, and for a long time had he not been sought out by any knight, for none durst won in that quarter. and the pass of the mountain whereby he went to his hold was so strait that no horse might get through; wherefore behoveth messire gawain leave his horse and his shield and spear and to pass beyond the mountain by sheer force, for the way was like a cut between sharp rocks. he is come to level ground and looketh before him and seeth a hold that the giant had on the top of a rock, and espieth the giant and the lad where they were sitting on the level ground under a tree. messire gawain was armed and had his sword girt on, and goeth his way thitherward. and the giant seeth him coming and leapeth up and taketh in hand a great axe that was at his side, and cometh toward messire gawain all girded for the fight and thinketh to smite him a two-handed stroke right amidst the head. but messire gawain swerveth aside and bestirreth him with his sword and dealeth him a blow such that he cut off his arm, axe and all. and the giant returneth backward when he feeleth himself wounded, and taketh the king's son by the neck with his other hand and grippeth him so straitly that he strangleth and slayeth him. then he cometh back to messire gawain and falleth upon him and grippeth him sore strait by the flanks, and lifteth him three foot high off the ground and thinketh to carry him to his hold that was within the rock. and as he goeth thither he falleth, messire gawain and all, and he lieth undermost. howbeit, he thinketh to rise, but cannot, for messire gawain sendeth him his sword right through his heart and beyond. afterward, he cut off the head and cometh there where the king's child lay dead, whereof is he right sorrowful. and he beareth him on his neck, and taketh the giant's head in his hand and returneth there where he had left his horse and shield and spear, and mounteth and cometh back and bringeth the king's son before the king and the head of the giant hanging. vi. the king and all they of the castle come to meet him with right great joy, but when they see the young man dead, their great joy is turned into right great dole thereby. and messire gawain alighteth before the castle and presenteth to the king his son and the head of the giant. "certes," said he, "might i have presented him to you on live, much more joyful should i have been thereof." "this believe i well," saith the king, "howbeit, of so much as you have done am i well pleased, and your guerdon shall you have." and he looketh at his son and lamenteth him right sweetly, and all they of the castle after him. thereafter he maketh light a great show of torches in the midst of the city, and causeth a great fire to be made, and his son be set thereon in a brazen vessel all full of water, and maketh him be cooked and sodden over this fire, and maketh the giant's head be hanged at the gate. vii. when his son was well cooked, he maketh him be cut up as small as he may, and biddeth send for all the high men of his land and giveth thereof to each so long as there was any left. after that he maketh bring the sword and giveth it to messire gawain, and messire gawain thanketh him much thereof. "more yet will i do for you," saith the king. he biddeth send for all the men of his land to come to his hall and castle. "sir," saith he, "i am fain to baptize me." "god be praised thereof," saith messire gawain. the king biddeth send for a hermit of the forest, and maketh himself be baptized, and he had the name of archis in right baptism; and of all them that were not willing to believe in god, he commanded messire gawain that he should cut off their heads. viii. in such wise was this king baptized that was the lord of albanie, by the miracle of god and the knighthood of messire gawain, that departeth from the castle with right great joy and rideth until he has come into the land of the king of wales and bethought him he would go fulfil his pledge. he alighted before the hall, and the king made right great cheer when he saw him come. and messire gawain hath told him: "i come to redeem my pledge. behold, here is the sword." and the king taketh it in his hand and looketh thereon right fainly, and afterward maketh great joy thereof and setteth it in his treasury and saith: "now have i done my desire." "sir," saith messire gawain, "then have you betrayed me." "by my head," saith the king, "that have i not, for i am of the lineage of him that beheaded s. john, wherefore have i better right to it than you." "sir," say the knights to the king, "right loyal and courteous knight is messire gawain, wherefore yield him that which he hath conquered, for sore blame will you have of evil-treating him." "i will yield it," saith the king "on such condition that the first damsel that maketh request of him, what thing soever she may require and whatsoever it be shall not be denied of him." and messire gawain agreeth thereto, and of this agreement thereafter did he suffer much shame and anguish and was blamed of many knights. and the king yielded him the sword. he lay the night therewithin, and on the morrow so soon as he might, he departed and rode until he came without the city where the burgess gave him the horse in exchange for his own. and he remembered him of his covenant, and abideth a long space and leaneth him on the hilt of his sword until the burgess cometh. therewithal made they great joy the one of the other, and messire showeth him the sword, and the burgess taketh it and smiteth his horse with his spurs and goeth a great gallop toward the city. and messire gawain goeth after a great pace and crieth out that he doth great treachery. "come not after me into the city," saith the burgess, "for the folk have a commune." howbeit, he followeth after into the city for that he might not overtake him before, and therein he meeteth a great procession of priests and clerks that bore crosses and censers. and messire gawain alighteth on account of the procession, and seeth the burgess that hath gone into the church and the procession after. "lords," saith messire gawain, "make yield me the sword whereof this burgess that hath entered your church hath plundered me." "sir," say the priests, "well know we that it is the sword wherewith s. john was beheaded, wherefore the burgess hath brought it to us to set with our hallows in yonder, and saith that it was given him." "ha, lords!" saith messire gawain, "not so! i have but shown it to him to fulfil my pledge. and he hath carried it off by treachery." afterward he telleth them as it had befallen him, and the priests make the burgess give it up, and with great joy messire gawain departeth and remounteth his horse and issueth forth of the city. he hath scarce gone far before he meeteth a knight that came all armed, as fast as his horse could carry him, spear in rest. "sir," saith he to messire gawain, "i have come to help you. we were told that you had been evil-entreated in the city, and i am of the castle that succoureth all strange knights that pass hereby whensoever they have need thereof." "sir," saith messire gawain, "blessed be the castle! i plain me not of the trespass for that right hath been done me. and how is the castle named?" "sir, they call it the castle of the ball. will you return back thither with me, since you are delivered, and lodge there the night with messire, that is a right worshipful man, and of good conditions?" therewith they go together to the castle, that was right fair and well-seeming. they enter in, and when they were within, the lord, that sate on a mounting-stage of marble, had two right fair daughters, and he made them play before him with a ball of gold, and looked at them right fainly. he seeth messire gawain alight and cometh to meet him and maketh him great cheer. afterward, he biddeth his two daughters lead him into the hall. ix. when he was disarmed, the one brought him a right rich robe, and after meat the two maidens sit beside him and make him right great cheer. thereupon behold you, a dwarf that issueth forth of a chamber, and he holdeth a scourge. and he cometh to the damsels and smiteth them over their faces and their heads. "rise up," saith he, "ye fools, ill-taught! ye make cheer unto him whom you ought to hate! for this is messire gawain, king arthur's nephew, by whom was your uncle slain!" thereupon they rise, all ashamed, and go into the chamber, and messire gawain remaineth there sore abashed. but their father comforteth him and saith: "sir, be not troubled for aught that he saith, for the dwarf is our master: he chastiseth and teacheth my daughters, and he is wroth for that you have slain his brother, whom you slew the day that marin slew his wife on your account, whereof we are right sorrowful in this castle." "so also am i," saith messire gawain, "but no blame of her death have i nor she, as god knoweth of very truth." x. messire gawain lay the night at the castle, and departed on the morrow, and rode on his journeys until he cometh to the castle at the entrance to the land of the rich king fisherman, where he seeth that the lion is not at the entrance nor were the serjeants of copper shooting. and he seeth in great procession the priests and them of the castle coming to meet him, and he alighteth, and a squire was apparelled ready, that took his armour and his horse, and he showeth the sword to them that were come to meet him. it was the hour of noon. he draweth the sword, and seeth it all bloody, and they bow down and worship it, and sing 'te deum laudamus'. with such joy was messire gawain received at the castle, and he set the sword back in his scabbard, and kept it right anigh him, and made it not known in all the places where he lodged that it was such. the priests and knights of the castle make right great joy, and pray him right instantly that so god should lead him to the castle of king fisherman, and the graal should appear before him, he would not be so forgetful as the other knights. and he made answer that he would do that which god should teach him. xi. "messire gawain," saith the master of the priests, that was right ancient: "great need have you to take rest, for meseemeth you have had much travail." "sir, many things have i seen whereof i am sore abashed, nor know i what castle this may be." "sir," saith the priest, "this castle is the castle of inquest, for nought you shall ask whereof it shall not tell you the meaning, by the witness of joseph, the good clerk and good hermit through whom we have it, and he knoweth it by annunciation of the holy ghost." "by my faith," saith messire gawain, "i am much abashed of the three damsels that were at the court of king arthur. two of them carried, the one the head of a king and the other of a queen, and they had in a car an hundred and fifty heads of knights whereof some were sealed in gold, other in silver, and the rest in lead." "true," saith the priest, "for as by the queen was the king betrayed and killed, and the knights whereof the heads were in the car, so saith she truth as joseph witnesseth to us, for he saith of remembrance that by envy was adam betrayed, and all the people that were after him and the people that are yet to come shall have dole thereof for ever more. and for that adam was the first man is he called king, for he was our earthly father, and his wife queen. and the heads of the knights sealed in gold signify the new law, and the heads sealed in silver the old, and the heads sealed in lead the false law of the sarrazins. of these three manner of folk is the world stablished." "sir," saith messire gawain, "i marvel of the castle of the black hermit, there where the heads were all taken from her, and the damsel told me that the good knight should cast them all forth when he should come. and the other folk that are therewithin are longing for him." "well know you," saith the priest, "that on account of the apple that eve gave adam to eat, all went to hell alike, the good as well as the evil, and to cast his people forth from hell did god become man, and cast these souls forth from hell of his bounty and of his puissance. and to this doth joseph make us allusion by the castle or the black hermit which signifieth hell, and the good knight that shall thence cast forth them that are within. and i tell you that the black hermit is lucifer, that is lord of hell in like manner as he fain would have been lord of paradise." "sir," saith the priest, "by this significance is he fain to draw the good hermits on behalt of the new law wherein the most part are not well learned, wherefore he would fain make allusion by ensample." "by god," saith messire gawain, "i marvel much of the damsel that was all bald, and said that never should she have her hair again until such time as the good knight should have achieved the holy graal." "sir," saith the good man, "each day full bald behoveth her to be, ever since bald she became when the good king fell into languishment on account of the knight whom he harboured that made not the demand. the bald damsel signifieth joseu josephus, that was bald before the crucifixion of our lord, nor never had his hair again until such time as he had redeemed his people by his blood and by his death. the car that she leadeth after her signifieth the wheel of fortune, for like as the car goeth on the wheels, doth she lay the burden of the world on the two damsels that follow her; and this you may see well, for the fairest followeth afoot and the other was on a sorry hackney, and they were poorly clad, whereas the third had costlier attire. the shield whereon was the red cross, that she left at the court of king arthur, signifieth the most holy shield of the rood that never none durst lift save god alone." messire gawain heareth these significances and much pleaseth him thereof, and thinketh him that none durst set his hand to nor lift the shield that hung in the king's hall, as he had heard tell in many places; wherefore day by day were they waiting for the good knight that should come for the shield. xii. "sir," saith messire gawain, "by this that you tell me you do me to wit that whereof i was abashed, but i have been right sorrowful of a lady that a knight slew on my account albeit no blame had she therein, nor had i." "sir," saith the priest, "right great significance was there in her death, for josephus witnesseth us that the old law was destroyed by the stroke of a sword without recover, and to destroy the old law did our lord suffer himself to be smitten in the side of a spear. by this stroke was the old law destroyed, and by his crucifixion. the lady signifieth the old law. would you ask more of me?" saith the priest. "sir," saith messire gawain, "i met a knight in the forest that rode behind before and carried his arms upside down. and he said that he was the knight coward, and his habergeon carried he on his neck, and so soon as he saw me he set his arms to rights and rode like any other knight." "the law was turned to the worse," saith the priest, "before our lord's crucifixion, and so soon as he was crucified, was again restored to right." "even yet have i not asked you of all," saith messire gawain, "for a knight came and jousted with me party of black and white, and challenged me of the death of the lady on behalf of her husband, and told me and i should vanquish him that he and his men would be my men. i did vanquish him and he did me homage." "it is right," saith the priest, "on account of the old law that was destroyed were all they that remained therein made subject, and shall be for ever more. wish you to enquire of aught further?" saith the priest. "i marvel me right sore," saith messire gawain, "of a child that rode a lion in a hermitage, and none durst come nigh the lion save the child only, and he was not of more than six years, and the lion was right fell. the child was the son of the lady that was slain on my account." "right well have you spoken," saith the priest, "in reminding me thereof. the child signifieth the saviour of the world that was born under the old law and was circumcised, and the lion whereon he rode signifieth the world and the people that are therein, and beasts and birds that none may govern save by virtue of him alone." "god!" saith messire gawain, "how great joy have i at heart of that you tell me! sir, i found a fountain in a forest, the fairest that was ever seen, and an image had it within that hid itself when it saw me, and a clerk brought a golden vessel and took another golden vessel that hung at the column that was there, and set his own in place thereof. afterward, came three damsels and filled the vessel with that they had brought thither, and straightway meseemed that but one was there." "sir," saith the priest, "i will tell you no more thereof than you have heard, and therewithal ought you to hold yourself well apaid, for behoveth not discover the secrets of the saviour, and them also to whom they are committed behoveth keep them covertly." xiii. "sir," saith messire gawain, "i would fain ask you of a king. when i had brought him his son back dead, he made him be cooked and thereafter made him be eaten of all the folk of his land." "sir," saith the priest, "already had he leant his heart upon jesus christ, and would fain make sacrifice of his flesh and blood to our lord, and for this did he make all those of his land eat thereof, and would fain that their thoughts should be even such as his own. and therefore was all evil belief uprooted from his land, so that none remained therein." "blessed be the hour," saith messire gawain, "that i came herewithin!" "mine be it!" saith the priest. messire gawain lay therewithin the night, and right well lodged was he. the morrow, when he had heard mass, he departed and went forth of the castle when he had taken leave. and he findeth the fairest land of the world and the fairest meadow-grounds that were ever seen, and the fairest rivers and forests garnished of wild deer and hermitages. and he rideth until he cometh one day as evening was about to draw on, to the house of a hermit, and the house was so low that his horse might not enter therein. and his chapel was scarce taller, and the good man had never issued therefrom of forty years past. the hermit putteth his head out of the window when he seeth messire gawain and saith, "sir, welcome may you be," saith he. "sir, god give you joy, will you give me lodging to-night?" saith messire gawain. "sir, herewithin none harboureth save the lord god alone, for earthly man hath never entered herewithin but me this forty year, but see, here in front is the castle wherein the good knights are lodged." "what is the castle?" "sir, the good king fisherman's, that is surrounded with great waters and plenteous in all things good, so the lord were in joy. but behoveth them harbour none there save good knights only." "god grant," saith messire gawain, "that i may come therein." xiv. when he knoweth that he is nigh the castle, he alighteth and confesseth him to the hermit, and avoweth all his sins and repenteth him thereof right truly. "sir," saith the hermit, "now forget not, so god be willing to allow you, to ask that which the other knight forgat, and be not afeard for ought you may see at the entrance of the castle, but ride on without misgiving and adore the holy chapel you will see appear in the castle, there where the flame of the holy spirit descendeth each day for the most holy graal and the point of the lance that is served there." "sir," saith messire gawain, "god teach me to do his will!" he taketh leave, and goeth his way and rideth until the valley appeareth wherein the castle is seated garnished of all things good, and he seeth appear the most holy chapel. he alighteth, and then setteth him on his knees and boweth him down and adoreth right sweetly. thereafter he remounteth and rideth until he findeth a sepulchre right rich, and it had a cover over, and it lay very nigh the castle, and it seemed to be within a little burial-ground that was enclosed all round about, nor were any other tombs therein. a voice crieth to him as he passeth the burial-ground: "touch not the sepulchre, for you are not the good knight through whom shall it be known who lieth therein." messire gawain passeth beyond when he had heard the voice and draweth nigh the entrance of the castle, and seeth that three bridges are there, right great and right horrible to pass. and three great waters run below, and him seemeth that the first bridge is a bowshot in length and in breadth not more than a foot. strait seemeth the bridge and the water deep and swift and wide. he knoweth not what he may do, for it seemeth him that none may pass it, neither afoot nor on horse. xv. thereupon, lo you, a knight that issueth forth of the castle and cometh as far as the head of the bridge, that was called the bridge of the eel, and shouteth aloud: "sir knight, pass quickly before it shall be already night, for they of the castle are awaiting us." "ha," saith messire gawain, "fair sir, but teach me how i may pass hereby." "certes, sir knight, no passage know i to this entrance other than this, and if you desire to come to the castle, pass on without misgiving." messire gawain hath shame for that he hath stayed so long, and forthinketh him of this that the hermit told him, that of no mortal thing need he be troubled at the entrance of the castle, and therewithal that he is truly confessed of his sins, wherefore behoveth him be the less adread of death. he crosseth and blesseth himself and commendeth himself to god as he that thinketh to die, and so smiteth his horse with his spurs and findeth the bridge wide and large as soon as he goeth forward, for by this passing were proven most of the knights that were fain to enter therein. much marvelled he that he found the bridge so wide that had seemed him so narrow. and when he had passed beyond, the bridge, that was a drawbridge, lifted itself by engine behind him, for the water below ran too swiftly for other bridge to be made. the knight draweth himself back beyond the great bridge and messire gawain cometh nigh to pass it, and this seemed him as long as the other. and he seeth the water below, that was not less swift nor less deep, and, so far as he could judge, the bridge was of ice, feeble and thin, and of a great height above the water, and he looked at it with much marvelling, yet natheless not for that would he any the more hold back from passing on toward the entrance. he goeth forward and commendeth himself to god, and cometh in the midst thereof and seeth that the bridge was the fairest and richest and strongest he had ever beheld, and the abutments thereof were all full of images. when he was beyond the bridge, it lifted itself up behind him as the other had done, and he looketh before him and seeth not the knight, and is come to the third bridge and nought was he adread for anything he might see. and it was not less rich than the other, and had columns of marble all round about, and upon each a knop so rich that it seemed to be of gold. after that, he beholdeth the gate over against him, and seeth our lord there figured even as he was set upon the rood, and his mother of the one side and s. john of the other, whereof the images were all of gold, with rich precious stones that flashed like fire. and on the right hand he seeth an angel, passing fair, that pointed with his finger to the chapel where was the holy graal, and on his breast had he a precious stone, and letters written above his head that told how the lord of the castle was the like pure and clean of all evil-seeming as was this stone. xvi. thereafter at the entrance of the gate he seeth a lion right great and horrible, and he was upright upon his feet. so soon as he seeth messire gawain, he croucheth to the ground, and messire gawain passeth the entrance without gainsay and cometh to the castle, and alighteth afoot, and setteth his shield and his spear against the wall of the hall, and mounteth up a flight of marble steps and cometh into a hall right fair and rich, and here and there in divers places was it painted with golden images. in the midst thereof he findeth a couch right fair and rich and high, and at the foot of this couch was a chess-board right fair and rich, with an orle of gold all full of precious stones, and the pieces were of gold and silver and were not upon the board. meanwhile, as messire gawain was looking at the beauty of the chess-board and the hall, behold you two knights that issue forth of a chamber and come to him. "sir," say the knights, "welcome may you be." "god give you joy and good adventure," saith messire gawain. they make him sit upon the couch and after that make him be disarmed. they bring him, in two basins of gold, water to wash his face and hands. after that, come two damsels that bring him a rich robe of silk and cloth of gold. then they make him do on the same. then say the two damsels to him, "take in good part whatsoever may be done to you therewithin, for this is the hostel of good knights and loyal." "damsels," saith messire gawain, "so will i do. gramercy of your service." he seeth well that albeit the night were dark, within was so great brightness of light without candles that it was marvel. and it seemed him the sun shone there. wherefore marvelled he right sore whence so great light should come. xvii. when messire gawain was clad in the rich robe, right comely was he to behold, and well seemed he to be a knight of great valour. "sir," say the knights, "may it please you come see the lord of this castle?" "right gladly will i see him," saith he, "for i would fain present him with a rich sword." they lead him into the chamber where lay king fisherman, and it seemed as it were all strown and sprinkled of balm, and it was all strown with green herbs and reeds. and king fisherman lay on a bed hung on cords whereof the stavs were of ivory; and therein was a mattress of straw whereon he lay, and above a coverlid of sables whereof the cloth was right rich. and he had a cap of sables on his head covered with a red samite of silk, and a golden cross, and under his head was a pillow all smelling sweet of balm, and at the four corners of the pillow were four stones that gave out a right great brightness of light; and over against him was a pillar of copper whereon sate an eagle that held a cross of gold wherein was a piece of the true cross whereon god was set, as long as was the cross itself; the which the good man adored. and in four tall candle sticks of gold were four tall wax tapers set as often as was need. messire gawain cometh before the king and saluteth him. and the king maketh him right great cheer, and biddeth him be welcome. "sir," saith messire gawain, "i present you with the sword whereof john was beheaded." "gramercy." saith the king: "certes, i knew well that you would bring it, for neither you nor other might have come in hither without the sword, and if you had not been of great valour you would not have conquered it." he taketh the sword and setteth it to his mouth and so kisseth it right sweetly and maketh right great joy thereof. and a damsel cometh to sit at the head of the bed, to whom he giveth the sword in keeping. two others sit at his feet that look at him right sweetly. "what is your name?" saith the king. "sir, my name is gawain." "ha, messire gawain," saith he, "this brightness of light that shineth there within cometh to us of god for love of you. for every time that a knight cometh hither to harbour within this castle it appeareth as brightly as you see it now. and greater cheer would i make you than i do were i able to help myself, but i am fallen into languishment from the hour that the knight of whom you have heard tell harboured herewithin. on account of one single word he delayed to speak, did this languishment come upon me. wherefore i pray you for god's sake that you remember to speak it, for right glad should you be and you may restore me my health. and see here is the daughter of my sister that hath been plundered of her land and disinherited in such wise that never can she have it again save through her brother only whom she goeth to seek; and we have been told that he is the best knight of the world, but we can learn no true tidings of him." "sir," saith the damsel to her uncle the king, "thank messire gawain of the honour he did to my lady-mother when he came to her hostel. he stablished our land again in peace, and conquered the keeping of the castle for a year, and set my lady-mother's five knights there with us to keep it. the year hath now passed, wherefore will the war be now renewed against us and god succour us not, and i find not my brother whom we have lost so long." "damsel," saith messire gawain, "i helped you so far as i might, and so would i again and i were there. and fainer am i to see your brother than all the knights of the world. but no true tidings may i hear of him, save so much, that i was at a hermitage where was a king hermit and he bade me make no noise for that the best knight of the world lay sick therewithin, and he told me that name was par-lui-fet. i saw his horse being led by a squire before the chapel, and his arms and shield whereon was a sun figured." "sir," saith the damsel, "my brother's name is not par-lui-fet, but perlesvax in right baptism, and it is said of them that have seen him that never comelier knight was known." "certes," saith the king, "never saw i comelier than he that came in hither nor better like to be good knight, and i know of a truth that such he is, for otherwise never might he have entered hereinto. but good reward of harbouring him had i not, for i may help neither myself nor other. for god's sake, messire gawain, hold me in remembrance this night, for great affiance have i in your valour." "certes, sir, please god, nought will i do within yonder, whereof i may be blamed of right." xviii. thereupon messire gawain was led into the hall and findeth twelve ancient knights, all bald, albeit they seemed not to be so old as they were, for each was of a hundred year of age or more and yet none of them seemed as though he were forty. they have set messire gawain to eat at a right rich table of ivory and seat themselves all round about him. "sir," saith the master of the knights, "remember you of that the good king hath prayed of you and told you this night as you have heard." "sir," saith messire gawain, "god remember it!" with that bring they larded meats of venison and wild-boar's flesh and other in great plenty, and on the table was rich array of vessels of silver and great cups of gold with their covers, and the rich candlesticks where the great candles were burning, albeit their brightness was hidden of the great light that appeared within. xix. thereon, lo you, two damsels that issue forth of a chapel, whereof the one holdeth in her hands the most holy graal, and the other the lance whereof the point bleedeth thereinto. and the one goeth beside the other in the midst of the hall where the knights and messire gawain sat at meat, and so sweet a smell and so holy came to them therefrom that they forgat to eat. messire gawain looketh at the graal, and it seemed him that a chalice was therein, albeit none there was as at this time, and he seeth the point of the lance whence the red blood ran thereinto, and it seemeth him he seeth two angels that bear two candlesticks of gold filled with candles. and the damsels pass before messire gawain, and go into another chapel. and messire gawain is thoughtful, and so great a joy cometh to him that nought remembereth he in his thinking save of god only. the knights are all daunted and sorrowful in their hearts, and look at messire gawain. thereupon behold you the damsels that issue forth of the chamber and come again before messire gawain, and him seemeth that he seeth three there where before he had seen but two, and seemeth him that in the midst of the graal he seeth the figure of a child. the master of the knights beckoneth to messire gawain. messire gawain looketh before him and seeth three drops of blood fall upon the table. he was all abashed to look at them and spake no word. xx. therewith the damsels pass forth and the knights are all adread and look one at the other. howbeit messire gawain may not withdraw his eyes from the three drops of blood, and when he would fain kiss them they vanish away, whereof he is right sorrowful, for he may not set his hand nor aught that of him is to touch thereof. therewithal behold you the two damsels that come again before the table and seemeth to messire gawain that there are three, and he looketh up and it seemeth him to be the graal all in flesh, grid he seeth above, as him thinketh, a king crowned, nailed upon a rood, and the spear was still fast in his side. messire gawain seeth it and hath great pity thereof, and of nought doth he remember him save of the pain that this king suffereth. and the master of the knights summoneth him again by word of mouth, and telleth him that if he delayeth longer, never more will he recover it. messire gawain is silent, as he that heareth not the knight speak, and looketh upward. but the damsels go back into the chapel and carry back the most holy graal and the lance, and the knights make the tablecloths be taken away and rise from meat and go into another hall and leave messire gawain all alone. and he looketh all around and seeth the doors all shut and made fast, and looketh to the foot of the hall and seeth two candlesticks with many candles burning round about the chessboard, and he seeth that the pieces are set, whereof the one sort are silver and the other gold. messire gawain sitteth at the game, and they of gold played against him and mated him twice. at the third time, when he thought to revenge himself and saw that he had the worse, he swept the pieces off the board. and the damsel issued forth of a chamber and made a squire take the chess-board and the pieces and so carry them away. and messire gawain, that was way-worn of his wanderings to come thither where he now hath come, slept upon the couch until the morrow when it was day, and he heard a horn sound right shrill. xxi. thereupon he armeth him and would fain go to take leave of king fisherman, but he findeth the doors bolted so that he may not get forth. and right fair service seeth he done in a chapel, and right sorrowful is he for that he may not hear the mass. a damsel cometh into the hall and saith to him: "sir, now may you hear the service and the joy that is made on account of the sword you presented to the good king, and right glad at heart ought you to have been if you had been within the chapel. but you lost entering therein on account of a right little word. for the place of the chapel is so hallowed of the holy relics that are therein that man nor priest may never enter therein from the saturday at noon until the monday after mass." and he heard the sweetest voices and the fairest services that were ever done in chapel. messire gawain answereth her not a word so is he abashed. howbeit the damsel saith to him: "sir, god be guardian of your body, for methinketh that it was not of your own default that you would not speak the word whereof this castle would have been in joy." with that the damsel departeth and messire gawain heareth the horn sound a second time and a voice warning him aloud: "he that is from without, let him go hence! for the bridges are lowered and the gate open, and the lion is in his den. and thereafter behoveth the bridge be lifted again on account of the king of the castle mortal, that warreth against this castle, and therefore of this thing shall he die." xxii. thereupon messire gawain issueth forth of the hall and findeth his horse all made ready at the mounting-stage, together with his arms. he goeth forth and findeth the bridges broad and long, and goeth his way a great pace beside a great river that runneth in the midst of the valley. and he seeth in a great forest a mighty rain and tempest, and so strong a thunderstorm ariseth in the forest that it seemeth like all the trees should be uprooted. so great is the rain and the tempest that it compelleth him set his shield over his horse's head lest he be drowned of the abundance of rain. in this mis-ease rideth he down beside the river that runneth in the forest until he seeth in a launde across the river a knight and a damsel right gaily appointed riding at pleasure, and the knight carrieth a bird on his fist, and the damsel hath a garland of flowers on her head. two brachets follow the knight. the sun shineth right fair on the meadow and the air is right clear and fresh. messire gawain marvelleth much of this, that it raineth so heavily on his way, whereas, in the meadow where the knight and the damsel are riding, the sun shineth clear and the weather is bright and calm. and he seeth them ride joyously. he can ask them naught for they are too far away. messire gawain looketh about and seeth on the other side the river a squire nearer to him than is the knight. "fair friend" saith messire gawain, "how is this that it raineth upon me on this side the river, but on the other raineth it not at all?" "sir," saith the squire, "this have you deserved, for such is the custom of the forest." "will this tempest that is over me last for ever?" saith messire gawain. "at the first bridge you come to will it be stayed upon you," saith the squire. xxiii. therewith the squire departeth, and the tempest rageth incontinent until he is come to the bridge; and he rideth beyond and cometh to the meadow, and the storm is stayed so that he setteth his shield to rights again upon his neck. and he seeth before him a castle where was a great company of folk that were making great cheer. he rideth until he cometh to the castle and seeth right great throng of folk, knights and dames and damsels. messire gawain alighteth, but findeth in the castle none that is willing to take his reins, so busied are they making merry. messire gawain presenteth himself on the one side and the other, but all of them avoid him, and he seeth that he maketh but an ill stay therewithin for himself, wherefore he departeth from the castle and meeteth a knight at the gate. "sir," saith he, "what castle is this?" "and see you not," saith the knight, "that it is a castle of joy?" "by my faith" saith messire gawain, "they of the castle be not over-courteous, for all this time hath none come to take my reins." "not for this lose they their courtesy," saith the knight, "for this is no more than you have deserved. they take you to be as slothful of deed as you are of word, and they saw that you were come through the forest perilous whereby pass all the discomfited, as well appeareth by your arms and your horse." therewith the knight departeth, and messire gawain hath ridden a great space sorrowful and sore abashed, until he cometh to a land parched and poor and barren of all comfort, and therein findeth he a poor castle, whereinto he cometh and seeth it much wasted, but that within was there a hall that seemed haunted of folk. and messire gawain cometh thitherward and alighteth, and a knight cometh down the steps of the hall right poorly clad. "sir," saith the knight to messire gawain, "welcome may you be!" after that, he taketh him by the hand and leadeth him upward to the hall, that was all waste. therewithal issue two damsels from a chamber, right poorly clad, that were of passing great beauty, and make great cheer to messire gawain. so, when he was fain to disarm, behold you thereupon a knight that entereth into the hall, and he was smitten with the broken end of a lance through his body. he seeth messire gawain, whom he knoweth. "now haste!" saith he, "and disarm you not! right joyful am i that i have found you! i come from this forest wherein have i left lancelot fighting with four knights, whereof one is dead, and they think that it is you, and they are of kindred to the knight that you slew at the tent where you destroyed the evil custom. i was fain to help lancelot, when one of the knights smote me as you may see." messire gawain goeth down from the hall and mounteth all armed upon his horse. xxiv. "sir," saith the knight of the hall, "i would go help you to my power, but i may not issue forth of the castle until such time as it be replenished of the folk that are wont to come therein and until my land be again given up to me through the valour of the good knight." messire gawain departeth from the castle as fast as horse may carry him, and entereth the forest and followeth the track of the blood along the way the knight had come, and rideth so far in the forest as that he heareth the noise of swords, and seeth in the midst of the launde lancelot and the three knights, and the fourth dead on the ground. but one of the knights had drawn him aback, for he might abide the combat no longer, for the knight that brought the tidings to messire gawain had sore wounded him. the two knights beset lancelot full sore, and right weary was he of the buffets that he had given and received. messire gawain cometh to one of the knights and smiteth him right through the body and maketh him and his horse roll over all of a heap. xxv. when lancelot perceiveth messire gawain, much joy maketh he thereof. in the meanwhile as the one held the other, the fourth knight fled full speed through the midst of the forest, and he that the knight had wounded fell dead. they take their horses, and messire gawain telleth lancelot he hath the most poverty-stricken host that ever he hath seen, and the fairest damsels known, but that right poorly are they clad. "shall we therefore take them of our booty?" "i agree," saith lancelot, "but sore grieveth me of the knight that hath thus escaped us." "take no heed," saith messire gawain, "we shall do well enough herein." thereupon they return back toward the poor knight's hostel and alight before the hall, and the poor knight cometh to meet them, and the two damsels, and they deliver to them the three horses of the three knights that were dead. the knight hath great joy thereof, and telleth them that now is he a rich man and that betimes will his sisters be better clad than are they now, as well as himself. xxvi. thereupon come they into the hall. the knight maketh one of his own squires stable the horses and the two damsels help disarm lancelot and messire gawain. "lords," saith the knight, "so god help me, nought have i to lend you wherewith to clothe you, for robe have i none save mine own jerkin." lancelot hath great pity thereof and messire gawain, and the two damsels take off their kirtles that were made like surcoats of cloth that covered their poor shirts, and their jackets that, were all to-torn and ragged and worn, and present them to the knights to clothe them. they were fain not to refuse, lest the damsels should think they held them not in honour, and did on the two kirtles right poor as they were. the damsels had great joy thereof that so good knights should deign wear garments so poor. "lords," saith the poor knight, "the knight that brought the tidings hither, and was stricken through of a lance-shaft, is dead and lieth on a bier in a chapel within the castle, and he confessed himself right well to a hermit and bade salute you both, and was right fain you should see him after that he were dead, and he prayed me instantly that i would ask you to be to-morrow at his burial, for better knights than be ye might not be thereat, so he told me." "certes," saith lancelot, "a good knight was he, and much mischief is it of his death; and sore grieveth me that i know not his name nor of what country he was." "sir," saith messire gawain, "he said that you should yet know it well." the two good knights lay the night at the castle, and the poor knight lodged them as well as he might. when it cometh to morning, they go to the chapel to hear mass and to be at the burial of the body. after that they take leave of the poor knight and the two damsels and depart from the castle all armed. "messire gawain," saith lancelot, "they know not at court what hath become of you, and they hold you for dead as they suppose." "by my faith," saith messire gawain, "thitherward will i go, for i have had sore travail, and there will i abide until some will shall come to me to go seek adventure." he recounteth to lancelot how the graal hath appeared to him at the court of king fisherman: "and even as it was there before me, i forgat to ask how it served and of what?" "ha, sir," saith lancelot, "have you then been there?" "yea," saith he, "and thereof am i right sorry and glad: glad for the great holiness i have seen, sorry for that i asked not that whereof king fisherman prayed me right sweetly." "sir," saith lancelot, "right sorely ill have you wrought, nor is there not whereof i have so great desire as i have to go to his castle." "by my faith," saith messire gawain, "much shamed was i there, but this doth somewhat recomfort me, that the best knight was there before me that gat blame thereof in like manner as i." lancelot departeth from messire gawain, and they take leave either of other. they issue forth of a forest, and each taketh his own way without saying a word. branch vii. title i. here the story is silent of messire gawain and beginneth to speak of lancelot, that entereth into a forest and rideth with right great ado and meeteth a knight in the midst of the forest that was coming full speed and was armed of all arms. "sir," saith lancelot, "whence come you?" "sir," saith lancelot, "i come from the neighbourhood of king arthur's court." "ha, sir, can you tell me tidings of a knight that beareth a green shield such as i bear? if so, he is my brother." "what name hath he?" saith lancelot. "sir," saith he, "his name is gladoens, and he is a good knight and a hardy, and he hath a white horse right strong and swift." "be there other knights in your country that bear such arms as your shield and his besides you and he?" "certes, sir, none." "and wherefore do you ask?" saith lancelot. "for this, that a certain man hath reft him of one of his castles for that he was not there. howbeit, i know well that he will have it again through his good knighthood." "is he so good knight?" saith lancelot. "certes, sir, yea! he is the best of the isles of the moors." "sir, of your mercy, lower your coif." he quickly thereon lowereth his coif, and lancelot looketh at him in the face. "certes, sir knight," saith he, "you very much resemble him." "ha, sir," saith the knight, "know you then any tidings of him?" "certes, sir," saith he, "yea! and true tidings may i well say, for he rode at my side five leagues welsh, nor never saw i one man so like another as are you to him." "good right hath he to resemble me," saith the knight, "for we are twins, but he was born first and hath more sense and knighthood than i; nor in all the isles of the moors is there damsel that hath so much worth and beauty as she of whom he is loved of right true love, and more she desireth to see him than aught else that liveth, for she hath not seen him of more than a year, wherefore hath she gone seek her prize, my brother, by all the forests of the world. sir," saith the knight, "let me go seek my brother, and tell me where i may find him." "certes," saith lancelot, "i will tell you though it grieve me sore." "wherefore?" saith the knight, "hath he done you any mis-deed?" "in no wise," saith lancelot, "rather hath he done so much for me that i love you thereof and offer you my service." "sir," saith the knight, "i am going my way, but for god's sake tell me where i shall find my brother." "sir," saith lancelot, "i will tell you. this morning did i bid his body farewell and help to bury him." "ha, sir," saith the knight, "do you tell me true?" "certes," saith lancelot, "true it is that i tell you." "is he slain then, my brother?" saith the knight. "yea, and of succouring me," saith lancelot. "ha, sir," saith the knight, "for god's sake tell me nought that is not right." "by god, sir," saith he, "sore grieved am i to tell it you, for never loved i knight so much in so brief a time as i loved him. he helped to save me from death, and therefore will i do for you according to that he did for me." "sir," saith the knight, "if he be dead, a great grief is it to myself, for i have lost my comfort and my life and my land without recovery." "sir," saith lancelot, "he helped me to save my life, and yours will i help to save henceforth for ever and so be that i shall know of your jeopardy." the knight heareth that his brother is dead and well believeth lancelot, and beginneth to make dole thereof the greatest that was ever heard. and lancelot saith to him, "sir knight, let be this dole, for none recovery is there; but my body do i offer you and my knighthood in any place you please, where i may save your honour." "sir," saith the knight, "with good will receive i your help and your love, sith that you deign to offer me the same, and now have i sorer need of them than ever. sir," saith the knight, "sith that my brother is dead, i will return back and bear with my wrong, though well would he have amended it had he been on live." "by my head," saith lancelot, "i will go with you, that so may i reward you of that he hath done for me. he delivered his body to the death for me, and in like manner freely would i fain set mine own in jeopardy for love of you and of him." ii. "sir," saith the knight, "right good will do i owe you of this that you say to me, so your deeds be but the same herein." "yea, so help me god," saith lancelot, "the same shall they be, if god lend me the power." with that, they go on their way together, and the knight comforteth him much of that which lancelot hath said to him, but of the death of his brother was he right sorrowful. and they ride until they come to the land of the moors; then espy they a castle upon a rock, and below was a broad meadow-land. "sir," saith the knight of the green shield to lancelot, "this castle was my brother's and is now mine, and much it misliketh me that it hath fallen to me on this wise. and the knight that reft it of my brother is of so great hardihood that he feareth no knight on live, and you will presently see him issue forth of this castle so soon as he shall perceive you." lancelot and the knight ride until they draw nigh the castle. and the knight looketh in the way before him, and seeth a squire coming on a hackney, that was carrying before him a wild boar dead. the knight of the green shield asketh him whose man he is, and the squire maketh answer: "i am man of the lord of the rock gladoens, that cometh there behind, and my lord cometh all armed, he and others, for the brother of gladoens hath defied him on behalf of his brother, but right little recketh my lord of his defiance." iii. lancelot heareth how he that is coming is the enemy of him to whom had he been alive, his love most was due. the knight of the green shield pointed him out so soon as he saw him. "sir," saith he to lancelot, "behold him by whom i am disherited, and yet worse would he do to me and he knew that my brother were dead." lancelot, without saving more, so soon as he had espied the knight of the rock, smiteth his horse with his spurs and cometh toward him. the lord of the rock, that was proud and hardy, seeth lancelot coming and smiteth with his spurs the horse whereon he sitteth. they come with so swift an onset either upon other that they break their spears upon their shields, and hurtle together so sore that the knight of the rock gladoens falleth over the croup of his horse. lancelot draweth his sword and cometh above him, and he crieth him mercy and asketh him wherefore he wisheth to slay him? lancelot saith for the sake of gladoens from whom he hath reft his land and his castle. "and what is that to you?" saith the knight. "behoveth his brother challenge me thereof." "as much it behoveth me as his brother," saith lancelot. "wherefore you?" "for this," saith lancelot, "that as much as he did for me will i do to you." he cutteth off his head and giveth it incontinent to the knight of the green shield. "now tell me," saith lancelot, "sith that he is dead, is he purged of that whereof you appeached him?" "sir," saith the knight, "i hold him rightly quit thereof, for, sith that he is dead, all claim on behalf of his kindred is abated by his death." "and i pledge you my faith loyally," saith lancelot, "as i am a knight, that never shall you be in peril nor in jeopardy of aught wherein i may help you, so i be in place and free, but my help shall you have for evermore, for that your brother staked his life to help me." iv. lancelot and the knight lay the night at the rock gladoens, and the knight of the green shield had his land at his pleasure, and all were obedient to him. and the upright and loyal were right glad, albeit when they heard the tidings of gladoens' death they were right sorrowful thereof. lancelot departed from the castle on the morrow, and the knight remained therein, sorrowful for his brother that he had lost, and glad for the land that he had gotten again. lancelot goeth back right amidst the forest and rideth the day long, and meeteth a knight that was coming, groaning sore. and he was stooping over the fore saddle-bow for the pain that he had. he meeteth lancelot and saith to him: "sir, for god's sake, turn back, for you will find there the most cruel pass in the world there where i have been wounded through the body. wherefore i beseech you not go thither." "what pass is it then?" saith lancelot. "sir," saith he, "it is the pass of the castle of beards, and it hath the name of this, that every knight that passeth thereby must either leave his beard there or challenge the same, and in such sort have i challenged my beard that meseemeth i shall die thereof." "by my head," saith lancelot, "i hold not this of cowardize, sith that you were hardy to set your life in jeopardy to challenge your beard, but now would you argue me of cowardize when you would have me turn back. rather would i be smitten through the body with honour, so and i had not my death thereof, than lose with shame a single hair of my beard." "sir," saith the knight, "may god preserve you, for the castle is far more cruel than you think, and god guide the knight that may destroy the evil custom of the castle, for right shameful is the custom to strange knights that pass thereby." v. lancelot departeth from the knight and cometh toward the castle. just as he had passed over a great bridge, he looketh about and seeth two knights come all armed to the entrance of the castle, and they made hold their horses before them, and their shields and spears are before them leaning against the wall. lancelot looketh at the gateway of the castle and seeth the great door all covered with beards fastened thereon, and heads of knights in great plenty hung thereby. so, as he was about to enter the gate, two knights issue therefrom over against him. "sir," saith the one, "abide and pay your toll!" "do knights, then, pay toll here?" saith lancelot. "yea!" say the knights, "all they that have beards, and they that have none are quit. sir, now pay us yours, for a right great beard it is, and thereof have we sore need." "for what?" saith lancelot. "i will tell you," saith the knight. "there be hermits in this forest that make hair-shirts thereof." "by my head," saith lancelot, "never shall they have hair-shirt of mine, so i may help it." "that shall they," say the knights, "of yours as of the other, or dearly shall you pay therefor!" vi. right wroth waxeth sir lancelot, and cometh to the knight, and smiteth him with his spear amidst the breast with such a thrust that it passeth half an ell beyond, and overthroweth him and his horse together. the other knight seeth his fellow wounded to the death, and cometh towards him with a great sweep and breaketh his spear upon his shield. howbeit, lancelot beareth him to the ground right over his horse-croup and maketh him fall so heavily that he breaketh one of his legs. the tidings are come to the lady of the castle that a knight hath come to the pass that hath slain one of her knights and wounded the other. the lady is come thither, and bringeth two of her damsels with her. she seeth lancelot that is fain to slay the knight that lieth wounded on the ground. "sir," saith the lady to lancelot, "withdraw yourself back and slay him not, but alight and speak to me in safety." "lady," saith one of the maidens, "i know him well. this is lancelot of the lake, the most courteous knight that is in the court of king arthur." he alighteth and cometh before the lady. "lady," saith he, "what is your pleasure?" "i desire," saith she, "that you come to my hostel to harbour, and that you make me amends of the shame you have done me." vii. "lady," saith lancelot, "shame have i never done you nor shall do, but the knights took in hand too shameful a business when they were minded to take the beards of stranger knights by force." "sir," saith she, "i will forego mine ill-will on condition that you harbour herewithin to-night." "lady," saith lancelot, "i desire not your ill-will, wherefore will i gladly do your pleasure." he setteth him within the castle and maketh his horse be led in after him, and the lady hath the dead knight brought into the chapel and buried. the other she biddeth be disarmed and clothed and commandeth that his wounds be searched. then maketh she lancelot be disarmed and clad right richly in a good robe, and telleth him that she knoweth well who he is. "lady," saith lancelot, "it is well for me." thereupon they sit to eat, and the first course is brought in by knights in chains that had their noses cut off; the second by knights in chains that had their eyes put out; wherefore they were led in by squires. the third course was brought in by knights that had but one hand and were in chains. after that, came other knights that had each but one foot and brought in the fourth course. at the fifth course came knights right fair and tall, and each brought a naked sword in his hand and presented their heads to the lady. viii. lancelot beheld the martyrdom of these knights, and sore misliking had he of the services of such folk. they are risen from meat and the lady goeth to her chamber and sitteth on a couch. "lancelot," saith the lady, "you have seen the justice and the lordship of my castle. all these knights have been conquered at the passing of my door." "lady," saith lancelot, "foul mischance hath befallen them." "the like mischance would have befallen you had you not been knight so good. and greatly have i desired to see you this long time past. and i will make you lord of this castle and myself." "lady," saith he, "the lordship of this castle hold i of yourself without mesne, and to you have i neither wish nor right to refuse it. rather am i willing to be at your service." "then," saith she, "you will abide with me in this castle, for more do i love you than any other knight that liveth." "lady," saith lancelot, "gramercy, but in no castle may i abide more than one night until i have been thither whither behoveth me to go." "whither are you bound?" saith she. "lady," saith he, "to the castle of souls." "well know i the castle," saith she. "the king hath the name fisherman, and lieth in languishment on account of two knights that have been at his castle and made not good demand. would you fain go thither?" saith the lady. "yea," saith lancelot. "then pledge me your faith that you will return by me to speak to me, so the graal shall appear to you and you ask whereof it serveth." "yea, truly," saith lancelot, "were you beyond sea!" "sir," saith one of the damsels, "so much may you well promise, for the graal appeareth not to no knight so wanton as be ye. for you love the queen guenievre, the wife of your lord, king arthur, nor so long as this love lieth at your heart may you never behold the graal." ix. lancelot heard the damsel and blushed of despite. "ha, lancelot," saith the lady, "love you other than me?" "lady," saith he, "the damsel may say her pleasure." lancelot lay the night at the castle, and right wroth was he of the damsel that calleth the love of him and the queen disloyal. and the morrow when he had heard mass, he took leave of the lady of the castle, and she besought him over and over to keep his covenant, and he said that so would he do without fail. therewithal he issueth forth of the castle and entereth into a tall and ancient forest, and rideth the day long until he cometh to the outskirt of the forest, and seeth a tall cross at the entrance of a burying-ground enclosed all round about with a hedge of thorns. and the way lay through the burying ground. lancelot entered therein and the night was come. he seeth the graveyard full of tombs and sepulchres. he looketh behind and seeth a chapel wherein were candles burning. thitherward goeth he, and passeth beyond without saying aught more by the side of a dwarf that was digging a grave in the ground. "lancelot," saith the dwarf, "you are right not to salute me, for you are the man of all the world that most i hate; and god grant me vengeance of your body. so will he what time you are stricken down here within!" lancelot heard the dwarf, but deigned not to answer him of nought. he is come to the chapel, and alighteth and maketh fast the bridle of his horse to a tree, and leaneth his shield and spear without. after that he entereth into the chapel, and findeth a damsel laying out a knight in his winding-sheen. as soon as lancelot was entered therewithin the wounds of the knight were swollen up and began to bleed afresh. "ha, sir knight, now see i plainly that you slew him that i am wrapping in his windingsheet!" x. thereupon, behold you, two knights that are carrying other two knights dead. they alight and then set them in the chapel. and the dwarf crieth out to them: "now shall it be seen how you avenge your friends of the enemy that fell upon you!" the knight that had fled from the forest when messire gawain came thither where the three lay dead, was come therewithin and knew lancelot, whereupon saith he: "our mortal enemy are you, for by you were these three knights slain." "well had they deserved it," saith lancelot, "and in this chapel am i in no peril of you, wherefore as at this time will i depart not hence, for i know not the ways of the forest." he was in the chapel until the day broke, when he issued forth thereof, and sore it weighed upon him that his horse was still fasting. he taketh his arms and is mounted. the dwarf crieth out aloud: "what aileth you?" saith he to the two knights, "will you let your mortal enemy go thus?" with that the two knights mount their horses and go to the two issues of the grave-yard, thinking that lancelot is fain to flee therefrom; but no desire hath he thereof, wherefore he cometh to the knight that was guarding the entrance whereby he had to issue out, and smiteth him so stiffly that he thrusteth the point of his spear right through his body. the other knight that was guarding the other entrance, that had fled out of the forest before, had no mind to avenge his fellow, and fled incontinent so fast as he might. and lancelot taketh the horse of the knight he had slain and driveth him before him, for he thinketh that some knight may haply have need thereof. he rideth on until he cometh to a hermitage in the forest where he alighteth and hath his horses stabled, and the hermit giveth them of the best he hath. and lancelot heard mass, and afterward are a little and fell on sleep. thereafter, behold you, a knight that cometh to the hermit and seeth lancelot that was about to mount. "sir," saith he, "whither go you?" "sir knight," saith lancelot, "thither shall i go where god may please; but you, whitherward are you bound to go?" "sir, i go to see one of my brethren and my two sisters, for i have been told that he hath fallen on such mishap as that he is called the poor knight, whereof am i sore sorrowful." "certes," saith lancelot, "poor he is, the more the pity! howbeit, will you do him a message from me?" "sir," saith the knight, "right willingly!" "will you present him with this horse on my behalf, and tell him how lancelot that harboured with him hath sent it?" "sir," saith the knight, "right great thanks, and blessed may you be, for he that doth a kindness to a worshipful man loseth it not." "salute the two damsels for me," saith lancelot. "sir, right willingly!" the knight delivereth the horse to his squire, and taketh leave of lancelot. xi. thereupon, lancelot departeth from the hermitage and rideth on until he cometh forth of the forest, and findeth a waste land, a country broad and long wherein wonned neither beast nor bird, for the land was so poor and parched that no victual was to be found therein. lancelot looketh before him and seeth a city appear far away. thither rideth he full speed and seeth that the city is so great that it seemeth him to encompass a whole country. he seeth the walls that are falling all around, and the gates ruined with age. he entereth within and findeth the city all void of folk, and seeth the great palaces fallen down and waste, and the great grave-yards full of sepulchres, and the tall churches all lying waste, and the markets and exchanges all empty. he rideth amidst the streets, and findeth a great palace that seemeth him to be better and more ancient than all the others. he bideth awhile before it and heareth within how knights and ladies are making great dole. and they say to a knight: "ha, god, sore grief and pity is this of you, that you must needs die in such manner, and that your death may not be respited! sore hatred ought we to bear toward him that hath adjudged you such a death." the knights and ladies swoon over him as he departeth. lancelot hath heard all this and much marvelleth he thereof, but nought thereof may he see. xii. thereupon, lo you, the knight that cometh down into the midst of the hall, clad in a short red jerkin; and he was girt with a rich girdle of gold, and had a rich clasp at his neck wherein were many rich stones, and on his head had he a great cap of gold, and he held great axe. the knight was of great comeliness and young of age. lancelot seeth him coming, and looketh upon him right fainly when he seeth him appear. and the knight saith to him, "sir, alight!" "certes," saith lancelot, "willingly." he alighteth and maketh his horse fast to a ring of silver that was on the mounting-stage, and putteth his shield from his neck and his spear from his hand. "sir," saith he to the knight, "what is your pleasure?" "sir, needs must you cut me off my head with this axe, for of this weapon hath my death been adjudged, but and you will not, i will cut off your own therewith." "hold, sir," saith lancelot, "what is this you tell me?" "sir," saith the knight, "you must needs do even as i say, sith that you are come into this city." "sir," saith lancelot, "right foolish were he that in such a jeopardy should not do the best for himself, but blamed shall i be thereof and i shall slay you when you have done me no wrong." "certes," saith the knight, "in no otherwise may you go hence." "fair sir," saith lancelot, "so gentle are you and so well nurtured, how cometh it that you take your death so graciously? you know well that i shall kill you before you shall kill me, sith that so it is." "this know i well for true," saith the knight, "but you will promise me before i die, that you will return into this city within a year from this, and that you will set your head in the same jeopardy without challenge, as i have set mine." "by my head," saith lancelot, "needeth no argument that i shall choose respite of death to dying here on the spot. but i marvel me of this that you are so fairly apparelled to receive your death." xiii. "sir," saith the knight, "he that would go before the saviour of the world ought of right to apparel him as fairly as he may. i am by confession purged of all wickedness and of all the misdeeds that ever i have committed, and do repent me truly thereof, wherefore at this moment am i fain to die." therewithal he holdeth forth the axe, and lancelot taketh it and seeth that it is right keen and well whetted. "sir," saith the knight, "hold up your hand toward the minster that you see yonder." "sir," saith lancelot, "willingly." "thus, then, will you swear to me upon the holy relics that are within this minster, that on this day year at the hour that you shall have slain me, or before, you yourself will come back here and place your head in the very same peril as i shall have placed mine, without default?" "thus," saith lancelot, "do i swear and give you thereto my pledge." with that, the knight kneeleth and stretcheth his neck as much as he may, and lancelot taketh the axe in his hands, and then saith to him, "sir knight, for god's sake, have mercy on yourself!" "let cut off my head!" saith the knight, "for otherwise may i not have mercy upon you!" "in god's name," saith lancelot, "fain would i deny you!" with that, he swingeth the axe and cutteth off the head with such a sweep that he maketh it fly seven foot high from the body. the knight fell to the ground when his head was cut off, and lancelot flung down the axe, and thinketh that he will make but an ill stay there for himself. he cometh to his horse, and taketh his arms and mounteth and looketh behind him, but seeth neither the body of the knight nor the head, neither knoweth he what hath become of them all, save only that he heard much dole and a great cry far off in the city of knights and ladies, saying that he shall be avenged, please god, at the term set, or before. lancelot hath heard and understood all that the knights say and the ladies, and issueth forth of the city. branch viii. of the most holy graal here beginneth another branch in such wise as the authority witnesseth and joseph that made recoverance thereof, in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost. title i. this high history and profitable witnesseth us that the son of the widow lady sojourned still with his uncle king pelles in the hermitage, and through distress of the evil that he had had since he came forth of the house of king fisherman, was he confessed to his uncle and told him of what lineage he was, and that his name was perceval. but the good hermit the good king had given him the name of parluifet, for that he was made of himself. king hermit was one day gone into the forest, and the good knight parluifet felt himself sounder of health and lustier than he wont to be. he heard the birds sing in the forest, and his heart began to swell of knighthood, and he minded him of the adventures he wont to find in the forest and of the damsels and knights that he wont to meet, and never was he so fain of arms as was he at that time, for that he had been sojourning so long within doors. he felt courage in his heart and lustiness in his limbs and fainness in his thought. right soon armeth he himself and setteth the saddle on his horse and mounteth forthwith. he prayeth god give him adventure that he may meet good knight, setteth himself forth of his uncle's hermitage and entereth into the forest that was broad and shady. he rideth until he cometh into a launde that was right spacious, and seeth a leafy tree that was at the head of the launde. he alighteth in the shadow, and thinketh to himself that two knights might joust on this bit of ground fair and well, for the place was right broad. and, even as he was thinking on this wise, he heard a horse neigh full loud in the forest three times, and right glad was he thereof and said: "ha, god, of your sweetness grant that there be a knight with that horse, so may i prove whether there be any force or valour or knighthood in me. for i know not now what strength i may have, nor even whether my heart be sound and my limbs whole. for on a knight that hath neither hardihood nor valour in himself, may not another knight that hath more force in him reasonably prove his mettle, for many a time have i heard say that one is better than other. and for this pray i to the saviour and this be a knight that cometh there, that he may have strength and hardihood and mettle to defend his body against mine own, for great desire have i to run upon him. grant now that he slay me not, nor i him!" ii. therewithal, he looketh before him, and seeth the knight issue from the forest and enter into the launde. the knight was armed and had at his neck a white shield with a cross of gold. he carried his lance low, and sate upon a great destrier and rode at a swift pace. as soon as perceval seeth him, he steadieth him in his stirrups and setteth spear in rest and smiteth his horse with his spurs, right joyous, and goeth toward the knight a great gallop. then he crieth: "sir knight, cover you of your shield to guard you as i do of mine to defend my body, for you do i defy on this side slaying, and our lord god grant that i find you so good knight as shall try what hardihood of heart i may have, for i am not such as i have been aforetime, and better may one learn of a good knight than of a bad." with that he smiteth the knight upon his shield with such a sweep that he maketh him lose one of his stirrups and pierceth his shield above the boss, and passeth beyond full speed. and the knight marvelleth much, and maketh demand, saying, "fair sir, what misdeed have i done you?" perceval is silent, and hath no great joy of this that he hath not overthrown the knight, but not so easy was he to overthrow, for he was one of the knights of the world that could most of defence of arms. he goeth toward perceval as fast as his horse may carry him and perceval toward him. they mell together upon their shields right stiffly, so that they pierce and batter them with the points of their spears. and perceval thrusteth his spear into the flesh two finger-breadths, and the knight doth not amiss, for he passeth his spear right through his arm so that the shafts of the lances were splintered. they hurtle together either against other at the passing so mightily, that the flinders of iron from the mail of their habergeons stick into their foreheads and faces, and the blood leapeth forth by mouth and nose so that their habergeons were all bloody. they drew their swords with a right great sweep. the knight of the white shield holdeth perceval's rein and saith: "gladly would i know who you are and wherefore you hate me, for you have wounded me right sore, and sturdy knight have i found you and of great strength." perceval saith not a word to him and runneth again upon him sword drawn, and the knight upon him, and right great buffets either giveth other on the helm, so that their eyes all sparkle of stars and the forest resoundeth of the clashing of their swords. right tough was the battle and right horrible, for good knights were both twain. but the blood that ran down from their wounds at last slackened their sinews, albeit the passing great wrath that the one had against the other, and the passing great heat of their will, had so enchafed them they scarce remembered the wounds that they had, and still dealt each other great buffets without sparing. iii. king hermit cometh from labouring in the forest and findeth not his nephew in the hermitage, whereof is he right sorrowful, and he mounteth on a white mule that he had therewithin. she was starred in the midst of her forehead with a red cross. josephus the good clerk witnesseth us that this same mule had belonged to joseph of abarimacie at the time he was pilate's soldier, and that he bequeathed her to king pelles. king hermit departeth from the hermitage and prayeth god grant him to find his nephew. he goeth through the forest and rideth until he draweth nigh the launde where the two knights were. he heareth the strokes of the swords, and cometh towards them full speed and setteth him between the twain to forbid them. "ha, sir," saith he to the knight of the white shield, "right great ill do you to combat against this knight that hath lain sick this long time in this forest, and fight sorely have you wounded him." "sir," saith the-knight, "as much hath he done by me, and never would i have run upon him now had he not challenged me, and he is not minded to tell me who he is nor whence ariseth his hatred of me." "fair sir," saith the hermit, "and you, who are you?" "sir," saith the knight, "i will tell you. i am the son of king ban of benoic." "ha, fair nephew," saith king hermit to perceval, "see here your cousin, for king ban of benoic was your father's cousin-german. make him right great cheer!" he maketh them take off their helmets and lower their ventails, and then kiss one another, afterward he leadeth them to his hermitage. they alight together. he calleth his own squire that waited upon him, and made them be disarmed right tenderly. there was a damsel within that was cousin-german to king pelles and had tended perceval within in his sickness. she washeth their wounds right sweetly and cleanseth them of the blood. and they see that lancelot is sorer wounded than perceval. "damsel," saith the hermit, "how seemeth you?" "sir," saith she, "needs must this knight sojourn here, for his wound is in a right perilous place." "hath he danger of death?" "sir," saith she, "in no wise of this wound, but behoveth him take good heed thereto." "god be praised!" saith he, "and of my nephew how seemeth you?" "sir, the wound that he hath will be soon healed. he will have none ill thereof." iv. the damsel, that was right cunning of leech-craft, tended the wounds of the knights, and made them whole as best she might, and king hermit himself gave counsel therein. but and perceval had borne his shield that was there within, of sinople with a white hart, lancelot would have known him well, nor would there have been any quarrel between them, for he had heard tell of this shield at the court of king arthur. the authority of this story recordeth that the two knights are in hermitage, and that perceval is well-nigh whole; but lancelot hath sore pain of his wound and is still far from his healing. branch ix. title i. now the story is silent about the two knights for a little time, and speaketh of the squire that messire gawain meeteth in the midst of the forest, that told him he went seek the son of the widow lady that had slain his father. and the squire saith that he will go to avenge him, wherefore cometh he to the court of king arthur, for that he had heard tell how all good knights repaired thither. and he seeth the shield hang on the column in the midst of the hall that the damsel of the car had brought thither. the squire knoweth it well, and kneeleth before the king and saluteth him, and the king returneth his salute and asketh who he is. "sir," saith he, "i am the son of the knight of the red shield of the forest of shadows, that was slain of the knight that ought to bear the shield that hangeth on this column, wherefore would i right gladly hear tidings of him." "as gladly would i," saith the king, "so that no evil came to him thereof, for he is the knight of the world that i most desire." "sir," saith the squire, "well behoveth me to hate him for that he slew my father. he that ought to bear this shield was squire when he slew him, wherefore am i the more sorrowful for that i thought to be avenged upon him squire. but this i may not do, wherefore i pray you for god's sake that you will make me knight, for the like favour are you accustomed to grant unto others." "what is your name, fair friend?" saith the king. "sir," saith he, "i am called clamados of the shadows." messire gawain that had repaired to court, was in the hall, and said to the king: "if this squire be enemy of the good knight that ought to bear this shield, behoveth you not set forward his mortal enemy but rather set him back, for he is the best knight of the world and the most chaste that liveth in the world and of the most holy lineage, and therefore have you sojourned right long time in this castle to await his coming. i say not this for the hindering of the squire's advancement, but that you may do nought whereof the good knight may have cause of complaint against you." "messire gawain," saith queen guenievre, "well know i that you love my lord's honour, but sore blame will he have if he make not this one knight, for so much hath he never refused to do for any; nor yet will the good knight have any misliking thereof, for greater shame should he have, and greater despite of the hatred of a squire than of a knight; for never yet was good knight that was not prudent and well-advised and slow to take offence. wherefore i tell you that he will assuredly listen to reason, and i commend my lord the rather that he make him knight, for much blame would he have of gainsaying him." "lady," saith messire gawain, "so you are content, i am happy." the king made him knight right richly, and when he was clad in the robes, they of the court declare and witness that never this long time past had they seen at the court knight of greater comeliness. he sojourned therein long time, and was much honoured of the king and all the barons. he was every day on the watch for the good knight that should come for the shield, but the hour and the place were not as yet. ii. when he saw that he did not come, he took leave of the king and the queen and all them of the court, and departed, thinking him that he would go prove his knighthood in some place until he should have heard tidings of his mortal enemy. he rideth amidst the great forests bearing a red shield like as did his father, and he was all armed as for defending of his body. and a long space of time he rideth, until one day he cometh to the head of a forest, and he espied his way that ran between two mountains and saw that he had to pass along the midst of the valley that lay at a great depth. he looketh before him and seeth a tree far away from him, and underneath were three damsels alighted, and one prayed god right heartily aloud that he would send them betimes a knight that durst convoy them through this strait pass. iii. clamodos heareth the damsel and cometh thitherward. when they espied him, great joy have they thereof and rise up to meet him. "sir," say they, "welcome may you be!" "damsels," saith he, "good adventure may you have! and whom await you here?" saith he. "we await," saith the mistress of the damsels, "some knight that shall clear this pass, for no knight durst pass hereby." "what is the pass; then, damsel?" saith he. "it is the one of a lion, and a lion, moreover, so fell and horrible that never was none seen more cruel. and there is a knight with the lion between the two mountains that is right good knight and hardy and comely. howbeit none durst pass without great company of folk. but the knight that hath repair with the lion is seldom there, for so he were there we need fear no danger, for much courtesy is there in him and valour." and the knight looketh and seeth in the shadow of the forest three fair stags harnessed to a car. "ha," saith he, "you are the damsel of the car, wherefore may you well tell me tidings of the knight of whom i am in quest." "who is he?" saith the damsel. "it is he that should bear a shield banded argent and azure with a red cross." "of him am i likewise in quest," saith the damsel; "please god, we shall hear tidings of him betimes." "damsel" saith the knight, "that would i. and for that you are in quest of him as am i likewise, i will convoy you beyond this pass." the damsel maketh her car go on before, and the damsels go before the knight; and so enter they into the field of the lion, and right fair land found they therewithin. clamados looketh and seeth the hall within an enclosure and seeth the lion that lay at the entrance of the gateway. as soon as he espieth clamados and the damsels, he cometh toward them full speed, mouth open and ears pricked up. "sir," saith the damsel, "and you defend not your horse on foot, he is dead at the first onset." iv. clamados is alighted to his feet, by her counsel, and holdeth his spear in his fist, and the lion rampeth toward him all in a fury. clamados receiveth him on the point of his spear, and smiteth him therewith so stoutly that it passeth a fathom beyond his neck. he draweth back his spear without breaking it, and thinketh to smite him again. but the lion cheateth him, and arising himself on his two hinder feet, setteth his fore feet on his shoulders, then huggeth him toward him like as one man doth another. but the grip was sore grievous, for he rendeth his habergeon in twain and so teareth away as much flesh as he can claw hold on. v. when clamados felt himself wounded, he redoubled his hardihood, and grippeth the lion so straitly to him that he wringeth a huge roar out of him, and then flingeth him to the ground beneath him. then he draweth his sword and thrusteth it to the heart right through the breast. the lion roareth so loud that all the mountains resound thereof. clamados cutteth off his head and goeth to hang it at the door of the hall. then he cometh back to his horse and mounteth the best he may. and the damsel saith to him, "sir, you are sore wounded." "damsel," said he, "please god, i shall take no hurt thereof." thereupon, behold you a squire that issueth forth of the hall and cometh after him full speed. "hold, sir knight," saith he; "foul wrong have you wrought, for you have slain the lion of the most courteous knight that may be known, and the fairest and most valiant of this kingdom, and in his despite have you hung the head at his door! right passing great outrage have you done hereby!" "fair sweet friend," saith clamados, "it may well be that the lord is right courteous, but the lion was rascal and would have slain me and them that were passing by. and your lord loved him so much he should have chained him up, for better liketh me that i slew him than that he should slay me." "sir," saith the squire, "there is no road this way, for it is a forbidden land whereof certain would fain reave my lord, and it was against the coming of his enemies that the lion was allowed forth unchained." "and what name hath your lord, fair friend?" saith clamados. "sir, he is called meliot of logres, and he is gone in quest of messire gawain, of whom he holdeth the land, for right dear is he to him." "messire gawain," saith clamados, "left i at the court of king arthur, but behoveth him depart thence or ever i return thither." "by my head," saith the squire, "faith would i you might meet them both twain, if only my lord knew that you had slain him his lion." "fair friend," saith clamados, "and he be as courteous as you say, no misliking will he have of me thereof, for i slew him in defending mine own body, and god forbid i should meet any that would do me evil therefor." vi. thereupon the knight and the damsels depart and pass the narrow strait in the lion's field, and ride on until they draw nigh a right rich castle seated in a meadowland surrounded of great waters and high forests, and the castle was always void of folk. and they were fain to turn thitherward, but they met a squire that told them that in the castle was not a soul, albeit and they would ride forward they would find great plenty of folk. so far forward have they ridden that they are come to the head of a forest and see great foison of tents stretched right in the midst of a launde, and they were compassed round of a great white sheet that seemed from afar to be a long white wall with crenels, and it was a good league welsh in length. they came to the entrance of the tents and heard great joy within, and when they had entered they saw dames and damsels, whereof was great plenty, and of right passing great beauty were they. clamados alighteth, that was right sore wounded. the damsel of the car was received with right great joy. two of the damsels come to clamados, of whom make they right great joy. afterward they lead him to a tent and made disarm him. then they washed his wounds right sweetly and tenderly. then they brought him a right rich robe and made him be apparelled therein, and led him before the ladies of the tents, that made right great joy of him. vii. "lady," saith the damsel of the car, "this knight hath saved my life, for he hath slain the lion on account of which many folk durst not come to you, wherefore make great joy of him." "greater joy may i not make, than i do, nor the damsels that are herein, for we await the coming of the good knight that is healed, from day to day. and now is there nought in the world i more desire to see." "lady," saith clamados, "who is this good knight?" "the son of the widow lady of the valleys of camelot," saith she. "tell me, lady, do you say that he will come hither presently?" "so methinketh," saith she. "lady, i also shall have great joy thereof, and god grant he come betimes!" "sir knight," saith she, "what is your name?" "lady" saith he, "i am called clamados, and i am son of the lord of the forest of shadows." she throweth her arms on his neck and kisseth and embraceth him right sweetly, and saith: "marvel not that i make you joy thereof, for you are the son of my sister-in-law, nor have i any friend nor blood-kindred so nigh as are you, and fain would i you should be lord of all my land and of me, as is right and reason." the damsels of the tents make right great joy of him when they know the tidings that he is so nigh of kin to the lady of the tents. and he sojourned therewithin until that he was whole and heal, awaiting the coming of the knight of whom he had heard the tidings. and the damsels marvel them much that he cometh not, for the damsel that had tended him was therewithin and telleth them that he was healed of his arm, but that lancelot is not yet whole, wherefore he is still within the hermitage. viii. this high history witnesseth us and recordeth that joseph, who maketh remembrance thereof, was the first priest that sacrificed the body of our lord, and forsomuch ought one to believe the words that come of him. you have heard tell how perceval was of the lineage of joseph of abarimacie, whom god so greatly loved for that he took down his body hanging on the cross, which he would not should lie in the prison there where pilate had set it. for the highness of the lineage whereof the good knight was descended ought one willingly to hear brought to mind and recorded the words that are of him. the story telleth us that he was departed of the hermitage all sound and whole, albeit he hath left lancelot, for that his wound was not yet healed, but he hath promised him that he will come back to him so soon as he may. he rideth amidst a forest, all armed, and cometh toward evensong to the issue of the forest and seeth a castle before him right fair and well seated, and goeth thitherward for lodging, for the sun was set. he entereth into the castle and alighteth. the lord cometh to meet him that was a tall knight and a red, and had a felon look, and his face scarred in many places; and knight was there none therewithin save only himself and his household. ix. when he seeth perceval alighted, he runneth to bar the door, and perceval cometh over against him. for all greeting, the knight saluteth him thus: "now shall you have," saith he, "such guerdon as you have deserved. never again shall you depart hence, for my mortal enemy are you, and right hardy are you thus to throw yourself upon me, for you slew my brother the lord of the shadows, and chaos the red am i that war upon your mother, and this castle have i reft of her. in like manner will i wring the life out of you or ever you depart hence!" "already," saith perceval, "have i thrown myself on this your hostel to lodge with you, wherefore to blame would you be to do me evil. but lodge me this night as behoveth one knight do for another, and on the morrow at departing let each do the best he may." "by my head!" saith chaos the red, "mortal enemy of mine will i never harbour here save i harbour him dead." he runneth to the hall above, and armeth himself as swiftly as he may, and taketh his sword all naked in his hand and cometh back to the place where perceval was, right full of anguish of heart for this that he said, that he would war upon his mother and had reft her of this castle. he flung his spear to the ground, and goeth toward him on foot and dealeth him a huge buffet above the helmet upon the coif of his habergeon, such that he cleaveth the mail and cutteth off two fingers'-breadth of the flesh in such sort that he made him reel three times round. x. when chaos the red felt himself wounded, he was sore grieved thereof, and cometh toward perceval and striketh him a great buffet above in the midst of his helmet, so that he made the sparks fly and his neck stoop and his eyes sparkle of stars. and the blow slippeth down on to the shield, so that it is cleft right down to the boss. perceval felt his neck stiff and heavy, and feeleth that the knight is sturdy and of great might. he cometh back towards him, and thinketh to strike him above in the midst of his head, but chaos swerved aside from him; howbeit perceval reached him and caught his right arm and cutteth it sheer from his side, sword and all, and sendeth it flying to the ground, and chaos runneth upon him, thinking to grapple him with his left arm, but his force was waning; nathless right gladly would he have avenged himself and he might. howbeit, perceval setteth on him again that loved him not in his heart, and smiteth him again above on the head, and dealeth him such a buffet as maketh his brains be all to-scattered abroad. his household and servants were at the windows of the hall. when they see that their lord is nigh to the death, they cry to perceval: "sir, you have slain the hardiest knight in the kingdom of logres, and him that was most redoubted of his enemies; but we can do no otherwise; we know well that this castle is your mother's and ought to be yours. we challenge it not; wherefore may you do your will of whatsoever there is in the castle; but allow us to go to our lord that there lieth dead, and take away the body and set it in some seemly place for the sake of his good knighthood, and for that it behoveth us so to do." "readily do i grant it you," saith perceval. they bear the body to a chapel, then they disarm him and wind him in his shroud. after that they lead perceval into the hall and disarm him and say to him: "sir, you may be well assured that there be none but us twain herewithin and two damsels, and the doors are barred, and behold, here are the keys which we deliver up to you." "and i command you," saith perceval, "that you go straightway to my mother, and tell her that she shall see me betimes and i may get done, and so salute her and tell her i am sound and whole. and what is the name of this castle?" "sir, it hath for name the key of wales, for it is the gateway of the land." xi. perceval lay the night in the castle he had reconquered for his mother, and the morrow, when he was armed, he departed. these promised that they would keep the castle loyally and would deliver it up to his mother at her will. he rode until he came to the tents where the damsels were, and drew rein and listened. but there was not so great joy as when the damsel that rode like a knight and led the car came thither with clamados. great dole heard he that was made, and beating of palms. wherefore he bethought him what folk they might be. natheless he was not minded to draw back without entering. he alighted in the midst of the tents and set down his shield and his spear, and seeth the damsels wringing their hands and tearing their hair, and much marvelleth he wherefore it may be. a damsel cometh forward that had set forth from the castle where he had slain the knight: "sir, to your shame and ill adventure may you have come hither!" perceval looketh at her and marvelleth much of that she saith, and she crieth out: "lady, behold here him that hath slain the best knight of your lineage! and you, clamados, that are within there, he hath slain your father and your uncle! now shall it be seen what you will do!" the damsel of the car cometh thitherward and knoweth perceval by the shield that he bare of sinople with a white hart. "sir," saith she, "welcome may you be! let who will make dole, i will make joy of your coming!" xii. therewith the damsel leadeth him into a tent and maketh him sit on a right rich couch; afterward she maketh him be disarmed of her two damsels and clad in a right rich robe. then she leadeth him to the queen of the tents that was still making great dole. "lady," saith the damsel of the car, "stint your sorrow, for behold, here is the good knight on whose account were the tents here pitched, and on whose account no less have you been making this great joy right up to this very day!" "ha," saith she, "is this then the son of the widow lady?" "yea, certes," saith the damsel. "ha," saith the lady, "he hath slain me the best knight of all my kin, and the one that protected me from mine enemies." "lady," saith the damsel, "this one will be better able to protect and defend us, for the best knight is he of the world and the comeliest." the queen taketh him by the hand and maketh him sit beside her. "sir," saith she, "howsoever the adventure may have befallen, my heart biddeth me make joy of your coming." "lady," saith he, "gramercy! chaos would fain have slain me within his castle, and i defended myself to my power." the queen looketh at him amidst his face, and is taken with a love of him so passing strong and fervent that she goeth nigh to fall upon him. "sir," saith she, "and you will grant me your love, i will pardon you of all the death of chaos the red." "lady," saith he, "your love am i right fain to deserve, and mine you have." "sir," saith she, "how may i perceive that you love me?" "lady," saith he, "i will tell you. there is no knight in the world that shall desire to do you a wrong, but i will help you against him to my power." "such love," saith she, "is the common love that knight ought to bear to lady. would you do as much for another?" "lady," saith he, "it well may be, but more readily shall a man give help in one place than in another." the queen would fain that perceval should pledge himself to her further than he did, and the more she looketh at him the better he pleaseth her, and the more is she taken with him and the more desirous of his love. but perceval never once thought of loving her or another in such wise. he was glad to look upon her, for that she was of passing great beauty, but never spake he nought to her whereby she might perceive that he loved her of inward love. but in no wise might she refrain her heart, nor withdraw her eyes, nor lose her desire. the damsels looked upon her with wonder that so soon had she forgotten her mourning. xiii. thereupon, behold you clamados, that had been told that this was the knight that, as yet only squire, had slain his father and put chaos his uncle to death. he cometh into the tent and seeth him sitting beside the queen, that looked at him right sweetly. "lady," saith he, "great shame do you to yourself, in that you have seated at your side your own mortal enemy and mine. never again henceforth ought any to have affiance in your love nor in your help." "clamados," saith the queen, "the knight hath thrown himself upon me suddenly. wherefore ought i do him no evil, rather behoveth me lodge him and keep his body in safety. nought, moreover, hath he done whereof he might be adjudged of murder nor of treason." "lady," saith clamados, "he slew my father in the lonely forest without defiance, and treacherously cast a javelin at him and smote him through the body, wherefore shall i never be at ease until i have avenged him. therefore do i appeal and pray you to do me my right, not as being of your kindred, but as stranger. for right willing am i that kinship shall avail me nought herein." perceval looketh at the knight and seeth that he is of right goodly complexion of body and right comely of face. "fair sir," saith he, "as of treason i would that you hold me quit, for never toward your father nor toward other have had i never a mind to do treason, and god defend me from such shame, and grant me strength to clear myself of any blame thereof." clamados cometh forward to proffer his gage. "by my head," saith the queen, "not this day shall gage be received herein. but to-morrow will come day, and counsel therewith, and then shall fight be done to each." clamados is moved of right great wrath, but the queen of the tents showeth perceval the most honour she may, whereof is clamados right heavy, and saith that never ought any to put his trust in woman. but wrongly he blameth her therein, for she did it of the passing great love she hath for perceval, inasmuch as well she knoweth that he is the best knight of the world and the comeliest. but it only irketh her the more that she may not find in him any sign of special liking toward herself neither in deed nor word, whereof is she beyond measure sorrowful. the knights and damsels lay the night in the tents until the morrow, and went to hear mass in a chapel that was in the midst of the tents. xiv. when mass was sung, straightway behold you, a knight that cometh all armed, bearing a white shield at his neck. he alighteth in the midst of the tents and cometh before the queen all armed, and saith: "lady, i plain me of a knight that is there within that hath slain my lion, and if you do me not right herein, i will harass you as much or more than i will him, and will harm you in every wise i may. wherefore i pray and require you, for the love of messire gawain, whose man i am, that you do me right herein." "what is the knight's name?" saith the queen. "lady," saith he, "he is called clamados of the shadows, and methinketh i see him yonder, for i knew him when he was squire." "and what is your name?" saith the queen. "lady, i am called melior of logres." "clamados," saith the queen, "hear you what this knight saith?" "yea, lady," saith he; "but again i require that you do me right of the knight that slew my father and my uncle." "lady," saith melior, "i would fain go. i know not toward whom the knight proffereth his gage, but him do i appeal of felony for my lion that he hath slain." he taketh in his hand the skirt of his habergeon: "lady, behold here the gage i offer you." xv. "clamados," saith the queen, "hear you then not that which this knight saith?" "lady," saith he, "i hear him well. truth it is that i slew his lion, but not until after he had fallen upon me, and made the wounds whereof i have been healed herewithin. but well you know that the knight who came hither last night hath done me greater wrong than have i done this other. wherefore would i pray you that i may take vengeance of him first." "you hear," saith she, "how this knight that hath come hither all armed is fain to go back forthwith. quit you, therefore, of him first, and then will we take thought of the other." "lady, gramercy!" saith meliot, "and messire gawain will take it in right good part, for this knight hath slain my lion that defended me from all my enemies. nor is it true that the entrance to your tent was deserted on account of my lion; and in despite of me hath he hung the head at my gate." "as of the lion," saith the queen, "you have no quarrel against him and he slew him in defending his body, but as of the despite he did you as you say, when in nought had you done him any wrong, it shall not be that right shalt be denied you in my court, and if you desire to deliver battle, no blame shall you have thereof." xvi. clamados maketh arm him and mounteth on his horse, and he seemeth right hardy of his arms and valorous. he cometh right in the midst of the tent, where the ground was fair and level, and found meilot of logres all armed upon his horse, and a right comely knight was he and a deliver. and the ladies and damsels were round about the tilting-ground. "sir," saith the queen to perceval, "i will that you keep the field for these knights." "lady," saith he, "at your pleasure." meliot moveth toward clamados right swiftly and clamados toward him, and they melled together on their shields in such sort that they pierced them and cleft the mail of their habergeons asunder with the points of their spears, and the twain are both wounded so that the blood rayeth forth of their bodies. the knights draw asunder to take their career, for their spears were broken short, and they come back the one toward the other with a great rush, and smite each other on the breast with their spears so stiffly that there is none but should have been pierced within the flesh, for the habergeons might protect them not. they hurtle against each other so strongly that knights and horses fall together to the ground all in a heap. the queen and the damsels have great pity of the two knights, for they see that they are both so passing sore wounded. the two knights rise to their feet and hold their swords naked and run the one on the other right wrathfully, with such force as they had left. "sir," saith the queen to perceval, "go part these two knights asunder that one slay not the other, for they are sore wounded." perceval goeth to part them and cometh to meliot of logres. "sir," saith he, "withdraw yourself back; you have done enough." clamados felt that he was sore wounded in two places, and that the wound he had in his breast was right great. he draweth himself back. the queen is come thither. "fair nephew," saith she, "are you badly wounded?" "yea, lady," saith clamados. "certes," saith the queen, "this grieveth me, but never yet saw i knight and he were desirous of fighting, but came at some time by mischance. a man may not always stand on all his rights." she made him be carried on his shield into a tent, and made search his wounds, and saw that of one had he no need to fear, but that the other was right sore perilous. xvii. "lady," saith clamados, "once more do i pray and require you that you allow not the knight that slew my father to issue forth from hence, save he deliver good hostage that he will come back when i shall be healed." "so will i do, sith that it is your pleasure." the queen cometh to the other knight that was wounded, for that he declareth himself messire gawain's man, and maketh search his wounds, and they say that he hath not been hurt so sore as is clamados. she commandeth them to tend him and wait upon him right well-willingly, "sir," saith she to perceval, "behoveth you abide here until such time as my nephew be heal, for you know well that whereof he plaineth against you, nor would i that you should depart hence without clearing you of the blame." "lady, no wish have i to depart without your leave, but rather shall i be ready to clear myself of blame whensoever and wheresoever time and place may be. but herewithin may i make not so long sojourn. natheless to this will i pledge my word, that i will return thither within a term of fifteen days from the time he shall be whole." "sir," saith the damsel of the car, "i will remain here in hostage for you." "but do you pray him," saith the queen, "that he remain herewithin with us." xviii. "lady," saith perceval, "i may not, for i left lancelot wounded right sore in my uncle's hermitage." "sir," saith the queen, "i would fain that remaining here might have pleased you as well as it would me." "lady," saith he, "none ought it to displease to be with you, but every man behoveth keep his word as well as he may, and none ought to lie to so good a knight as he." "you promise me, then," saith the queen, "that you will return hither the soonest you may, or at the least, within the term appointed after you shall have learnt that clamados is healed, to defend you of the treason that he layeth upon you?" "lady," saith he, "and if he die shall i be quit?" "yea, truly, sir, and so be that you have no will to come for love of me. for right well should i love your coming." "lady," saith he, "never shall be the day my services shall fail you, so i be in place, and you in need thereof." he taketh leave and departeth, armed. the damsel of the car commendeth him to god, and perceval departeth full speed and rideth so far on his journeys that he cometh to his uncle's hermitage and entereth in, thinking to find lancelot. but his uncle telleth him that he hath departed all sound and all heal of his wound, as of all other malady, as him thinketh. branch x. incipit. another branch of the graal again beginneth in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost. title i. and the story is here silent of perceval, and saith that lancelot goeth his way and rideth by a forest until he findeth a castle amidst his way at the head of a launde, and seeth at the gateway of the castle an old knight and two damsels sitting on a bridge. thitherward goeth he, and the knight and damsels rise up to meet him, and lancelot alighteth. "sir," saith the vavasour, "welcome may you be." the damsels make great joy of him and lead him into the castle. "sir," saith the vavasour, "sore need had we of your coming." he maketh him go up into the hall above and be disarmed of his arms. "sir," saith the vavasour, "now may you see great pity of these two damsels that are my daughters. a certain man would reave them of this castle for that no aid nor succour have they save of me alone. and little enough can i do, for i am old and feeble, and my kin also are of no avail, insomuch that hitherto have i been able to find no knight that durst defend me from the knight that is fain to reave this castle from me. and you seem to be of so great valiance that you will defend me well herein to-morrow, for the truce cometh to an end to-night." "how?" saith lancelot, "i have but scarce come in hither to lodge, and you desire me so soon already to engage myself in battle?" "sir," saith the vavasour, "herein may it well be proven whether there be within you as much valour as there seemeth from without to be. for, and you make good the claim of these two damsels that are my daughters to the fiefs that are of right their own, you will win thereby the love of god as well as praise of the world." they fall at his feet weeping, and pray him of mercy that they may not be disherited. and he raiseth them forthwith, as one that hath great pity thereof. "damsels," saith he, "i will aid you to my power. but i would fain that the term be not long." "sir," say they, "to-morrow is the day, and to-morrow, so we have no knight to meet him that challengeth this castle, we shall have lost it. and our father is an old knight, and hath no longer lustihood nor force whereby he might defend it for us, and all of our lineage are fallen and decayed. this hatred hath fallen on us on account of messire gawain, whom we harboured." lancelot lay there the night within the castle and was right well lodged and worshipfully entreated. and on the morrow he armed himself when he had heard mass, and leant at the windows of the hall and seeth the gate shut and barred, and heareth a horn sound without the gate three times right loud. "sir," saith the vavasour, "the knight is come, and thinketh that within here is no defence." "by my head," saith lancelot, "but there is, please god!" the knight bloweth another blast of his horn. "hearken, sir," saith the vavasour, "it is nigh noon, and he thinketh him that none will issue hence to meet him." ii. lancelot cometh down below and findeth his horse saddled and is mounted as soon. the damsels are at his stirrup, and pray him for god's sake remember to defend the honour that is theirs of the castle, for, save only he so doth, they must flee like beggars into other lands. thereupon the knight soundeth his horn again. lancelot, when he heareth the blast, hath no mind to abide longer, and forthwith issueth out of the castle all armed, lance in hand and shield at his neck. he seeth the knight at the head of the bridge, all armed under a tree. thitherward cometh lancelot full speed. the knight seeth him coming, and crieth to him. "sir knight," saith he, "what demand you? come you hither to do me evil?" "yea," saith lancelot, "for that evil are you fain to do to this castle; wherefore on behalf of the vavasour and his daughters do i defy you." he moveth against the knight and smiteth him on the shield with his spear and the knight him. but lancelot pierceth his shield for him with his sword, and smiteth him so stiffly that he pinneth his arm to his side, and hurtleth against him so passing stoutly that he thrusteth him to the ground, him and his horse, and runneth over him, sword drawn. "ha," saith the knight to lancelot, "withdraw a little from over me, and slay me not, and tell me your name, of your mercy." "what have you to do with my name?" saith lancelot. "sir," saith he, "gladly would i know it, for a right good knight seem you to be, and so have i well proven in the first encounter." "sir" saith he, "i am called lancelot of the lake. and what is your name?" "sir." saith he, "i am called marin of the castle of gomeret. so am i--father of meliot of logres. i pray you, by that you most love in the world, that you slay me not." "so will i do," saith lancelot, "and you renounce not your feud against this castle." "by my faith," saith the knight, "thus do i renounce it, and i pledge myself that thenceforth for ever shall it have no disturbance of me." "your pledge," saith lancelot, "will i not accept save you come in thither." "sir," saith the knight, "you have sore wounded me in such sort that i cannot mount but with right great pain." lancelot helpeth him until he was mounted again on his horse, and leadeth him into the castle with him, and maketh him present his sword to the vavasour and his daughters, and yield up his shield and his arms, and afterward swear upon hallows that never again will he make war upon them. lancelot thereupon receiveth his pledge to forego all claim to the castle and marin turneth him back to gomeret. the vavasour and his daughters abide in great joy. iii. the story saith that lancelot went his way by strange lands and by forests to seek adventure, and rode until he found a plain land lying without a city that seemed to be of right great lordship. as he was riding by the plain land, he looketh toward the forest and seeth the plain fair and wide and the land right level. he rideth all the plain, and looketh toward the city and seeth great plenty of folk issuing forth thereof. and with them was there much noise of bag-pipes and flutes and viols and many instruments of music, and they came along the way wherein was lancelot riding. when the foremost came up to him, they halted and redoubled their joy. "sir," say they, "welcome may you be!" "lords," saith lancelot, "whom come ye to meet with such joy?" "sir," say they, "they that come behind there will tell you clearly that whereof we are in need." iv. thereupon behold you the provosts and the lords of the city, and they come over against lancelot. "sir," say they, "all this joy is made along of you, and all these instruments of music are moved to joy and sound of gladness for your coming." "but wherefore for me," saith lancelot. "that shall you know well betimes," say they. "this city began to burn and to melt in one of the houses from the very same hour that our king was dead, nor might the fire be quenched, nor never will be quenched until such time as we have a king that shall be lord of the city and of the honour thereunto belonging, and on new year's day behoveth him to be crowned in the midst of the fire, and then shall the fire be quenched, for otherwise may it never be put out nor extinguished. wherefore have we come to meet you to give you the royalty, for we have been told that you are a good knight." "lords," saith lancelot, "of such a kingdom have i no need, and god defend me from it." "sir," they say, "you may not be defended thereof, for you come into this land at hazard, and great grief would it be that so good land as you see this is were burnt and melted away by the default of one single man, and the lordship is right great, and this will be right great worship to yourself, that on new year's day you should be crowned in the fire and thus save this city and this great people, and thereof shall you have great praise." v. much marvelleth lancelot of this that they say. they come round about him on all sides and lead him into the city. the ladies and damsels are mounted to the windows of the great houses and make great joy, and say the one to another, "look at the new king here that they are leading in. now will he quench the fire on new year's day." "lord!" say the most part, "what great pity is it of so comely a knight that he shall end on such-wise!" "be still!" say the others. "rather should there be great joy that so fair city as is this should be saved by his death, for prayer will be made throughout all the kingdom for his soul for ever!" therewith they lead him to the palace with right great joy and say that they will crown him. lancelot found the palace all strown with rushes and hung about with curtains of rich cloths of silk, and the lords of the city all apparelled to do him homage. but he refuseth right stoutly, and saith that their king nor their lord will he never be in no such sort. thereupon behold you a dwarf that entereth into the city, leading one of the fairest dames that be in any kingdom, and asketh whereof this joy and this murmuring may be. they tell him they are fain to make the knight king, but that he is not minded to allow them, and they tell him the whole manner of the fire. vi. the dwarf and the damsel are alighted, then they mount up to the palace. the dwarf calleth the provosts of the city and the greater lords. "lords," saith he, "sith that this knight is not willing to be king, i will be so willingly, and i will govern the city at your pleasure and do whatsoever you have devised to do." "in faith, sith that the knight refuseth this honour and you desire to have it, willingly will we grant it you, and he may go his way and his road, for herein do we declare him wholly quit." therewithal they set the crown on the dwarf's head, and lancelot maketh great joy thereof. he taketh his leave, and they command him to god, and so remounteth he on his horse and goeth his way through the midst of the city all armed. the dames and damsels say that he would not be king for that he had no mind to die so soon. when he came forth of the city right well pleased was he. he entereth a great forest and rideth on till daylight began to fall, and seeth before him a hermitage newly stablished, for the house and the chapel were all builded new. he cometh thitherward and alighteth to lodge. the hermit, that was young without beard or other hair on his face, issued from his chapel. "sir," saith he to lancelot, "you are he that is welcome." "and you, sir, good adventure to you," saith lancelot. "never have i seen hermit so young as you." "sir, of this only do i repent me, that i came not hither ere now." vii. therewith he maketh his horse be stabled, and leadeth him into his hermitage, and so maketh disarm him and setteth him at ease as much as he may. "sir," saith the hermit, "can you tell me any tidings of a knight that hath lain sick of a long time in the house of a hermit?" "sir," saith lancelot, "it is no long time agone sithence i saw him in the house of the good king hermit, that hath tended me and healed me right sweetly of the wounds that the knight gave me." "and is the knight healed, then?" saith the hermit. "yea, sir," saith lancelot, "whereof is right great joy. and wherefore do you ask me?" "well ought i to ask it," saith the hermit, "for my father is king pelles, and his mother is my father's own sister." "ha, sir, then is the king hermit your father?" "yea, sir, certes." "thereof do i love you the better," saith lancelot, "for never found i any man that hath done me so much of love as hath he. and what, sir, is your name?" "sir," saith he, "my name is joseus, and yours, what?" "sir," saith he, "i am called lancelot of the lake." "sir," saith the hermit, "right close are we akin, i and you." "by my head," saith lancelot, "hereof am i right glad at heart." lancelot looketh and seeth in the hermit's house shield and spear, javelins and habergeon. "sir," saith lancelot, "what do you with these arms?" "sir," saith he, "this forest is right lonely, and this hermitage is far from any folk, and none are there here-within save me and my squire. so, when robbers come hither, we defend ourselves therewith." "but hermits, methought, never assaulted nor wounded nor slew." "sir," saith the hermit, "god forbid i should wound any man or slay!" "and how, then, do you defend yourselves?" saith lancelot. "sir, i will tell you thereof. when robbers come to us, we arm ourselves accordingly. if i may catch hold of any in my hands, he cannot escape me. our squire is so well-grown and hardy that he slayeth him forthwith or handleth him in such sort that he may never help himself after." "by my head," saith lancelot, "were you not hermit, you would be valiant throughout." "by my head," saith the squire. "you say true, for methinketh there is none so strong nor so hardy as he in all the kingdom of logres." the lodged lancelot the night the best he could. viii. when as they were in their first sleep, come four robber-knights of the forest that knew how a knight was lodged therewithin, and had coveted his horse and his arms. the hermit that was in his chapel saw them first, and awoke his squire and made him bring his arms all secretly; then he made his squire arm. "sir," saith the squire, "shall i waken the knight?" "in nowise," saith the hermit, "until such time as we shall know wherefore." he maketh open the door of the chapel and taketh a great coil of rope, and they issue forth, he and his squire, and they perceived the robbers in the stable where lancelot's horse was. the hermit crieth out: the squire cometh forward and thereupon beareth one to the ground with his spear. the hermit seizeth him and bindeth him to a tree so strait that he may not move. the other three think to defend them and to rescue their fellow. lancelot leapeth up all startled when he heareth the noise and armeth himself as quickly as he may, albeit not so quickly but that or ever he come, the hermit hath taken the other three and bound them with the fourth. but of them were some that were wounded right sore. "sir," saith the hermit to lancelot, "it grieveth me that you have been awakened." "rather," saith lancelot, "have you done me great wrong for that you ought to have awakened me sooner." "sir," saith the hermit, "we have assaults such as this often enough." the four robbers cry mercy of lancelot that he will pray the hermit to have pity upon them. and lancelot saith god help not him that shall have pity on thieves! as soon as it was daylight, lancelot and the squire led them into the forest, their hands all tied behind their backs, and have hanged them in a waste place far away from the hermitage. lancelot cometh back again and taketh leave of joseus the young hermit, and saith it is great loss to the world that he is not knight. "sir," saith the squire, "to me is it great joy, for many a man should suffer thereby." lancelot is mounted, and joseus commendeth him to god, praying him much that he salute his father and cousin on his behalf, and messire gawain likewise that he met in the forest what time he came all weeping to the hermitage. ix. lancelot hath set him forth again upon his way, and rideth by the high forests and findeth holds and hermitages enough, but the story maketh not remembrance of all the hostels wherein he harboured him. so far hath he ridden that he is come forth of the forest and findeth a right fair meadow-land all loaded with flowers, and a river ran in the midst there of that was right fair and broad, and there was forest upon the one side and the other, and the meadow lands were wide and far betwixt the river and the forest. lancelot looketh on the river before him and seeth a man rowing a great boat, and seeth within the boat two knights, white and bald, and a damsel, as it seemed him, that held in her lap the head of a knight that lay upon a mattress of straw and was covered with a coverlid of marten's fur, and another damsel sate at his feet. there was a knight within in the midst of the boat that was fishing with an angle, the rod whereof seemeth of gold, and right great fish he took. a little cock-boat followed the boat, wherein he set the fish he took. lancelot cometh anigh the bank the swiftest he may, and so saluteth the knights and damsels, and they return his salute right sweetly. "lords," saith lancelot, "is there no castle nigh at hand nor no harbour?" "yea, sir," say they, "beyond that mountain, right fair and rich, and this river runneth thither all round about it." "lords, whose castle is it?" "sir," say they, "it is king fisherman's, and the good knights lodge there when he is in this country; but such knights have been harboured there as that the lord of the land hath had good right to plain him thereof." the knights go rowing along the river, and lancelot rideth until he cometh to the foot of the mountain and findeth a hermitage beside a spring, and bethinketh him, since it behoveth him to go to so high a hostel and so rich, where the holy graal appeareth, he will confess him to the good man. he alighteth and confesseth to the good man, and rehearseth all his sins, and saith that of all thereof doth he repent him save only one, and the hermit asketh him what it is whereof he is unwilling to repent. "sir," saith lancelot, "it seemeth to me the fairest sin and the sweetest that ever i committed." "fair sir," saith the hermit, "sin is sweet to do, but right bitter be the wages thereof; neither is there any sin that is fair nor seemly, albeit there be some sins more dreadfuller than other." "sir," saith lancelot, "this sin will i reveal to you of my lips, but of my heart may i never repent me thereof. i love my lady, which is the queen, more than aught else that liveth, and albeit one of the best kings on live hath her to wife. the affection seemeth me so good and so high that i cannot let go thereof, for, so rooted is it in my heart that thence may it nevermore depart, and the best knighthood that is in me cometh to me only of her affection." "alas!" saith the hermit, "sinner of mortal sin, what is this that you have spoken? never may no knighthood come of such wantonness that shall not cost you right dear! a traitor are you toward our earthly lord, and a murderer toward our saviour. of the seven deadly sins, you are labouring under the one whereof the delights are the falsest of any, wherefore dearly shall you aby thereof, save you repent you forthwith." "sir," saith lancelot, "never the more do i desire to cast it from me." "as much," saith the hermit, "is that as to say that you ought long since to have cast it from you and renounced it. for so long as you maintain it, so long are you an enemy of the saviour!" "ha, sir," saith lancelot, "she hath in her such beauty and worth and wisdom and courtesy and nobleness that never ought she to be forgotten of any that hath loved her!" x. "the more of beauty and worth she hath in her," saith the hermit, "so much the more blame hath she of that she doeth, and you likewise. for of that which is of little worth is the loss not so great as of that which is much worth. and this is a queen, blessed and anointed, that was thus, therefore, in her beginning vowed to god; yet now is she given over to the devil of her love for you, and you of your love for her. fair, sweet my friend," saith the hermit, "let go this folly, which is so cruel, that you have taken in hand, and be repentant of these sins! so every day will i pray to the saviour for you, that so truly as he pardoned his death to him that smote him with a lance in his side, so may he pardon you of this sin that you have maintained, and that so you be repentant and truly confessed thereof, i may take the penance due thereunto upon myself!" "sir," saith lancelot, "i thank you much, but i am not minded to renounce it, nor have i no wish to speak aught wherewith my heart accordeth not. i am willing enough to do penance as great as is enjoined of this sin, but my lady the queen will i serve so long as it may be her pleasure, and i may have her good will. so dearly do i love her that i wish not even that any will should come to me to renounce her love, and god is so sweet and so full of right merciful mildness, as good men bear witness, that he will have pity upon us, for never no treason have i done toward her, nor she toward me." "ha, fair sweet friend," saith the hermit, "nought may you avail you of whatsoever i may say, wherefore god grant her such will and you also, that you may be able to do the will of our saviour. but so much am i fain to tell you, that and if you shall lie in the hostel of king fisherman, yet never may you behold the graal for the mortal sin that lieth at your heart." "may our lord god," saith lancelot, "counsel me therein at his pleasure and at his will!" "so may he do!" saith the hermit, "for of a truth you may know thereof am i right fain." xi. lancelot taketh leave of the hermit, and is mounted forthwith and departeth from the hermitage. and evening draweth on, and he seeth that it is time to lodge him. and he espieth before him the castle of the rich king fisherman. he seeth the bridges, broad and long, but they seem not to him the same as they had seemed to messire gawain. he beholdeth the rich entrance of the gateway there where our lord god was figured as he was set upon the rood, and seeth two lions that guard the entrance of the gate. lancelot thinketh that sith messire gawain had passed through amidst the lions, he would do likewise. he goeth toward the gateway, and the lions that were unchained prick up their ears and look at him. howbeit lancelot goeth his way between them without heeding them, and neither of them was fain to do him any hurt. he alighteth before the master-palace, and mounteth upward all armed. two other knights come to meet him and receive him with right great joy, then they make him be seated on a couch in the midst of the hall and be disarmed of two servants. two damsels bring him a right rich robe and make him be apparelled therewithal. lancelot beholdeth the richness of the hall and seeth nought figured there save images of saints, men or women, and he seeth the hall hung about with cloths of silk in many places. the knights lead him before king fisherman in a chamber where he lay right richly. he findeth the king, that lieth on a bed so rich and so fair apparelled as never was seen a better, and one damsel was at his head and another at his feet. lancelot saluteth him right nobly, and the king answereth him full fairly as one that is a right worshipful man. and such a brightness of light was there in the chamber as that it seemed the sun were beaming on all sides, and albeit the night was dark, no candles, so far as lancelot might espy, were lighted therewithin. "sir," saith king fisherman, "can you tell me tidings of my sister's son, that was son of alain li gros of the valleys of camelot, whom they call perceval?" "sir," saith lancelot, "i saw him not long time sithence in the house of king hermit, his uncle." "sir," saith the king, "they tell me he is a right good knight?" "sir," saith lancelot, "he is the best knight of the world. i myself have felt the goodness of his knighthood and his valour, for right sorely did he wound me or ever i knew him or he me." "and what is your name?" saith the king. "sir, i am called lancelot of the lake, king ban's son of benoic." "ha," saith the king, "you are nigh of our lineage, you ought to be good knight of right, and so are you as i have heard witness, lancelot," saith the king. "behold there the chapel where the most holy graal taketh his rest, that appeared to two knights that have been herewithin. i know not what was the name of the first, but never saw i any so gentle and quiet, nor had better likelihood to be good knight. it was through him that i have fallen into languishment. the second was messire gawain." "sir," saith lancelot, "the first was perceval your nephew." "ha!" saith king fisherman, "take heed that you speak true!" "sir," saith lancelot, "i ought to know him well!" "ha, god!" saith the king, "wherefore then did i know him not? through him have i fallen into this languishment, and had i only known then that it was he, should i now be all whole of my limbs and of my body, and right instantly do i pray you, when you shall see him, that he come to see me or ever i die, and that he be fain to succour and help his mother, whose men have been slain, and whose land hath been reaved in such sort that never may she have it again save by him alone. and his sister hath gone in quest of him throughout all kingdoms." "sir," saith lancelot, "this will i tell him gladly, if ever i may find him in any place, but it is great adventure of finding him, for oft-times will he change his cognizance in divers fashion and conceal his name in many places." xii. king fisherman is right joyous of the tidings he hath heard of his nephew, wherefore he maketh lancelot be honoured greatly. the knights seat them in the hall at a table of ivory at meat, and the king remaineth in his chamber. when they had washen, the table was dight of rich sets of vessels of gold and silver, and they were served of rich meats of venison of hart and wild boar. but the story witnesseth that the graal appeared not at this feast. it held not aloof for that lancelot was not one of the three knights of the world of the most renown and mightiest valour, but for his great sin as touching the queen, whom he loved without repenting him thereof, for of nought did he think so much as of her, nor never might he remove his heart therefrom. when they had eaten they rose from the tables. two damsels waited on lancelot at his going to bed, and he lay on a right rich couch, nor were they willing to depart until such time as he was asleep. he rose on the morrow as soon as he saw the day, and went to hear mass. then he took leave of king fisherman and the knights and damsels, and issued forth of the castle between the two lions, and prayeth god that he allow him to see the queen again betimes, for this is his most desire. he rideth until he hath left the castle far behind and entereth the forest, and is in right great desire to see perceval, but the tidings of him were right far away. he looketh before him in the forest and seeth come right amidst the launde a knight, and a damsel clad in the richest robe of gold and silk that ever he had seen tofore. xiii. the damsel came weeping by the side of the knight and prayed him oftentimes that he would have mercy upon her. the knight is still and holdeth his peace, and saith never a word. "ha, sir," saith the damsel to lancelot, "be pleased to beseech this knight on my behalf." "in what manner?" saith lancelot. "sir," saith she, "i will tell you. he hath shown me semblance of love for more than a year, and had me in covenant that he would take me to wife, and i apparelled myself in the richest garments that i had to come to him. but my father is of greater power and riches than is he, and therefore was not willing to allow the marriage. wherefore come i with him in this manner, for i love him better than ever another knight beside. now will he do nought of that he had me in covenant to do, for he loveth another, better, methinketh, than me. and this hath he done, as i surmise, to do shame to my friends and to me." lancelot seeth the damsel of right great beauty and weeping tenderly, whereof hath he passing great pity. "hold, sir!" saith lancelot to the knight, "this shall you not do! you shall not do such shame to so fair a damsel as that you shall fail to keep covenant with her. for not a knight is there in the kingdom of logres nor in that of wales but ought to be right well pleased to have so fair a damsel to wife, and i pray and require that you do to the damsel that whereof you held her in covenant. this will be a right worshipful deed, and i pray and beseech that you do it, and thereof shall i be much beholden unto you." "sir," saith the knight, "i have no will thereunto, nor for no man will i do it, for ill would it beseem me." "by my head, then," saith lancelot, "the basest knight are you that ever have i seen, nor ought dame nor damsel ever hereafter put trust in you, sith that you are minded to put such disgrace upon this lady." "sir," saith the knight, "a worthier lover have i than this, and one that i more value; wherefore as touching this damsel will i do nought more than i have said." "and whither, then, mean you to take her?" saith lancelot. "i mean to take her to a hold of mine own that is in this forest, and to give her in charge to a dwarf of mine that looketh after my house, and i will marry her to some knight or some other man." "now never god help me," saith lancelot, "but this is foul churlishness you tell me, and, so you do not her will, it shall betide you ill of me myself, and, had you been armed as i am, you should have felt my first onset already." "ha," saith the damsel to lancelot, "be not so ready to do him any hurt, for nought love i so well as i love his body, whatsoever he do unto me. but for god's sake pray him that he do me the honour he hath promised me." "willingly," saith lancelot. "sir knight, will you do this whereof you had the damsel in covenant?" "sir," saith the knight, "i have told you plainly that i will not." "by my head," saith lancelot, "you shall do it, or otherwise sentence of death hath passed upon you, and this not so much for the sake of the damsel only, but for the churlishness that hath taken possession of you, that it be not a reproach to other knights. for promise that knight maketh to dame or damsel behoveth him to keep. and you, as you tell me, are knight, and no knight ought to do churlishly to his knowledge, and this churlishness is so far greater than another, that for no prayer that the damsel may make will i suffer that it shall be done, but that if you do not that whereof you held her in covenant, i shall slay you, for that i will not have this churlishness made a reproach unto other knights." he draweth his sword and would have come toward him, when the knight cometh over against him and saith to him: "slay me not. tell me rather what you would have me do?" "i would," saith he, "that you take the damsel to wife without denial." "sir," saith he, "it pleaseth me better to take her than to die. sir, i will do your will." "i thank you much therefor," saith lancelot. "damsel, is this your pleasure also?" "yea, sir, but, so please you, take not your departure from us until such time as he shall have done that which you tell him." "i will, well that so it be," saith lancelot, "for love of you." they ride together right through the forest, until they came to a chapel at a hermitage, and the hermit wedded them and made much joy thereof. when it cometh to after-mass, lancelot would fain depart, but the damsel prayeth him right sweetly that he should come right to her father's house to witness that the knight had wedded her. xiv. "sir," saith she, "my father's hold is not far away." "lady," saith lancelot, "willingly will i go sith that you beseech me thereof." they ride so long right amidst the forest, that presently they come to the castle of the vavasour, that was sitting on the bridge of his castle, right sorrowful and troubled because of his daughter. lancelot is gone on before and alighteth. the vavasour riseth up to meet him, and lancelot recounteth unto him how his daughter hath been wedded, and that he hath been at the wedding. thereof the vavasour maketh right great joy. therewithal, behold you, the knight and the vavasour's daughter that are straightway alighted, and the vavasour thanketh lancelot much of the honour he hath done his daughter. therewith he departeth from the castle and rideth amidst the forest the day long, and meeteth a damsel and a dwarf that came a great gallop. "sir," saith the damsel to lancelot, "from whence come you?" "damsel," saith he, "i come from the vavasour's castle that is in this forest." "did you meet," saith she, "a knight and a damsel on your way?" "yea," saith lancelot, "he hath wedded her." "say you true?" saith she. "i tell you true," saith lancelot, "but had i not been there, he would not have wedded her." "shame and ill adventure may you have thereof, for you have reft me of the thing in the world that most i loved. and know you well of a truth that joy of him shall she never have, and if the knight had been armed as are you, never would he have done your will, but his own. and this is not the first harm you have done me; you and messire gawain between you have slain my uncle and my two cousins-german in the forest, whom behoved me bury in the chapel where you were, there where my dwarf that you see here was making the graves in the burial-ground." "damsel," saith lancelot, "true it is that i was there, but i departed from the grave-yard, honour safe." "true," saith the dwarf, "for the knights that were there were craven, and failed." "fair friend," saith lancelot, "rather would i they should be coward toward me than hardy." "lancelot," saith the damsel, "much outrage have you done, for you slew the knight of the waste house, there whither the brachet led messire gawain, but had he there been known, he would not have departed so soon, for he was scarce better loved than you, and god grant you may find a knight that may abate the outrages that are in your heart and in his; for great rejoicing would there be thereof, for many a good knight have you slain, and i myself will bring about trouble for you, so quickly as i may." xv. thereupon the dwarf smiteth the mule with his whip, and she departeth. lancelot would answer none of her reviling, wherefore he departed forthwith, and rideth so long on his journeys that he is come back to the house of the good king hermit, that maketh right great joy of him. and he telleth him that he hath been unto the house of king fisherman, his brother that lieth in languishment, and telleth him also how he hath been honoured in his hostel, and of the salutations that he sent him. king hermit is right joyous thereof, and asketh him of his nephew, and he telleth him he hath seen him not since he departed thence. king hermit asketh him whether he hath seen the graal, and he telleth him he hath seen it not at all. "i know well," saith the king, "wherefore this was so. and you had had the like desire to see the graal that you have to see the queen, the graal would you have seen." "sir," saith lancelot, "the queen do i desire to see for the sake of her good intent, her wisdom, courtesy and worth, and so ought every knight to do. for in herself hath she all honourable conditions that a lady may have." "god grant you good issue therein," saith king hermit, "and that you do nought whereof he may visit you with his wrath at the day of judgment." lancelot lay the night in the hermitage, and on the morrow departed thence and took leave when he had heard mass, and cometh back as straight as he may to pannenoisance on the sea of wales, where were the king and queen with great plenty of knights and barons. branch xi. title i. this high history witnesseth whereof this account cometh, and saith that perceval is in the kingdom of logres, and came great pace toward the land of the queen of the tents to release the damsel of the car, that he had left in hostage on account of clamados, that had put upon him the treason whereof behoved him to defend himself. but, or ever he entered into the land of the queen of the tents, he met the damsel of the car that was coming thence. she made right great joy of him, and told him that clamados was dead of the wound that meliot of logres had dealt him, and that meliot of logres was heal. "sir," saith she, "the tents and the awnings are taken down, and the queen hath withdrawn herself to the castle with her maidens, and by my coming back from thence may you well know that you are altogether quit. wherefore i tell you that your sister goeth in quest of you, and that never had your mother so sore need of help as now she hath, nor never again shall your sister have joy at heart until such time as she shall have found you. she goeth seeking for you by all the kingdoms and strange countries in sore mis-ease, nor may she find any to tell her tidings of you." therewith perceval departeth from the damsel, without saying more, and rideth until he cometh into the kingdom of wales to a castle that is seated above the sea upon a high rock, and it was called the castle of tallages. he seeth a knight issue from the castle and asketh whose hold it is, and he telleth him that it belonged to the queen of the maidens. he entereth into the first baby of the castle, and alighteth at the mounting-stage and setteth down his shield and his spear, and looketh toward the steps whereby one goeth up to the higher hall, and seeth upon them row upon row of knights and damsels. he cometh thitherward, but never a knight nor dame was there that gave him greeting of any kind. so he saluted them at large. he went his way right amidst them toward the door of the great hall, which he findeth shut, and rattled the ring so loud that it made the whole hall resound thereof. a knight cometh to open it and he entereth in. "sir knight, welcome may you be!" "good adventure may you have!" saith perceval. he lowereth his ventail and taketh off his helm. the knight leadeth him to the queen's chamber, and she riseth to meet him, and maketh great joy of him, and maketh him sit beside her all armed. ii. with that, cometh a damsel and kneeleth before the queen and saith: "lady, behold here the knight that was first at the graal. i saw him in the court of the queen of the tents, there where he was appeached of treason and murder." "now haste," saith the queen to the knight, "let sound the ivory horn upon the castle." the knights and damsels that were sitting on the steps leapt up, and make right great joy, and the other knights likewise. they say that now they know well that they have done their penance. thereupon they enter into the hall, and the lady issueth from her chamber and taketh perceval by the hand and goeth to meet them. "behold here," saith she, "the knight through whom you have had the pain and travail, and by whom you are now released therefrom!" "ha!" say the knights and dames, "welcome may he be!" "by my head," saith the queen, "so is he, for he is the knight of the world that i had most desire to see." she maketh disarm him, and bring the rich robe of cloth of silk to apparel him. "sir," saith the queen, "four knights and three damsels have been under the steps at the entrance of the hall ever since such time as you were at the hostel of king fisherman, there where you forgot to ask whereof the graal might serve, nor never since have they had none other house nor hold wherein to eat nor to drink nor to lie, nor never since have they had no heart to make joy, nor would not now and you had not come hither. wherefore ought you not to marvel that they make joy of your coming. howbeit, on the other hand, sore need have we in this castle of your coming, for a knight warreth upon me that is brother of king fisherman, and his name is the king of castle mortal." "lady," saith he, "he is my uncle, albeit i knew it not of a long time, nor of the good king fisherman either, and the good king hermit is my uncle also. but i tell you of a very truth, the king of castle mortal is the most fell and cruel that liveth, wherefore ought none to love him for the felony that is in him, for he hath begun to war upon king fisherman my uncle, and challengeth him his castle, and would fain have the lance and the graal." "sir," saith the queen, "in like sort challengeth he my castle of me for that i am in aid of king fisherman, and every week cometh he to an island that is in this sea, and oft-times cometh plundering before this castle and hath slain many of my knights and damsels, whereof god grant us vengeance upon him." she taketh perceval by the hand and leadeth him to the windows of the hall that were nighest the sea. "sir," saith she, "now may you see the island, there, whereunto your uncle cometh in a galley, and in this island sojourneth he until he hath seen where to aim his blow and laid his plans. and here below, see, are my gallies that defend us thereof." iii. perceval, as the history telleth, was much honoured at the castle of the queen of the maidens, that was right passing fair. the queen loved him of a passing great love, but well she knew that she should never have her desire, nor any dame nor damsel that might set her intent thereon, for chaste was he and in chastity was fain to die. so long was he at the castle as that he heard tell his uncle was arrived at the island whither he wont to come. perceval maketh arm him forthwith and entereth into a galley below the hall, and maketh him be rowed toward his uncle, that much marvelleth when he seeth him coming, for never aforetime durst no knight issue out alone from this castle to meet him, nor to come there where he was, body to body. but had he known that it was perceval, he would not have marvelled. thereupon the galley taketh the ground and perceval is issued forth. the queen and the knights and her maidens are come to the windows of the castle to behold the bearing of the nephew and the uncle. the queen would have sent over some of her knights with him, but perceval would not. the king of castle mortal was tall and strong and hardy. he seeth his nephew come all armed, but knoweth him not. but perceval knew him well, and kept his sword drawn and his shield on his arm, and sought out his uncle with right passing wrathfulness, and dealeth him a heavy buffet above upon his helm that he maketh him stoop withal. howbeit, the king spareth him not, but smiteth him so passing stoutly that he had his helm all dinted in thereby. but perceval attacketh him again, thinking to strike him above on the head, but the king swerveth aside and the blow falleth on the shield and cleaveth it right down as far as the boss. the king of castle mortal draweth him backward and hath great shame within himself for that perceval should thus fettle him, for he searcheth him with his sword in every part, and dealeth him great buffets in such sort that, and his habergeon had not been so strong and tough, he would have wounded him in many places. iv. the king himself giveth him blows so heavy that the queen and all they that were at the windows marvelled how perceval might abide such buffets. the king took witting of the shield that perceval bare, and looketh on it of a long space. "knight," saith he, "who gave you this shield, and on behalf of whom do you bear such an one?" "i bear it on behalf of my father," saith he. "did your father, then, bear a red shield with a white hart?" "yea," saith perceval, "many a day." "was your father, then, king alain of the valleys of camelot?" "my father was he without fail. no blame ought i to have of him, for a good knight was he and a loyal." "are you the son of yglais my sister, that was his wife?" "yea!" saith perceval. "then are you my nephew," saith the king of castle mortal, "for she was my sister." "that misliketh me," saith perceval, "for thereof have i neither worship nor honour, for the most disloyal are you of all my kindred, and i knew well when i came hither that it was you, and, for the great disloyalty that is in you, you war upon the best king that liveth and the most worshipful man, and upon the lady of this castle for that she aideth him in all that she may. but, please god, henceforward she shall have no need to guard her to the best of her power against so evil a man as are you, nor shall her castle never be obedient to you, nor the sacred hallows that the good king hath in his keeping. for god loveth not you so much as he doth him, and so long as you war upon him, you do i defy and hold you as mine enemy." the king wotteth well that his nephew holdeth him not over dear, and that he is eager to do him a hurt, and that he holdeth his sword in his fist and that he is well roofed-in of his helmet, and that he is raging like a lion. he misdoubteth him sore of his strength and his great hardiment. he hath well proven and essayed that he is the best knight of the world. he durst no longer abide his blows, but rather he turneth him full speed toward his galley, and leapeth thereinto forthwith. he pusheth out from the shore incontinent, and perceval followeth him right to the beach, full heavy that he hath gotten him away. then he crieth after him: "evil king, tell me not that i am of your kindred! never yet did knight of my mother's lineage flee from other knight, save you alone! now have i conquered this island, and never on no day hereafter be you so over-hardy as be seen therein again!" the king goeth his way as he that hath no mind to return, and perceval cometh back again in his galley to the queen's castle, and all they of the palace come forth to meet him with great joy. the queen asketh him how it is with him and whether he is wounded? "lady," saith he, "not at all, thank god." she maketh disarm him, and honoureth him at her pleasure, and commandeth that all be obedient to him, and do his commandment so long as he shall please to be there. now feel they safer in the castle for that the king hath so meanly departed thence, and it well seemeth them that never will he dare come back for dread of his nephew more than of any other, whereof make they much joy in common. branch xii. title i. now is the story silent about perceval, and saith that king arthur is at pannenoisance in wales with great plenty of knights. lancelot and messire gawain are repaired thither, whereof all the folk make great joy. the king asketh of messire gawain and lancelot whether they have seen lohot his son in none of these islands nor in none of these forests, and they answer him that they have seen him nowhere. "i marvel much," saith the king, "what hath become of him, for no tidings have i heard of him beyond these, that kay the seneschal slew logrin the giant, whose head he brought me, whereof i made great joy, and right willingly did i make kay's lands the broader thereof, and well ought i to do him such favour, for he avenged me of him that did my land more hurt than any other, wherefore i love him greatly." but, and the king had only known how kay had wrought against him, he would not have so highly honoured his chivalry and his hardiment. the king sate one day at meat and queen guenievre at his side. thereupon behold you, a damsel that alighteth before the palace, then mounteth the steps of the hall and is come before the king and the queen. "sir, i salute you as the sorest dismayed and most discounselled damsel that ever you have seen! wherefore am i come to demand a boon of you for the nobleness and valour of your heart." "damsel," saith the king, "god counsel you of his will and pleasure, and i myself am full fain to partake therein." the damsel looketh at the shield that hangeth in the midst of the hall. "sir," saith she, "i beseech you that you deign grant me the aid of the knight that shall bear this shield from hence. for sorer need have i thereof than ever another of them that are discounselled." "damsel," saith the king, "full well shall i be pleased, so the knight be also fain to do as you say." "sir," saith she, "and he be so good knight as he is reported, never will he refuse your prayer, nor would he mine, if only i were here at such time as he shall come. for, had i been able to find my brother that i have been seeking this long time, then well should i have been succoured long agone! but i have sought him in many lands, nor never could i learn where he is. therefore to my sorrow, behoveth me to ride all lonely by the strange islands and put my body in jeopardy of death, whereof ought these knights to have great pity." ii. "damsel," saith the king, "for this reason do i refuse you nought of that you wish, and right willingly will i put myself to trouble herein." "sir," saith she, "much thanks to god thereof!" he maketh her be set at meat, and much honour be done her. when the cloths were drawn, the queen leadeth her into her chamber with the maidens, and maketh much joy of her. the brachet that was brought thither with the shield was lying on a couch of straw. he would not know the queen nor her damsels nor the knights that were in the court, but so soon as ever he heard the damsel he cometh to her and maketh greater joy of her than ever was brachet seen to make before. the queen and her damsels marvelled much thereof, as did the damsel herself to whom the brachet made such joy, for never since that he was brought into the hall had they seen him rejoice of any. the queen asked her whether she knew him. "certes, lady, no, for never, so far as i know, have i seen him before." the brachet will not leave her, but will be always on her lap, nor can she move anywhither but he followeth her. the damsel is long time in the court in this manner, albeit as she that had sore need of succour she remained in the chapel every day after that the queen was come forth, and wept right tenderly before the image of the saviour, and prayed right sweetly that his mother would counsel her, for that she had been left in sore peril of losing her castle. the queen asked her one day who her brother was. "lady," saith she, "one of the best knights of the world, whereof have i heard witness. but he departed from my father's and mother's hostel a right young squire. my father is since dead, and my lady mother is left without help and without counsel, wherefore hath a certain man reaved her of her land and her castles and slain her men. the very castle wherein she hath her hold would he have seized long agone had it not been for messire gawain that made it be safe-guarded against her enemies for a year. the term is now ended and my lady mother is in dread lest she shall lose her castle, for none other hold hath she. wherefore is it that she hath sent me to seek for my brother, for she hath been told that he is a good knight, and for that i may not find him am i come to this court to beseech of king arthur succour of the knight that shall bear away the shield, for i have heard tell that he is the best knight of the world; and, for the bounty that is in him will he therefore have pity on me." "damsel," saith the queen, "would that you had found him, for great joy would it be unto me that your mother were succoured, and god grant that he that ought to bear the shield come quickly, and grant him courage that he be fain to succour your mother." "so shall he be, please god, for never was good knight that was without pity." iii. the queen hath much pity of the damsel, for she was of right great beauty, and well might it be seen by her cheer and her semblant that no joy had she. she had told the queen her name and the name of her father and mother, and the queen told her that many a time had she heard tell of alain li gros, and that he was said to be a worshipful man and good knight. the king lay one night beside the queen, and was awoke from his first sleep so that he might not go to sleep again. he rose and did on a great grey cape and issueth forth of the chamber and cometh to the windows of the hall that opened toward the sea, calm and untroubled, so that much pleasure had he of looking thereat and leaning at the windows. when he had been there of a long space, he looked out to sea and saw coming afar off as it were the shining of a candle in the midst of the sea. much he marvelled what it might be. he looked at it until he espied what seemed him to be a ship wherein was the light, and he was minded not to move until such time as he should know whether a ship it were or something other. the longer he looketh at it, the better perceiveth he that it is a ship, and that it was coming with great rushing toward the castle as fast as it might. the king espieth it nigh at hand, but none seeth he within nor without save one old man, ancient and bald, of right passing seemliness that held the rudder of the ship. the ship was covered of a right rich cloth in the midst and the sail was lowered, for the sea was calm and quiet. the ship was arrived under the palace and was quite still. when the ship had taken ground, the king looketh thereat with much marvelling, and knoweth not who is there within, for not a soul heareth he speak. him thinketh that he will go see what is within the ship, and he issueth forth of the hall, and cometh thither where the ship was arrived, but he might not come anigh for the flowing of the sea. "sir," saith he that held the rudder, "allow me a little!" he launcheth forth of the ship a little boat, and the king entereth thereinto, and so cometh into the great ship, and findeth a knight that lay all armed upon a table of ivory, and had set his shield at his head. at the head of his bed had he two tall twisted links of wax in two candlesticks of gold, and the like at his feet, and his hands were crossed upon his breast. the king draweth nigh toward him and so looketh at him, and seemed him that never had he seen so comely a knight. iv. "sir," saith the master of the ship, "for god's sake draw you back and let the knight rest, for thereof hath he sore need." "sir," saith the king, "who is the knight?" "sir, this would he well tell you were he willing, but of me may you know it not." "will he depart forthwith from hence?" saith the king. "sir," saith the master, "not before he hath been in this hall, but he hath had sore travail and therefore he taketh rest." when the king heard say that he would come into his palace, thereof had he great joy. he cometh to the queen's chamber and telleth her how the ship is arrived. the queen riseth and two of her damsels with her, and apparelleth her of a kirtle of cloth of silk, furred of ermine, and cometh into the midst of the hall. thereupon behold you, the knight that cometh all armed and the master of the ship before him bearing the twisted link of wax in the candlestick of gold in front of him, and the knight held his sword all naked. "sir," saith the queen, "well may you be welcome!" "lady," saith he, "god grant you joy and good adventure." "sir," saith she, "please god we have nought to fear of you?" "lady," saith he, "no fear ought you to have!" the king seeth that he beareth the red shield with the white hart whereof he had heard tell. the brachet that was in the hall heareth the knight. he cometh racing toward him and leapeth about his legs and maketh great joy of him. and the knight playeth with him, then taketh the shield that hung at the column, and hangeth the other there, and cometh back thereafter toward the door of the hall. "lady," saith the king, "pray the knight that he go not so hastily." "sir," saith the knight, "no leisure have i to abide, but at some time shall you see me again." the knights also say as much, and the king and queen are right heavy of his departure, but they durst not press him beyond his will. he is entered into the ship, and the brachet with him. the master draweth the boat within, and so they depart and leave the castle behind. king arthur abideth at pannenoisance, and is right sorrowful of the knight, that he hath gone his way so soon. the knights arose throughout the castle when the day waxed light, and learnt the tidings of the knight that had borne the shield thence, and were right grieved for that they had not seen him. the damsel that had asked the boon cometh to the king. "sir," saith she, "did you speak of my business to the knight?" "damsel," saith the king, "never a whit! to my sorrow, for he hath departed sooner than i would!" "sir," saith she, "you have done a wrong and a sin, but, please god, so good a king as are you shall not fail of his covenants to damsel so forlorn as am i." the king was right sorrowful for that he had remembered not the damsel. she departeth from the court, and taketh leave of the king and queen, and saith that she herself will go seek the knight, and that, so she may find him, she will hold the king quit of his covenant. messire gawain and lancelot are returned to the court, and have heard the tidings of the knight that hath carried away the shield, and are right grieved that they have not seen him, and messire gawain more than enough, for that he had lien in his mother's house. lancelot seeth the shield that he had left on the column, and knoweth it well, and saith, "now know i well that perceval hath been here, for this shield was he wont to bear, and the like also his father bore." "ha," saith messire gawain, "what ill-chance have i that i may not see the good knight!" "messire gawain," saith lancelot, "so nigh did i see him that methought he would have killed me, for never before did i essay onset so stout nor so cruel of force of arms, and i myself wounded him, and when he knew me he made right great joy of me. and i was with him at the house of king hermit a long space until that i was healed." "lancelot," saith messire gawain, "i would that he had wounded me, so i were not too sore harmed thereof, so that i might have been with him so long time as were you." "lords," saith the king, "behoveth you go on quest of him or i will go, for i am bound to beseech his aid on behalf of a damsel that asked me thereof, but she told me that, so she might find him first, i should be quit of her request." "sir," saith the queen, "you will do a right great service and you may counsel her herein, for sore discounselled is she. she hath told me that she was daughter of alain li gros of the valleys of camelot, and that her mother's name is yglais, and her own dindrane." "ha, lady," saith messire gawain, "she is sister to the knight that hath borne away the shield, for i lay at her mother's house wherein i was right well lodged." "by my head," saith the queen, "it may well be, for so soon as she came in hither, the brachet that would have acquaintance with none, made her great joy, and when the knight came to seek the shield, the brachet, that had remained in the hall, played gladly with him and went." "by my faith," saith messire gawain, "i will go in quest of the knight, for right great desire have i to see him." "and i," saith lancelot, "never so glad have i been to see him aforetime as i should be now." "howsoever it be," saith the king, "i pray you so speed my business that the damsel shall not be able to plain her of me." v. "sir," saith lancelot, "we will tell him and we may find him, that his sister is gone in quest of him, and that she hath been at your court." the two knights depart from the court to enter on the quest of the good knight, and leave the castle far behind them and ride in the midst of a high forest until they find a cross in the midst of a launde, there where all the roads of the forest join together. "lancelot," saith messire gawain, "choose which road soever you will, and so let each go by himself, so that we may the sooner hear tidings of the good knight, and let us meet together again at this cross at the end of a year and let either tell other how he hath sped, for please god in one place or another we shall hear tidings of him." lancelot taketh the way to the right, and messire gawain to the left. therewithal they depart and commend them one another to god. branch xiii. title i. here the story is silent of lancelot, and saith that messire gawain goeth a great pace riding, and prayeth god that he will so counsel him that he may find the knight. he rideth until the day cometh to decline, and he lay in the house of a hermit in the forest, that lodged him well. "sir," saith the hermit to messire gawain, "whom do you go seek?" "sir," saith he, "i am in quest of a knight that i would see right gladly." "sir," saith the hermit, "in this neighbourhood will you find no knight." "wherefore not?" saith messire gawain, "be there no knights in this country?" "there was wont to be plenty," saith the hermit, "but now no longer are there any, save one all alone in a castle and one all alone on the sea that have chased away and slain all the others." "and who is the one of the sea?" saith messire gawain. "sir," saith the hermit, "i know not who he is, save only that the sea is hard by here, where the ship runneth oftentimes wherein the knight is, and he repaireth to an island that is under the castle of the queen of the maidens, from whence he chased an uncle of his that warred upon the castle, and the other knights that he had chased thence and slain were helping his uncle, so that now the castle is made sure. and the knights that might flee from this forest and this kingdom durst not repair thither for the knight, for they dread his hardiment and his great might, sith that they know well they might not long endure against him." "sir," saith messire gawain, "is it so long a space sithence that he hath haunted the sea?" "sir," saith the hermit, "it is scarce more than a twelvemonth." "and how nigh is this to the sea?" saith messire gawain. "sir," saith the hermit, "it is not more than two leagues welsh. when i have gone forth to my toil, many a time have i seen the ship run close by me, and the knight, all armed, within, and meseemed he was of right great comeliness, and had as passing proud a look as any lion. but i can well tell you never was knight so dreaded in this kingdom as is he. the queen of the maidens would have lost her castle ere now but for him. nor never sithence that he hath chased his uncle from the island, hath he entered the queen's castle even once, but from that time forth hath rather rowed about the sea and searched all the islands and stricken down all the proud in such sort that he is dreaded and warily avoided throughout all the kingdoms. the queen of the maidens is right sorrowful for that he cometh not to her castle, for so dear she holdeth him of very love, that and he should come and she might keep him so that he should never issue forth again, she would sooner lock him up with her there safe within." "know you." saith messire gawain, "what shield the knight beareth?" "sir," saith the hermit, "i know not now to blazon it, for nought know i of arms. three score years and more have i been in this hermitage, yet never saw i this kingdom before so dismayed as is it now." messire gawain lay the night therewithin, and departed when he had heard mass. he draweth him as nigh the sea as he may, and rideth along beside the shore and many a time draweth rein to look forth if he might see the knight's ship. but nowhere might he espy it. he hath ridden until he cometh to the castle of the queen of the maidens. when she knew that it was messire gawain, she made thereof great joy, and pointed him out the island whither perceval had repaired, and from whence he had driven his uncle. "sir," saith she to messire gawain, "i plain me much of him, for never hath he been fain to enter herewithin, save the one time that he did battle with his uncle, but ever sithence hath he made repair to this island and rowed about this sea." "lady," saith messire gawain, "and whereabout may he be now?" "sir, god help me," saith she, "i know not, for i have not seen him now of a long space, and no earthly man may know his intent nor his desire, nor whitherward he may turn." messire gawain is right sorrowful for that he knoweth not where to seek him albeit he hath so late tidings of him. he lay at the castle and was greatly honoured, and on the morrow he heard mass and took leave of the queen, and rideth all armed beside the seashore, for that the hermit had told him, and the queen herself, that he goeth oftener by sea than by land. he entereth into a forest that was nigh the sea, and seeth a knight coming a great gallop as if one were chasing him to slay him. "sir knight," saith messire gawain, "whither away so fast?" "sir, i am fleeing from the knight that hath slain all the others." "and who is the knight?" saith messire gawain. "i know not who he is," saith the knight, "but and you go forward you are sure to find him." "meseemeth," saith messire gawain, "that i have seen you aforetime." "sir," saith he, "so have you! i am the knight coward that you met in the forest there where you conquered the knight of the shield party black and white, and i am man of the damsel of the car. wherefore i pray you for god's sake that you do me no hurt, for the knight that i found down yonder hath a look so fierce that i thought i was dead when i saw it." "need you fear nought of me," saith messire gawain, "for i love your damsel well." "sir," saith the knight, "i would that all the other knights would say as much in respect of me, for no fear have i save for myself alone." ii. messire gawain departeth from the knight, and goeth his way amidst the forest that overshadowed the land as far as the seashore, and looketh forth from the top of a sand-hill, and seeth a knight armed on a tall destrier, and he had a shield of gold with a green cross. "ha, god," saith messire gawain, "grant that this knight may be able to tell me tidings of him i seek!" thitherward goeth he a great gallop, and saluteth him worshipfully and he him again. "sir," saith messire gawain, "can you tell me tidings of a knight that beareth a shield banded of argent and azure with a red cross?" "yea, sir," saith the knight, "that can i well. at the assembly of the knights may you find him within forty days." "sir," saith messire gawain, "where will the assembly be?" "in the red launde, where will be many a good knight. there shall you find him without fail." thereof hath messire gawain right great joy, and so departeth from the knight and the knight from him, and goeth back toward the sea a great gallop. but messire gawain saw not the ship whereinto he entered, for that it was anchored underneath the cliff. the knight entered thereinto and put out to sea as he had wont to do. howbeit messire gawain goeth his way toward the red launde where the assembly was to be, and desireth much the day that it shall be. he rideth until he cometh one eventide nigh to a castle that was of right fair seeming. he met a damsel that was following after a dead knight that two other knights bare upon a horse-bier, and she rode a great pace right amidst the forest. and messire gawain cometh to meet her and saluteth her, and she returned the salute as fairly as she might. "damsel," saith messire gawain, "who lieth in this bier?" "sir, a knight that a certain man hath slain by great outrage." "and whither shall you ride this day?" "sir, i would fain be in the red launde, and thither will i take this knight, that was a right worshipful man for his age." "and wherefore will you take him there?" saith messire gawain. "for that he that shall do best at the assembly of knights shall avenge this knight's death." iii. the damsel goeth her way thereupon. and messire gawain goeth to the castle that he had seen, and found none within save only one solitary knight, old and feeble, and a squire that waited upon him. howbeit, messire gawain alighteth at the castle. the vavasour lodged him well and willingly, and made his door be well shut fast and messire gawain be disarmed, and that night he showed him honour as well as he might. and when it came to the morrow and messire gawain was minded to depart thence, the vavasour saith to him, "sir you may not depart thus, for this door hath not been opened this long while save only yesterday, when i made it be opened before you, to the intent that you should meet on my behalf a certain knight that is fain to slay me, for that the king of castle mortal hath had his hold herewithin, he that warreth on the queen of the maidens. wherefore i pray you that you help me to defend it against the knight." "what shield beareth he?" saith messire gawain. "he beareth a golden shield with a green cross." "and what sort of knight is he?" saith messire gawain. "sir," saith the vavasour, "a good knight and a hardy and a sure." "by my faith," saith messire gawain, "and you can tell me tidings of another knight whereof i am in quest, i will protect you against this one to the best i may, and if he will do nought for my prayer, i will safeguard you of my force." "what knight, then, do you seek?" saith the vavasour. "sir, a knight that is called perceval, and he hath carried away from the court of king arthur a shield banded argent and azure with a red cross on a band of gold. he will be at the assembly in the red launde. these tidings had i of the knight you dread so much." iv. thereupon, whilst messire gawain was thus speaking to the vavasour, behold you the knight of the golden shield, that draweth rein in the midst of a launde that was betwixt the castle and the forest. the vavasour seeth him from the windows of the hall, and pointeth him out to messire gawain. messire gawain goeth and mounteth on his destrier, his shield at his neck and his spear in his fist, all armed, and issueth forth of the door when it had been unfastened, and cometh toward the knight, that awaited him on his horse. he seeth messire gawain coming, but moveth not, and messire gawain marvelleth much that the knight cometh not toward him, for him thinketh well that the vavasour had told him true. but he had not, for never had the knight come thither to do the vavasour any hurt, but on account of the knights that passed by that way that went to seek adventure, for right glad was he to see them albeit he was not minded to make himself known unto any. messire gawain looketh before him and behind him and seeth that the door was made fast and the bridge drawn up so soon as he was departed thence, whereof he marvelled much and saith to the knight, "sir, is your intent nought but good only?" "by my head," saith he, "nought at all, and readily will i tell it you." thereupon, behold you a damsel that cometh a great pace, and held a whip wherewith she hurrieth her mule onward, and she draweth rein there where the two knights were. "ha, god!" saith she, "shall i ever find one to wreak me vengeance of the traitor vavasour that dwelleth in this castle?" "is he then traitor?" saith messire gawain. "yea, sir, the most traitor you saw ever! he lodged my brother the day before yesterday, and bore him on hand at night that a certain knight was warring upon him for that the way whereby the knights pass is here in front of this place, and lied to him so much as that my brother held him in covenant that he would assault a certain knight that he should point out to him, for love of him. this knight came passing hereby, that had no thought to do hurt neither to the vavasour nor to my brother. the knight was right strong and hardy, and was born at the castle of escavalon. my brother issued forth of the castle filled with fool-hardiness for the leasing of the vavasour, and ran upon the knight without a word. the knight could do no less than avenge himself. they hurtled together so sore that their horses fell under them and their spears passed either through other's heart. thus were both twain killed on this very piece of ground." v. "the vavasour took the arms and the horses and put them in safe keeping in his castle, and the bodies of the knights he left to the wild beasts, that would have devoured them had i not chanced to come thither with two knights that helped me bury them by yonder cross at the entrance of the forest." "by my head," saith messire gawain, "in like manner would he have wrought me mischief had i been minded to trust him; for he bore me in hand that this knight was warring upon him, and besought me that i should safeguard him against him. but our lord god so helped me that i intermeddled not therein, for lightly might i have wrought folly." "by the name of god," saith the other, "meseemeth it clear that the vavasour would fain that knights should kill each other." "sir," saith the damsel, "you say true; it is of his covetise of harness and horses that he entreateth the knights on this-wise." "damsel," saith messire gawain, "whither go you?" "sir," saith she, "after a knight that i have made be carried in a litter for the dead." "i saw him," saith he, "pass by here last night, full late last night." the knight taketh leave of messire gawain, and messire gawain saith that he holdeth himself a churl in that he hath not asked him of his name. but the knight said, "fair sir, i pray you of love that you ask not my name until such time as i shall ask you of yours." vi. messire gawain would ask nought further of the knight, and the knight entered into the lonely forest and messire gawain goeth on his way. he meeteth neither knight nor damsel to whom he telleth not whom he goeth to seek, and they all say that he will be in the red launde. he lodged the night with a hermit. at night, the hermit asked messire gawain whence he came? "sir, from the land of the queen of the maidens." "have you seen perceval, the good knight that took the shield in king arthur's court and left another there?" "no, certes," saith messire gawain, "whereof am i right sorrowful. but a knight with a shield of gold and a green cross thereon told me that he would be at the red launde." "sir," saith the hermit, "you say true, for it was he himself to whom you spake. tonight is the third night since he lay within yonder, and see here the bracket he brought from king arthur's court, which he hath commanded me to convey to his uncle, king hermit." "alas!" saith messire gawain, "what ill chance is mine if this be true!" "sir," saith the hermit, "i ought not to lie, neither to you nor other. by the brachet may you well know that this is true." "sir," saith messire gawain, "of custom beareth he no such shield." "i know well," saith the hermit, "what shield he ought to bear, and what shield he will bear hereafter. but this doth he that he may not be known, and this shield took he in the hermitage of joseus, the son of king hermit, there where lancelot was lodged, where he hanged the four thieves that would have broken into the hermitage by night. and within there hath remained the shield he brought from king arthur's court, with joseus the son of my sister, and they are as brother and sister between the twain, and you may know of very truth that albeit joseus be hermit, no knight is there in great britain of his heart and hardiment." vii. "certes," saith messire gawain, "it was sore mischance for me that i should see him yesterday before the castle where the knights pass by, and speak to him and ask him his name, but he besought me that i should not ask him his name until such time as he should ask me mine; and with that he departed from me and entered into the forest, and i came hitherward. now am i so sorrowful that i know not what i may do for the best, for king arthur sendeth me in quest of him, and lancelot hath also gone to seek him in another part of the kingdom of logres. but now hath too great mischance befallen me of this quest, for twice have i seen him and found him and spoken to him, and now have i lost him again." "sir," saith the hermit, "he is so close and wary a knight, that he is fain never to waste a word, neither will he make false semblant to any nor speak word that he would not should be heard, nor do shame of his body to his knowledge, nor carnal sin, for virgin and chaste is he and doth never outrage to any." "i know well," saith messire gawain, "that all the valours and all the cleannesses that ought to be in a knight are in him, and therefore am i the more sorrowful that i am not of them that he knoweth, for a man is worth the more that hath acquaintance with a good knight." viii. messire gawain lay the night in the hermit's house, right sorrowful, and in the morning departed when he had heard mass. josephus the good clerk witnesseth us in this high history that this hermit had to name josuias, and was a knight of great worship and valour, but he renounced all for the love of god, and was fain to set his body in banishment for him. and all these adventures that you hear in this high record came to pass, josephus telleth us, for the setting forward the law of the saviour. all of them could he not record, but only these whereof he best remembered him, and whereof he knew for certain all the adventures by virtue of the holy spirit. this high record saith that messire gawain hath wandered so far that he is come into the red launde whereas the assembly of knights should be held. he looketh and seeth the tents pitched and the knights coming from all quarters. the most part were already armed within and before their tents. messire gawain looketh everywhere, thinking to see the knight he seeketh, but seemeth him he seeth him not, for no such shield seeth he as he beareth. all abashed is he thereof, for he hath seen all the tents and looked at all the arms. but the knight is not easy to recognise, for he hath changed his arms, and nigh enough is he to messire gawain, albeit you may well understand that he knoweth it not. and the tournament assembleth from all parts, and the divers fellowships come the one against other, and the melly of either upon other as they come together waxeth sore and marvellous. and messire gawain searcheth the ranks to find the knight, albeit when he meeteth knight in his way he cannot choose but do whatsoever a knight may do of arms, and yet more would he have done but for his fainness to seek out the knight. the damsel is at the head of the tournament, for that she would fain know the one that shall have the mastery and the prize therein. the knight that messire gawain seeketh is not at the head of the fellowships, but in the thickest of the press, and such feats of arms doth he that more may no knight do, and smiteth down the knights about him, that flee from him even as the deer-hound fleeth from the lion. "by my faith," saith messire gawain, "sith that they have lied to me about the knight, i will seek him no more this day, but forget my discontent as best i may until evening." he seeth the knight, but knoweth him not, for he had a white shield and cognisances of the same. and messire gawain cometh to him as fast as his horse may carry him, and the knight toward messire gawain. so passing stoutly they come together that they pierce their shields below the boss. their spears were so tough that they break not, and they draw them forth and come together again so strongly that the spears wherewith they smote each other amidst the breast were bended so that they unriveted the holdfasts of their shields, and they lost their stirrups, and the reins fly from their fists, and they stagger against the back saddlebows, and the horses stumbled so as that they all but fell. they straighten them in saddle and stirrup, and catch hold upon their reins, and then come together again, burning with wrath and fury like lions, and either smiteth on other with their spears that may endure no longer, for the shafts are all to-frushed as far as the fists in such sort that they that look on marvel them much how it came to pass that the points had not pierced their bodies. but god would not that the good knights should slay each other, rather would he that the one should know the true worth of the other. the habergeons safeguarded not their bodies, but the might of god in whom they believed, for in them had they all the valour that knight should have; and never did messire gawain depart from hostel wherein he had lien, but he first heard mass before he went if so he might, nor never found he dame nor damsel discounselled whereof he had not pity, nor did he ever churlishness to other knight, nor said nor thought it, and he came, as you have heard, of the most holy lineage of josephus and the good king fisherman. ix. the good knights were in the midst of the assembly, and right wrathful was the one against the other, and they held their swords naked and their shields on their arms and dealt each other huge buffets right in the midst of the helms. the most part of the knights come to them and tell them that the assembly waiteth for them to come thereunto. they have much pains to part them asunder, and then the melly beginneth again on all sides, and the evening cometh on that parteth them at last. and on this wise the assembly lasted for two days. the damsel that brought the knight on a bier in a coffin, dead, prayed the assembly of all the knights to declare which one of all the knights had done the best, for the knight that she made be carried might not be buried until such time as he were avenged. and they say that the knight of the white shield and the other with the shield sinople and the golden eagle had done better than all the other, but, for that the knight of the white shield had joined in the melly before the other, they therefore would give him the prize; but they judged that for the time that messire gawain had joined therein he had not done worse than the other knight. the damsel seeketh the knight of the white shield among the knights and throughout all the tents, but cannot find him, for already hath he departed. she cometh to messire gawain and saith: "sir, sith that i find not the knight of the white shield, you are he that behoveth avenge the knight that lieth dead in the litter." "damsel," saith messire gawain, "do me not this shame, for it hath been declared that the other knight hath better done herein than i." x. "damsel, well you know that no honour should i have thereof, were i to emprise to do that whereof you beseech me, for you have said that behoveth none to avenge him, save only that hath borne him best at this assembly, and that is he of the white shield, and, so god help me, this have i well felt and proven." xi. the damsel well understandeth that messire gawain speaketh reason. "ha, sir," saith she, "he hath already departed hence and gone into the forest, and the most divers-seeming knight is he and the best that liveth, and great pains shall i have or ever i find him again." "the best?" saith messire gawain; "how know you that?" "i know it well," saith she, "for that in the house of king fisherman did the graal appear unto him for the goodness of his knighthood and the goodness of his heart and for the chastity of his body. but he forgat to ask that one should serve thereof, whence hath sore harm befallen the land. he came to the court of king arthur, where he took a shield that none ought to bear save he alone. up to this time have i well known his coming and going, but nought shall i know thereof hereafter for that he hath changed the cognisance of his shield and arms. and now am i entered into sore pain and travail to seek him, for i shall not have found him of a long space, and i came not to this assembly save for him alone." "damsel," saith messire gawain, "you have told me tidings such as no gladness have i thereof, for i also am seeking him, but i know not how i may ever recognise him, for he willeth not to tell me his name, and too often changeth he his shield, and well i know that so i shall ever come in place where he hath changed his cognisance, and he shall come against me and i against him, i shall only know him by the buffets that he knoweth how to deal, for never in arms have i made acquaintance with so cruel a knight. but again would i suffer sorer blows than i have suffered yet, so only i might be where he is." "sir," saith the damsel, "what is your name?" "damsel," saith he, "i am called gawain." with that he commendeth the damsel to god, and goeth his way in one direction and the damsel in another, and saith to herself that perceval is the most marvellous knight of the world, that so often he discogniseth himself. for when one seeth him one may recognise him not. messire gawain rideth amidst the forest, and prayeth the saviour lead him into such place as that he may find perceval openly, in such sort that he may have his acquaintance and his love that so greatly he desireth. branch xiv. title i. herewithal the story is silent of messire gawain, and saith that lancelot seeketh perceval in like manner as did messire gawain, and rideth until that he cometh to the hermitage where he hanged the thieves. joseus made right great joy of him. he asked him whether he knew any tidings of the son of the widow lady. "i have seen him sithence that he came from king arthur's court but once only, and whither he is gone i know not." "sir," saith lancelot, "i would see him right fain. king arthur sendeth for him by me." "sir," saith the hermit, "i know not when i may see him again, for when once he departeth hence he is not easy to find." lancelot entereth the chapel with the hermit, and seeth the shield that perceval brought from king arthur's court beside the altar. "sir," saith lancelot, "i see his shield yonder. hide him not from me." "i will not do so," saith the hermit. "this shield, truly, is his, but he took with him another from hence, of gold with a green cross." "and know you no tidings of messire gawain?" "i have not seen messire gawain sithence tofore i entered into this hermitage. but you have fallen into sore hatred on account of the four robbers that were knights whom you hanged. for their kinsmen are searching for you in this forest and in other, and are thieves like as were the others, and they have their hold in this forest, wherein they bestow their robberies and plunder. wherefore i pray you greatly be on your guard against them." "so will i," saith lancelot, "please god." he lay the night in the hermitage, and departeth on the morrow after that he hath heard mass and prayeth god grant he may find perceval or messire gawain. he goeth his way amidst the strange forests until that he cometh to a strong castle that was builded right seemly. he looketh before him and seeth a knight that was issued thereout, and was riding a great pace on a strong destrier, and carded a bird on his fist toward the forest. ii. when he saw lancelot coming he drew up. "sir," saith he, "be welcome." "good adventure to you," saith lancelot. "what castle is this?" "sir, it is the castle of the golden circlet. and i go to meet the knights and dames that come to the castle, for this day is the day ordained for the adoration of the golden circlet." "what is the golden circlet?" saith lancelot. "sir, it is the crown of thorns," saith the knight, "that the saviour of the world had on his head when he was set upon the rood. wherefore the queen of this castle hath set it in gold and precious stones in such sort that the knights and dames of this kingdom come to behold it once in the year. but it is said that the knight that was first at the graal shall conquer it, and therefore is no strange knight allowed to enter. but, so please you, i will lead you to mine own hold that is in this forest." "right great thanks," saith lancelot, "but as yet it is not time to take lodging." he taketh leave of the knight, and so departeth and looketh at the castle, and saith that in right great worship should the knight be held that by the valour of his chivalry shall conquer so noble a hallow as is the golden circlet when it is kept safe in a place so strong. he goeth his way right amidst the forest, and looketh forth before him and seeth coming the damsel that hath the knight carried in the litter for the dead. "damsel," saith lancelot, "be welcome." "sir, god give you good adventure! sir," saith the damsel, "greatly ought i to hate the knight that slew this knight, for that he hath forced me thus to lead him in this wise by fell and forest. so also ought i to mislike me much of the knight that it standeth upon to avenge him, whom i may not find." "damsel," saith lancelot, "who slew this knight?" "sir," saith she, "the lord of the burning dragon." "and who ought of right to avenge him?" "sir," saith she, "the knight that was in the red launde at the assembly, that jousted with messire gawain, and had the prize of the tournament." "did he better than messire gawain?" saith lancelot. "sir, so did they adjudge him; for that he was a longer time in the assembly." "a good knight was he, then," saith lancelot, "sith that he did better than messire gawain!" "by my head," saith the damsel, "you say true, for he is the best knight of the world." "and what shield beareth he?" saith lancelot. "sir," saith the damsel, "at the assembly he bore white arms, but before that, he had arms of another semblance, and one shield that he had was green, and one gold with a green cross." "damsel," saith he, "did messire gawain know him?" "sir, not at all, whereof is he right sorrowful." "is he, then," saith he, "perceval, the son of the widow lady?" "by my head, you say true!" "ha, god!" saith lancelot, "the more am i mazed how messire gawain knew him not. damsel," saith he, "and know you whitherward they are gone?" "sir," saith she, "i know not whither, nor have i any tidings, neither or the one nor the other." he departeth from the damsel and rideth until the sun was set. he found the rocks darkling and the forest right deep and perilous of seeming. he rode on, troubled in thought, and weary and full of vexation. many a time looketh he to right and to left, and he may see any place where he may lodge. a dwarf espied him, but lancelot saw him not. the dwarf goeth right along a by-way that is in the forest, and goeth to a little hold of robber-knights that lay out of the way, where was a damsel that kept watch over the hold. the robbers had another hold where was the damsel where the passing knights are deceived and entrapped. the dwarf cometh forthright to the damsel, and saith: "now shall we see what you will do, for see, here cometh the knight that hanged your uncle grid your three cousins german." "now shall i have the best of him," saith she, "as for mine own share in this matter, but take heed that you be garnished ready to boot." "by my head," saith the dwarf, "that will i, for, please god, he shall not escape us again, save he be dead." the damsel was of passing great beauty and was clad right seemingly, but right treacherous was she of heart, nor no marvel was it thereof, for she came of the lineage of robbers and was nurtured on theft and robbery, and she herself had helped to murder many a knight. she is come upon the way, so that lancelot hath to pass her, without her kerchief. she meeteth lancelot and saluteth him and maketh him right great joy, of semblant. "sir," saith she, "follow this path that goeth into the forest, and you will find a hold that my forefathers stablished for harbouring of such knights as might be passing through the forest. the night is dark already, and if you pass on further no hold will you find nearer than a score leagues welsh." "damsel," saith lancelot, "gramercy heartily of this that it pleaseth you to say, for right gladly will i harbour me here, for it is more than time to take lodging, and with you more willingly than another." iii. on this wise they go their way talking, as far as the hold. there was none therewithin save only the dwarf, for the five robber knights were in their hold at the lower end of the forest. the dwarf took lancelot's horse, and stabled him, then went up into the hall above, and gave himself up wholly to serving him. "sir," saith the damsel, "allow yourself to be disarmed, and have full assurance of safety." "damsel," saith he, "small trouble is it for me to wear mine arms, and lightly may i abide it." "sir," saith she, "please god, you shall nor lie armed within yonder. never yet did knight so that harboured therein." but the more the damsel presseth him to disarm, the more it misliketh him, for the place seemeth him right dark and foul-seeming, wherefore will he not disarm nor disgarnish himself. "sir," saith she, "meseemeth you are suspicious of something, but no call have you to misdoubt of aught here within, for the place is quite safe. i know not whether you have enemies?" "damsel," saith lancelot, "never yet knew i knight that was loved of everybody, yet sometimes might none tell the reason thereof." iv. lancelot, so saith the story, would not disarm him, wherefore he made the table be set, and sate thereat beside the damsel at meat. he made his shield and his helmet and spear be brought into the hall. he leant back upon a rich couch that was therewithin, with his sword by his side, all armed. he was weary and the bed was soft, so he went to sleep. howbeit, the dwarf mounteth on his horse that he had left still saddled, and goeth his way to the other hold where the robbers were, all five, that were lancelot's mortal enemies. the damsel remained all alone with him that she hated of a right deadly hate. she thought to herself that gladly would she slay him, and that, so she might compass it, she would be thereof held in greater worship of all the world, for well she knew that he was a good knight, and that one so good she had never slain. she filched away the sword that was at his side, then drew it from the scabbard, then looketh to see where she may lightliest smite him to slay him. she seeth that his head is so covered of armour that nought appeareth thereof save only the face, and she bethinketh her that one stroke nor two on the helmet would scarce hurt him greatly, but that and she might lift the skirt of his habergeon without awakening him she might well slay him, for so might she thrust the sword right through his heart. meanwhile, as she was searching thus, lancelot, that was sleeping and took no heed thereof, saw, so it seemed him, a little cur-dog come therewithin, and brought with him sundry great mongrel ban-dogs that ran upon him on all sides, and the little cur bit at him likewise among the others. the ban-dogs held him so fast that he might not get away from them. he seeth that a greyhound bitch had hold of his sword, and she had hands like a woman, and was fain to slay him. and it seemed him that he snatched the sword from her and slew the greyhound bitch and the biggest and most masterful of the ban-dogs and the little cur. he was scared of the dream and started up and awoke, and felt the scabbard of his sword by his side, that the damsel had left there all empty, the which he perceived not, and soon thereafter he fell on sleep again. the dwarf that had stolen his horse cometh to the robber knights, and crieth to them, "up, sirs, and haste you to come and avenge you of your mortal enemy that sent the best of your kindred out of the world with such shame! see, here is his horse that i bring you for a token!" he alighteth of the horse, and giveth him up to them. right joyous are the robbers of the tidings he telleth them. the dwarf bringeth them all armed to the hold. v. lancelot was awake, all scared of the dream he had dreamed. he seeth them enter within all armed, and the damsel crieth to them: "now will it appear," saith she, "what you will do!" lancelot hath leapt up, thinking to take his sword, but findeth the scabbard all empty. the damsel that held the sword was the first of all to run upon him, and the five knights and the dwarf set upon him from every side. he perceived that it was his own sword the damsel held, the one he prized above all other. he taketh his lance that was at his bed's head and cometh toward the master of the knights at a great sweep, and smiteth him so fiercely that he thrusteth him right through the body so that the lance passeth a fathom beyond, and beareth him to the ground dead. his spear broke as he drew it back. he runneth to the damsel that held the sword, and wresteth it forth of her hands and holdeth it fast with his arm right against his flank and grippeth it to him right strait; albeit she would fain snatch it again from him by force, whereat lancelot much marvelled. he swingeth it above him, and the four knights come back upon him. he thinketh to smite one with the sword, when the damsel leapeth in between them, thinking to hold lancelot fast, and thereby the blow that should have fallen on one of the knights caught the damsel right through the head and slew her, whereof he was right sorrowful, howsoever she might have wrought against him. vi. when the four knights saw the damsel dead, right grieved were they thereof. and the dwarf crieth out to them: "lords, now shall it be seen how you will avenge the sore mischief done you. so help me god, great shame may you have and you cannot conquer a single knight." they run upon him again on all sides, but maugre all their heads he goeth thither where he thinketh to find his horse; but him findeth he not. thereby well knoweth he that the dwarf hath made away with him, wherefore he redoubled his hardiment and his wrath waxed more and more. and the knights were not to be lightly apaid when they saw their lord dead and the damsel that was their cousin. sore buffets they dealt him of their swords the while he defended himself as best he might. he caught the dwarf that was edging them on to do him hurt, and clave him as far as the shoulders, and wounded two of the knights right badly, and he himself was hurt in two places; but he might not depart from the house, nor was his horse there within, nor was there but a single entrance into the hall. the knights set themselves without the door and guard the issue, and lancelot was within with them that were dead. he sate himself down at the top of the hall to rest him, for he was sore spent with the blows he had given and received. when he had rested himself awhile, he riseth to his feet and seeth that they have sate them down in the entrance to the hall. he mounteth up to the windows and flingeth them down them that were dead within through the windows. just then the day appeared, fair and clear, and the birds began to sing amidst the forest, whereof the hall was overshadowed. he maketh fast the door of the hall and barreth it and shutteth the knights without; and they say one to the other and swear it, that they will not depart thence until they have taken him or famished him to death. little had lancelot recked of their threats and he might have had his horse at will, but he was not so sure of his stroke afoot as a-horseback, as no knight never is. him thinketh he may well abide the siege as long as god shall please, for the hall was well garnished of meat in right great joints. he is there within all alone, and the four knights without that keep watch that he goeth not, but neither wish nor will hath he to go forth afoot; but, and he had had his horse, the great hardiment that he hath in him would have made that he should go forth honourably, howsoever they without might have taken it and what grievance soever they might have had thereof. branch xv. title i. here the story is silent of lancelot, and talketh of messire gawain that goeth to seek perceval, and is right heavy for that twice hath he found him when he knew him not. he cometh back again to the cross whereas he told lancelot he would await him so he should come thither before him. he went and came to and fro by the forest more than eight days to wait for him, but could hear no tidings. he would not return to king arthur's court, for had he gone thither in such case, he would have had blame thereof. he goeth back upon the quest and saith that he will never stint therein until he shall have found both lancelot and perceval. he cometh to the hermitage of joseus, and alighted of his horse and found the young hermit joseus, that received him well and made full great joy of him. he harboured the night therewithin. messire gawain asked him tidings of perceval, and the hermit telleth him he hath not seen him since before the assembly of the red launde. "and can you tell me where i may find him?" saith messire gawain. "not i," saith the hermit, "i cannot tell you whereabout he is." while they were talking on this wise, straightway behold you a knight coming that hath arms of azure, and alighteth at the hermitage to lodge there. the hermit receiveth him right gladly. messire gawain asketh him if he saw a knight with white arms ride amidst the forest. "by my faith," saith the knight, "i have seen him this day and spoken with him, and he asked me and i could tell him tidings of a knight that beareth a shield of sinople with a golden eagle, and i told him, no. afterward, i enquired wherefore he asked it, and he made answer that he had jousted at him in the red launde, nor never before had he found so sturdy assault of any knight, wherefore he was right sorrowful for that he was not acquainted with him, for the sake of his good knighthood." "by my faith," saith gawain, "the knight is more sorrowful than he, for nought is there in the world he would gladlier see than him." the knight espieth messire gawain's shield and saith, "ha, sir, methinketh you are he." "certes," saith messire gawain, "you say true. i am he against whom he jousted, and right glad am i that so good a knight smote upon my shield, and right sorrowful for that i knew him not; but tell me where i may find him?" ii. "sir," saith joseus the hermit, "he will not have gone forth from this forest, for this is the place wherein he wonneth most willingly, and the shield that he brought from king arthur's court is in this chapel." so he showeth the shield to messire gawain that maketh great joy thereof. "ha, sir," saith the knight of the white arms, "is your name messire gawain?" "fair sir," saith he, "gawain am i called." "sir," saith the knight, "i have not ceased to seek you for a long while past. meliot of logres, that is your man, the son of the lady that was slain on your account, sendeth you word that nabigant of the rock hath slain his father on your account; wherefore he challengeth the land that hath fallen to him; and hereof he prayeth you that you will come to succour him as behoveth lord to do to his liege man." "by my faith," saith messire gawain, "behoveth me not fail him therein, wherefore tell him i will succour him so soon as i may; but tell him i have emprised a business that i cannot leave but with loss of honour until such time as it be achieved." they lay the night at the hermitage until after mass was sung on the morrow. iii. the knight departed and messire gawain remained. so when he was apparelled to mount, he looketh before him at the issue of the forest toward the hermitage, and seeth coming a knight on a tall horse, full speed and all armed, and he bore a shield like the one he saw perceval bearing the first time. "sir," saith he, "know you this knight that cometh there!" "truly, sir, well do i know him. this is perceval whom you seek, whom you so much desire to see!" "god be praised thereof!" saith messire gawain, "inasmuch as he cometh hither." he goeth afoot to meet him, and perceval alighteth so soon as he seeth him. "sir," saith messire gawain, "right welcome may you be!" "good joy may you have," saith perceval. "sir," saith the hermit, "make great joy of him! this is messire gawain, king arthur's nephew." "thereof do i love him the better!" saith he. "honour and joy ought all they to do him that know him!" he throweth his arms on his neck, and so maketh him great joy. "sir," saith he, "can you tell me tidings of a knight that was in the red launde at the assembly of knights?" "what shield beareth he?" saith messire gawain. "a red shield with a golden eagle," saith perceval. "and more by token, never made i acquaintance with any so sturdy in battle as are he and lancelot." "fair sir, it pleaseth you to say so," saith messire gawain. "in the red launde was i at the assembly, and such arms bore i as these you blazon, and i jousted against a knight in white arms, of whom i know this, that all of knighthood that may be lodged in the body of a man is in him." "sir," saith perceval to messire gawain, "you know not how to blame any man." so they hold one another by the hands, and go into the hermitage. "sir," saith messire gawain, "when you were in the court of king arthur for the shield that is within yonder, your sister was also there, and prayed and besought the help of the knight that should bear away the shield, as being the most discounselled damsel in the world. the king granted it her, and you bore away the shield. she asked your aid of the king as she that deemed not you were her brother, and said that if the king failed of his covenant, he would do great sin, whereof would he have much blame. the king was fain to do all he might to seek you, to make good that he had said, and sent us forth in quest of you, so that the quest lieth between me and lancelot. he himself would have come had we been unwilling to go. sir, i have found you three times without knowing you, albeit great desire had i to see you. this is the fourth time and i know you now, whereof i make myself right joyous; and much am i beholden to you of the fair lodging your mother gave me at camelot; but right sore pity have i of her, for a right worshipful woman is she, and a widow lady and ancient, and fallen into much war without aid nor comfort, through the evil folk that harass her and reave her of her castles. she prayed me, weeping the while right sweetly, that and if i should find you that are her son, i should tell you of her plight, that your father is dead, and that she hath no succour nor aid to look for save from you alone, and if you succour her not shortly, she will lose her own one castle that she holdeth, and must needs become a beggar, for of the fifteen castles she wont to have in your father's time, she hath now only that of camelot, nor of all her knights hath she but five to guard the castle. wherefore i pray you on her behalf and for your own honour, that you will grant her herein of your counsel and your valour and your might, for of no chivalry that you may do may you rise to greater worship. and so sore need hath she herein as you hear me tell, nor would i that she should lose aught by default of message, for thereof should i have sin and she harm, and you yourself also, that have the power to amend it and ought of right so to do!" "well have you delivered yourself herein," saith perceval, "and betimes will i succour her and our lord god will." "you will do honour to yourself," saith messire gawain. "thereof will you have praise with god and worship with the world." "well know i," saith perceval, "that in me ought she to have aid and counsel as of right, and that so i do not accordingly, i ought to have reproach and be blamed as recreant before the world." iv. "in god's name," saith the hermit, "you speak according to the scripture, for he that honoureth not his father and mother neither believeth in god nor loveth him." "all this know i well," saith perceval, "and well pleased am i to be reminded thereof, and well know i also mine intent herein, albeit i tell it to none. but if any can tell me tidings of lancelot, right willingly shall i hear them, and take it kindly of the teller thereof." "sir," saith joseus, "it is but just now since he lay here within, and asked me tidings of messire gawain, and i told him such as i knew. another time before that, he lay here when the robbers assailed us that he hanged in the forest, and so hated is he thereof of their kinsfolk that and they may meet him, so they have the might, he is like to pay for it right dear, and in this forest won they rather than in any other. i told him as much, but he made light thereof in semblant, even as he will in deed also if their force be not too great." "by my head," saith perceval, "i will not depart forth of this forest until i know tidings of him, if messire gawain will pledge himself thereto." and messire saith he desireth nothing better, sith that he hath found perceval, for he may not be at ease until such time as he shall know tidings of lancelot, for he hath great misgiving sith that he hath enemies in the forest. v. perceval and messire gawain sojourned that day in the forest in the hermitage, and the morrow perceval took his shield that he brought from king arthur's court, and left that which he brought with him, and messire gawain along with him that made himself right joyous of his company. they ride amidst the forest both twain, all armed, and at the right hour of noon they meet a knight that was coming a great gallop as though he were all scared. perceval asketh him whence he cometh, that he seemeth so a-dread. "sir, i come from the forest of the robbers that won in this forest wherethrough you have to pass. they have chased me a full league welsh to slay me, but they would not follow me further for a knight that they have beset in one of their holds, that hath done them right sore mischief, for he hath hanged four of their knights and slain one, as well as the fairest damsel that was in the kingdom. but right well had she deserved the death for that she harboured knights with fair semblant and showed them much honour, and afterward brought about their death and destruction, between herself and a dwarf that she hath, that slew the knights." "and know you who is the knight?" saith perceval. "sir," saith the knight, "not i, for no leisure had i to ask him, for sorer need had i to flee than to stay. but i tell you that on account of the meat that failed him in the hold wherein they beset him, he issued forth raging like a lion, nor would he have suffered himself be shut up so long but for two wounds that he had upon his body; for he cared not to issue forth of the house until such time as they were healed, and also for that he had no horse. and so soon as he felt himself whole, he ventured himself against the four knights, that were so a-dread of him that they durst not come a-nigh. and moreover he deigneth not to go a-foot, wherefore if they now come a-nigh, it may not be but he shall have one at least out of their four horses, but they hold them heedfully aloof." "sir," saith perceval, "gramercy of these tidings." they were fain to depart from the knight, but said he: "ha, lords, allow me so much as to see the destruction of this evil folk that have wrought such mischief in this forest! sir" saith he to messire gawain, "i am cousin to the poor knight of the waste forest that hath the two poor damsels to sister, there where you and lancelot jousted between you, and when the knight that brought you tidings thereof died in the night." "by my faith," saith messire gawain, "these tidings know i well, for you say true, and your company hold i right dear for the love of the poor knight, for never yet saw i more courteous knight, nor more courteous damsels, nor better nurtured, and our lord god grant them as much good as i would they should have." messire gawain made the knight go before, for well knew he the robbers' hold, but loath enough had he been to go thither, had the knights not followed him behind. lancelot was issued forth of the hold sword in hand, all armed, angry as a lion. the four knights were upon their horses all armed, but no mind had they come a-nigh him, for sore dreaded they the huge buffets he dealt, and his hardiment. one of them came forward before the others, and it seemed him shame that they might not vanquish one single knight. he goeth to smite lancelot a great stroke of his sword above in the midst of his head, nor did lancelot's sword fail of its stroke, for before he could draw back, lancelot dealt him such a blow as smote oft all of his leg at the thigh, so that he made him leave the saddlebows empty. lancelot leapt up on the destrier, and now seemed him he was safer than before. the three robber-knights that yet remained whole ran upon him on all sides and began to press him of their swords in right sore wrath. thereupon behold you, the knight cometh to the way that goeth to the hold and saith to messire gawain and perceval, "now may you hear the dashing of swords and the melly." therewithal the two good knights smite horse with spur and come thither where the three robber-knights were assailing lancelot. each of the twain smiteth his own so wrathfully that they thrust their spears right through their bodies and bear them to the ground dead. howbeit the third knight was fain to flee, but the knight that had come to show messire gawain the way took heart and hardiment from the confidence of the good knights, and smote him as he fled so sore that he pierced him with his spear to the heart and toppled him to the ground dead. and the one whose leg lancelot had lopped off was so trampled underfoot of the knights that he had no life in him. vi. when lancelot knew perceval and messire gawain he made great joy of them and they of him. "lancelot," saith messire gawain, "this knight that led us hither to save your life is cousin to the poor knight of the waste castle, the brother of the two poor damsels that lodged us so well. we will send him these horses, one for the knight that shall be the messenger, and the two to the lord of the waste castle, and this hold that we have taken shall be for the two damsels, and so shall we make them safe all the days of their life. this, methinketh, will be well." "certes," saith perceval, "you speak of great courtesy." "sir," saith lancelot, "messire gawain hath said, and right willingly will i grant him all his wish." "lords," saith the knight, "they have in this forest a hold wherein the knights did bestow their plunder, for the sake whereof they murdered the passers by. if the goods remain there they will be lost, for therein is so great store as might be of much worth to many folk that are poverty-stricken for want thereof." they go to the hold and find right great treasure in a cave underground, and rich sets of vessels and rich ornaments of cloth and armours for horses, that they had thrown the one over another into a pit that was right broad. "certes," saith he, "right well hath it been done to this evil folk that is destroyed!" "sir," saith lancelot, "in like manner would they have dealt with me and killed me if they might; whereof no sorrow have i save of the damsel that i slew, that was one of the fairest dames of the world. but i slew her not knowingly, for i meant rather to strike the knight, but she leapt between us, like the hardiest dame that saw i ever." "sirs," saith the knight, "perceval and lancelot, by the counsel of messire gawain, granted the treasure to the two damsels, sisters to the poor knight of the waste castle, whereupon let them send for joseus the hermit and bid him guard the treasure until they shall come hither." and joseus said that he would do so, and is right glad that the robbers of the forest are made away withal, that had so often made assault upon him. he guarded the treasure and the hold right safely in the forest; but the dread and the renown of the good knights that had freed the forest went far and wide. the knight that led the three destriers was right joyfully received at the waste castle; and when he told the message wherewith he was charged by messire gawain, the poor knight and two damsels made great joy thereof. perceval taketh leave of messire gawain and lancelot, and saith that never will he rest again until he shall have found his sister and his widow mother. they durst not gainsay him, for they know well that he is right, and he prayeth them right sweetly that they salute the king and queen and all the good knights of the court, for, please god, he will go see them at an early day. but first he was fain to fulfil the promise king arthur made to his sister, for he would not that the king should be blamed in any place as concerning him, nor by his default; and he himself would have the greater blame therein and he succoured her not, for the matter touched him nearer than it did king arthur. vii. with that the good knight departeth, and they commend him to god, and he them in like sort. messire gawain and lancelot go their way back toward the court of king arthur, and perceval goeth amidst strange forests until he cometh to a forest far away, wherein, so it seemed him, he had never been before. and he passed through a land that seemed him to have been laid waste, for it was all void of folk. wild beast only seeth he there, that ran through the open country. he entered into a forest in this waste country, and found a hermitage in the combe of a mountain. he alighted without and heard that the hermit was singing the service of the dead, and had begun the mass with a requiem betwixt him and his clerk. he looketh and seeth a pall spread upon the ground before the altar as though it were over a corpse. he would not enter the chapel armed, wherefore he hearkened to the mass from without right reverently, and showed great devotion as he that loved god much and was a-dread. when the mass was sung, and the hermit was disarmed of the armour of our lord, he cometh to perceval and saluteth him and perceval him again. "sir," saith perceval, "for whom have you done such service? meseemed that the corpse lay therewithin for whom the service was ordained." "you say truth," saith the hermit. "i have done it for lohot, king arthur's son, that lieth buried under this pall." "who, then, hath slain him?" saith perceval. "that will i tell you plainly," saith the hermit. viii. "this wasted land about this forest wherethrough you have come is the beginning of the kingdom of logres. there wont to be therein a giant so big and horrible and cruel that none durst won within half a league round about, and he destroyed the land and wasted it in such sort as you see. lohot was departed from the land and the court of king arthur his father in quest of adventure, and by the will of god arrived at this forest, and fought against logrin, right cruel as he was, and logrin against him. as it pleased god, lohot vanquished him; but lohot had a marvellous custom: when he had slain a man, he slept upon him. a knight of king arthur's court, that is called kay the seneschal, was come peradventure into this forest of logres. he heard the giant roar when lohot dealt him the mortal blow. thither came he as fist as he might, and found the king's son sleeping upon logrin. he drew his sword and therewith cut off lohot's head, and took the head and the body and set them in a coffin of stone. after that he hacked his shield to pieces with his sword, that he should not be recognised; then came he to the giant that lay dead, and so cut oft his head, that was right huge and hideous, and hung it at his fore saddle-bow. then went he to the court of king arthur and presented it to him. the king made great joy thereof and all they of the court, and the king made broad his lands right freely for that he believed kay had spoken true. i went," saith the hermit, "on the morrow to the piece of land where the giant lay dead, as a damsel came within here to tell me with right great joy. i found the corpse of the giant so big that i durst not come a-nigh it. the damsel led me to the coffin where the king's son was lying. she asked the head of me as her guerdon, and i granted it to her willingly. she set it forthwith in a coffer laden with precious stones that was all garnished within of balsams. after that, she helped me carry the body into this chapel and enshroud and bury it. ix. "afterwards the damsel departed, nor have i never heard talk of her since, nor do i make remembrance hereof for that i would king arthur should know it, nor for aught that i say thereof that he should do evil to the knight; for right sore sin should i have thereof, but deadly treason and disloyalty hath he wrought." "sir," saith perceval, "this is sore pity of the king's son, that he is dead in such manner, for i have heard witness that he ever waxed more and more in great chivalry, and, so the king knew thereof, kay the seneschal, that is not well-loved of all folk, would lose the court for ever more, or his life, so he might be taken, and this would be only right and just." perceval lay the night in the hermitage, and departed on the morrow when he had heard mass. he rideth through the forest as he that right gladly would hear tidings of his mother, nor never before hath he been so desirous thereof as is he now. he heard, at right hour of noon, a damsel under a tree that made greater dole than ever heard he damsel make before. she held her mule by the reins and was alighted a-foot and set herself on her knees toward the east. she stretched her hands up toward heaven and prayed right sweetly the saviour of the world and his sweet mother that they would send her succour betimes, for that the most discounselled damsel of the world was she, and never was alms given to damsel to counsel her so well bestowed as it would be upon her, for that needs must she go to the most perilous place that is in the world, and that, save she might bring some one with her, never would that she had to do be done. x. perceval drew himself up when he heard the damsel bemoaning thus. he was in the shadow of the forest so that she saw him not. the damsel cried out all weeping, "ha, king arthur, great sin did you in forgetting to speak of my business to the knight that bare away the shield from your court, by whom would my mother have been succoured, that now must lose her castle presently save god grant counsel herein; and so unhappy am i, that i have gone through all the lands of great britain, yet may i hear no tidings of my brother, albeit they say that he is the best knight of the world. but what availeth us his knighthood, when we have neither aid nor succour thereof? so much the greater shame ought he to have of himself, if he love his mother, as she, that is the most gentle lady that liveth and the most loyal, hath hope that, and he knew, he would come thither. either he is dead or he is in lands so far away that none may hear tidings of him. ha, sweet lady, mother of our saviour, aid us when we may have no aid of any other! for if my lady mother loseth her castle, needs must we be forlorn wanderers in strange lands, for so have her brothers been long time; he that had the most power and valour lieth in languishment, the good king fisherman that the king of castle mortal warreth on, albeit he also is my uncle, my mother's brother, and would fain reave my uncle, that is his brother, of his castle by his felony. of a man so evil my lady mother looketh for neither aid nor succour. and the good king pelles hath renounced his kingdom for the love of his saviour, and hath entered into a hermitage. he likewise is brother of my mother, and behoveth him make war upon none, for the most worshipful hermit is he of the world. and all they on my father's side have died in arms. eleven were there of them, and my father was the twelfth. had they remained on live, well able would they have been to succour us, but the knight that was first at the graal hath undone us, for through him our uncle fell in languishment, in whom should have been our surest succour." xi. at this word perceval rode forward, and the damsel heareth him. she riseth up, and looketh backward and seeth the knight come, the shield at his neck banded argent and azure, with a red cross. she clasped her two hands toward heaven, and saith, "ha, sweet lady that didst bear the saviour of the world, you have not forgotten me, nor never may be discounselled he nor she that calleth upon you with the heart. here see i the knight come of whom we shall have aid and succour, and our lord god grant him will to do his pleasure, and lend him courage and strength to protect us!" she goeth to meet him, and holdeth his stirrup and would have kissed his foot, but he avoideth it and crieth to her: "ill do you herein, damsel!" and therewith she melteth in tears of weeping and prayeth him right sweetly. "sir," saith she, "of such pity as god had of his most sweet mother on that day he took his death, when he beheld her at the foot of the cross, have pity and mercy of my lady mother and of me. for, and your aid fail us, we know not to whom to fly for rescue, for i have been told that you are the best knight of the world. and for obtaining of your help went i to king arthur's court. wherefore succour us for pity's sake and god's and for nought beside, for, so please you, it is your duty so to do, albeit, had you been my brother that is also such a knight as you, whom i cannot find, i might have called upon you of a greater right. sir," saith she, "do you remember you of the brachet you had at the court waiting for you until such time as you should come for the shield, and that went away with you, how he would never make joy nor know any save me alone? by this know i well that if you knew the soreness of our need you would succour us. but king arthur, that should have prayed you thereof, forgat it." "damsel," saith he, "so much hath he done that he hath not failed of his covenant with you, for he sent for me by the two best knights of his court, and, so i may speed, so much will i do herein as that god and he shall be well pleased thereof." xii. the damsel had right great joy of the knight that he should grant her his aid, but she knew not he was her brother, or otherwise she would have doubled her joy. perceval knoweth well that she is his sister, but he would not yet discover himself and manifest his pity outwardly. he helpeth the damsel to mount again and they rode on together. "sir," saith the damsel, "needs must i go to-night by myself to the grave-yard perilous." "wherefore go you thither?" saith perceval. "sir," saith she, "i have made vow thereof, and moreover a holy hermit hath told me that the knight that warreth upon us may not be overcome of no knight, save i bring him not some of the cloth wherewith the altar in the chapel of the grave-yard perilous is covered. the cloth is of the most holiest, for our lord god was covered therewith in the holy sepulchre, on the third day when he came back from death to life. nor none may enter the holy grave-yard that bringeth another with him, wherefore behoveth me go by myself, and may god save my life this night, for the place is sore perilous, and so ought i greatly to hate him that hath procured me this dolour and travail. sir," saith she, "you will go your way toward the castle of camelot: there is the widow lady my mother, that awaiteth the return and the succour of the good knight, and may you remember to succour and aid us when you shall see how sore is our need of succour. xiii. "damsel," saith perceval, "so god allow me i will aid you to the utmost of my power." "sir," saith she, "see, this is my way, that is but little frequented, for i tell you that no knight durst tread therein without great peril and great dread. and our lord god have your body in keeping, for mine own this night shall be in sore jeopardy and hazard." perceval departeth from the damsel, his sister, and hath right great pity for that she goeth in so perilous place all alone. natheless would he nor forbid her, for he knew well that she might not go thither with him nor with other, sith that such was the custom of the grave-yard that twain might not pass the entrance, wherefore needs must one remain without. perceval was not willing that his sister should break her vow, for never none of his lineage did at any time disloyalty nor base deed knowingly, nor failed of nought that they had in covenant, save only the king of castle mortal, from whom he had as much evil as he had good of the others. xiv. the damsel goeth her way all alone and all forlorn toward the grave-yard and the deep of the forest, all dark and shadowy. she hath ridden until the sun was set and the night draweth nigh. she looketh before her and seeth a cross, high and wide and thick. and on this cross was the figure of our lord graven, whereof is she greatly comforted. she draweth nigh the cross, and so kisseth and adoreth it, and prayeth the saviour of the world that was nailed on holy rood that he would bring her forth of the burial-ground with honour. the cross was at the entrance of the grave-yard, that was right spacious, for, from such time as the land was first peopled of folk, and that knights began to seek adventure by the forest, not a knight had died in the forest, that was full great of breadth and length, but his body was borne thither, nor might never knight there be buried that had not received baptism and had repented him not of his sins at his death. xv. thereinto entered the damsel all alone, and found great multitude of tombs and coffins. nor none need wonder whether she had shuddering and fear, for such place must needs be dreadful to a lonely damsel, there where lay so many knights that had been slain in arms. josephus the good clerk witnesseth us that within the grave-yard might no evil spirit meddle, for that saint andrew the apostle had blessed it with his hand. but never might no hermit remain within for the evil things that appeared each night all round about, that took the shapes of the knights that were dead in the forest, wherof the bodies lay not in the blessed burial-ground. xvi. the damsel beholdeth their sepulchres all round about the graveyard whereinto she was come. she seeth them surrounded of knights, all black, and spears had they withal, and came one against another, and made such uproar and alarm as it seemed all the forest resounded thereof. the most part held swords all red as of fire, and ran either upon other, and gashed one another's hands and feet and nose and face. and great was the clashing they made, but they could not come a-nigh the grave-yard. the damsel seeth them, and hath such affright thereof that she nigh fell to the ground in a swoon. the mule whereon she sate draweth wide his nostrils and goeth in much fear. the damsel signeth her of the cross and commendeth her to the saviour and to his sweet mother. she looketh before her to the head of the grave-yard, and seeth the chapel, small and ancient. she smiteth her mule with her whip, and cometh thitherward and alighteth. she entered therewithin and found a great brightness of light. within was an image of our lady, to whom she prayeth right sweetly that she will preserve her senses and her life and enable her to depart in safety from this perilous place. she seeth above the altar the most holy cloth for the which she was come thither, that was right ancient, and a smell came thereof so sweet and glorious that no sweetness of the world might equal it. the damsel cometh toward the altar thinking to take the cloth, but it goeth up into the air as if the wind had lifted it, and was so high that she might not reach it above an ancient crucifix that was there within. "ha, god!" saith the damsel, "it is for my sin and my disloyalty that this most holy cloth thus draweth itself away from me!" xvii. "fair father god, never did i evil to none, nor never did i shame nor sinned deadly in myself, nor never wrought against your will, so far as in me lay, but rather do i serve you and love and fear you and your sweet mother; and all the tribulation i receive, accept i in patience for your love, for well i know that such is your pleasure, nor have i no will to set myself against nought that pleaseth you. xviii. "when it shall please you, you will release me and my mother of the grief and tribulation wherein we are. for well you know that they have reaved her of her castles by wrong, and of her land, for that she is a widow lady without help. lord, you who have all the world at your mercy and do your commandment in all things, grant me betimes to hear tidings of my brother and he be on live, for sore need have we of him. and so lend force to the knight and power against all our enemies, that for your love and for pity is fain to succour and aid my mother that is sore discounselled. lord, well might it beseem you to remember of your pity and the sweetness that is in you, and of compassion that she hath been unrighteously disherited, and that no succour nor aid nor counsel hath she, save of you alone. you are her affiance and her succour, and therefore ought you to remember that the good knight joseph of abarimacie, that took down your body when it hung upon the rood, was her own uncle. better loved he to take down your body than all the gold and all the fee that pilate might give him. lord, good right of very truth had he so to do, for he took you in his arms beside the rood, and laid your body in the holy sepulchre, wherein were you covered of the sovran cloth for the which have i come in hither. lord, grant it be your pleasure that i may have it, for love of the knight by whom it was set in this chapel; sith that i am of his lineage it ought well to manifest itself in this sore need, so it come according to your pleasure." forthwith the cloth came down above the altar, and she straightway found taken away therefrom as much as it pleased our lord she should have. josephus telleth us of a truth, that never did none enter into the chapel that might touch the cloth save only this one damsel. she set her face to it and her mouth or ever the cloth removed. xix. thereafter, she took the piece that god would and set it near herself full worshipfully, but still the stout went on of the evil spirits round about the church-yard, and they dealt one another blows so sore that all the forest resounded thereof, and it seemed that it was all set on fire of the flame that issued from them. great fear would the damsel have had of them, had she not comforted herself in god and in his dear, sweet mother, and the most holy cloth that was within there. a voice appeared upon the stroke of midnight from above the chapel, and speaketh to the souls whereof the bodies lie within the grave-yard: "how sore loss hath befallen you of late, and all other whose bodies lie in other hallowed church-yards by the forests of this kingdom! for the good king fisherman is dead that made every day our service be done in the most holy chapel there where the most holy graal every day appeared, and where the mother of god abode from the saturday until the monday that the service was finished. and now hath the king of castle mortal seized the castle in such sort that never sithence hath the holy graal appeared, and all the other hallows are hidden, so that none knoweth what hath become of the priests that served in the chapel, nor the twelve ancient knights, nor the damsels that were therein. and you, damsel, that are within, have no affiance in the aid of strange knight in this need, for succoured may you never be save of your brother only!" xx. with that the voice is still, and a wailing and a lamentation goeth up from the bodies that lay in the church-yard, so dolorous that no man is there in the world but should have pity thereof, and all the evil spirits that were without departed groaning and making so mighty uproar at their going away that it seemed the earth trembled. the damsel heard the tidings of her uncle that was dead, and fell on the ground in a swoon, and when she raised herself, took on to lament and cried: "ha, god! now have we lost the most comfort and the best friend that we had, and hereof am i again discomforted that i may not be succoured in this my next need by the good knight of whom i thought to have succour and aid, and that was so fain to render it. now shall i know not what to ask of him, for he would grant it right willingly, and may god be as pleased with him thereof as if he had done it." the damsel was in sore misdoubting and dismay, for she knew not who the knight was, and great misgiving had she of her uncle's death and right sore sorrow. she was in the chapel until it was day, and then commended herself to god and departed and mounted on her mule and issued forth of the church-yard full speed, all alone. xxi. the story saith that the damsel went her way toward her mother's castle as straight as she might, but sore dismayed was she of the voice that had told her she might not be succoured save of her brother alone. she hath ridden so far of her journeys that she is come to the valley of camelot, and seeth her mother's castle that was surrounded of great rivers, and seeth perceval, that was alighted under the shadow of a tree at the top of the forest in order that he might behold his mother's castle, whence he went forth squire what time he slew the knight of the red shield. when he had looked well at the castle and the country round about, much pleasure had he thereof, and mounted again forthwith. thereupon, behold you, the damsel cometh. "sir," saith she, "in sore travail and jeopardy have i been sithence that last i saw you, and tidings have i heard as bad as may be, and right grievous for my mother and myself. for king fisherman mine uncle is dead, and another of my uncles, the king of castle mortal, hath seized his castle, albeit my lady mother ought rather to have it, or i, or my brother." "is it true," saith perceval, "that he is dead?" "yea, certes, sir, i know it of a truth." "so help me god!" saith he, "this misliketh me right sore. i thought not that he would die so soon, for i have not been to see him of a long time." xxii. "sir," saith she, "i am much discomforted as concerning you, for i have likewise been told that no force nor aid of any knight may avail to succour nor aid me from this day forward save my brother's help alone. wherefore, and it be so, we have lost all, for my lady mother hath respite to be in her castle only until the fifteenth day from to-day, and i know not where to seek my brother, and the day is so nigh as you hear. now behoveth us do the best we may and abandon this castle betimes, nor know i any refuge that we now may have save only king pelles in the hermitage. i would fain that my lady mother were there, for he would not fail us." perceval is silent, and hath great pity in his heart of this that the damsel saith. she followeth him weeping, and pointeth out to him the valleys of camelot and the castles that were shut in by combes and mountains, and the broad meadow-lands and the forest that girded them about. "sir," saith she, "all this hath the lord of the moors reaved of my lady mother, and nought coveteth he so much as to have this castle, and have it he will, betimes." xxiii. when they had ridden until that they drew nigh the castle, the lady was at the windows of the hall and knew her daughter. "ha, god!" saith the lady, "i see there my daughter coming, and a knight with her. fair father god, grant of your pleasure that it be my son, for and it be not he, i have lost my castle and mine heirs are disherited." perceval cometh nigh the castle in company with his sister, and knoweth again the chapel that stood upon four columns of marble between the forest and the castle, there where his father told him how much ought he to love good knights, and that none earthly thing might be of greater worth, and how none might know yet who lay in the coffin until such time as the best knight of the world should come thither, but that then should it be known. perceval would fain have passed by the chapel, but the damsel saith to him: "sir, no knight passeth hereby save he go first to see the coffin within the chapel." he alighteth and setteth the damsel to the ground, and layeth down his spear and shield and cometh toward the tomb, that was right fair and rich. he set his hand above it. so soon as he came nigh, the sepulchre openeth on one side, so that one saw him that was within the coffin. the damsel falleth at his feet for joy. the lady had a custom such that every time a knight stopped at the coffin she made the five ancient knights that she had with her in the castle accompany her, wherein they would never fail her, and bring her as far as the chapel. so soon as she saw the coffin open and the joy her daughter made, she knew that it was her son, and ran to him and embraced him and kissed him and began to make the greatest joy that ever lady made. xxiv. "now know i well," saith she, "that our lord god hath not forgotten me. sith that i have my son again, the tribulations and the wrongs that have been done me grieve me not any more. sir," saith she to her son, "now is it well known and proven that you are the best knight of the world! for otherwise never would the coffin have opened, nor would any have known who he is that you now see openly." she maketh her chaplain take certain letters that were sealed with gold in the coffin. he looketh thereat and readeth, and then saith that these letters witness of him that lieth in the coffin that he was one of them that helped to un-nail our lord from the cross. they looked beside him and found the pincers all bloody wherewith the nails were drawn, but they might not take them away, nor the body, nor the coffin, according as josephus telleth us, for as soon as perceval was forth of the chapel, the coffin closed again and joined together even as it was before. the widow lady led her son with right great joy into her castle, and recounted to him all the shame that had been done her, and also how messire gawain had made safe the castle for a year by his good knighthood. xxv. "fair son," saith she, "now is the term drawn nigh when i should have lost my castle and you had not come. but now know i well that it shall be safe-guarded of you. he that coveteth this castle is one of the most outrageous knights on live. and he hath reaved me of my land and the valleys of camelot without reasonable occasion. but, please god, you shall well repair the harm he hath done you, for nought claim i any longer of the land since you are come. but so avenge your shame as to increase your honour, for none ought to allow his right to be minished of an evil man, and the mischiefs that have been done me for that i had no aid, let them not wax cold in you, for a shame done to one valiant and strong ought not to wax cold in him, but rankle and prick in him, so ought he to have his enemies in remembrance without making semblant, but so much as he shall show in his cheer and making semblant and his menaces, so much ought he to make good in deed when he shall come in place. for one cannot do too much hurt to an enemy, save only one is willing to let him be for god's sake. but truth it is that the scripture saith, that one ought not to do evil to one's enemies, but pray god that he amend them. i would fain that our enemies were such that they might amend toward us, and that they would do as much good to us without harming themselves as they have done evil, on condition that mine anger and yours were foregone against them. mine own anger i freely forbear against them so far forth as concerneth myself, for no need have i to wish evil to none, and solomon telleth how the sinner that curseth other sinner curseth himself likewise. xxvi. "fair son, this castle is yours, and this land round about whereof i have been reft ought to be yours of right, for it falleth to you on behalf of your father and me. wherefore send to the lord of the moors that hath reft it from me, that he render it to you. i make no further claim, for i pass it on to you; for nought have i now to do with any land save only so much as will be enough wherein to bury my body when i die, nor shall i now live much longer since king fisherman my brother is dead, whereof right sorrowful am i at heart, and still more sorrowful should i be were it not for your coming. and, son, i tell you plainly that you have great blame of his death, for you are the knight through whom he fell first into languishment, for now at last i know well that and if you had afterwards gone back and so made the demand that you made not at the first, he would have come back to health. but our lord god willed it so to be, wherefore well beseemeth us to yield to his will and pleasure." xxvii. perceval hath heard his mother, but right little hath he answered her, albeit greatly is he pleased with whatsoever she hath said. his face is to-flushed of hardiment, and courage hath taken hold on him. his mother looketh at him right fainly, and hath him disarmed and apparelled in a right rich robe. so comely a knight was he that in all the world might not be found one of better seeming nor better shapen of body. the lord of the moors, that made full certain of having his mother's castle, knew of perceval's coming. he was not at all dismayed in semblant, nor would he stint to ride by fell nor forest, and every day he weened in his pride that the castle should be his own at the hour and the term he had set thereof. one of the five knights of the widow lady was one day gone into the lonely forest after hart and hind, and had taken thereof at his will. he was returning back to the castle and the huntsmen with him, when the lord of the moors met him and told him he had done great hardiment in shooting with the bow in the forest, and the knight made answer that the forest was not his of right, but the lady's of camelot and her son's that had repaired thither. xxviii. the lord of the moors waxed wroth. he held a sword in his hand and thrust him therewith through the body and slew him. the knight was borne dead to the castle of camelot before the widow lady and her son. "fair son," saith the widow lady, "more presents of such-like kind the lord of the moors sendeth me than i would. never may he be satisfied of harming my land and shedding the blood of the bodies of my knights. now may you well know how many a hurt he hath done me sithence that your father hath been dead and you were no longer at the castle, sith that this hath he done me even now that you are here. you have the name of perceval on this account, that tofore you were born, he had begun to reave your father of the valleys of camelot, for your father was an old knight and all his brethren were dead, and therefore he gave you this name in baptism, for that he would remind you of the mischief done to him and to you, and that you might help to retrieve it and you should have the power." the dame maketh shroud the knight, for whom she is full sorrowful, and on the morrow hath mass sung and burieth him. perceval made arm two of the old knights with him, then issued forth of the castle and entered the great dark forest. he rode until he came before a castle, and met five knights that issued forth all armed. he asked whose men they were. they answer, the lord's of the moors, and that he goeth seek the son of the widow lady that is in the forest. "if we may deliver him up to our lord, good guerdon shal we have thereof." "by my faith," saith perceval, "you have not far to seek. i am here!" xxix. perceval smiteth his horse of his spurs and cometh to the first in such sort that he passeth his spear right through his body and beareth him to the ground dead. the other two knights each smote his man so that they wounded them in the body right sore. the other two would fain have fled, but perceval preventeth them, and they gave themselves up prisoners for fear of death. he bringeth all four to the castle of camelot and presenteth them to his lady mother. "lady," saith he, "see here the quittance for your knight that was slain, and the fifth also remaineth lying on the piece of ground shent in like manner as was your own." "fair son," saith she, "i should have better loved peace after another sort, and so it might be." "lady," saith he, "thus is it now. one ought to make war against the warrior, and be at peace with the peaceable." the knights are put in prison. the tidings are come to the lord of the moors that the son of the widow lady hath slain one of his knights and carried off four to prison. thereof hath he right great wrath at heart, and sweareth and standeth to it that never will he be at rest until he shall have either taken or slain him, and that, so there were any knight in his land that would deliver him up, he would give him one of the best castles in his country. the more part are keen to take perceval. eight came for that intent before him all armed in the forest of camelot, and hunted and drove wild deer in the purlieus of the forest so that they of the castle saw them. xxx. perceval was in his mother's chapel, where he heard mass; and when the mass was sung, his sister said: "fair brother, see here the most holy cloth that i brought from the chapel of the grave-yard perilous. kiss it and touch it with your face, for a holy hermit told me that never should our land be conquered back until such time as you should have hereof." perceval kisseth it, then toucheth his eyes and face therewith. afterward he goeth to arm him, and the four knights with him; then he issueth forth of the chamber and mounteth on his horse, then goeth out of the gateway like a lion unchained. he sitteth on a tall horse all covered. he cometh nigh the eight knights that were all armed, man and horse, and asketh them what folk they be and what they seek, and they say that they are enemies of the widow lady and her son. "then you do i defy!" saith perceval. he cometh to them a great run, and the four knights with him, and each one overthroweth his own man so roughly that either he is wounded in his body or maimed of arm or leg. the rest held the melly to the utmost they might endure. perceval made take them and bring to the castle, and the other five that they had overthrown. the lord of the moors was come to shoot with a bow, and he heard the noise of the knights, and cometh thitherward a great gallop all armed. "sir," saith one of the old knights to perceval, "look! here is the lord of the moors coming, that hath reft your mother of her land and slain her men. of him will it be good to take vengeance. see, how boldly he cometh." perceval looketh on him as he that loveth him not, and cometh toward him as hard as his horse may carry him, and smiteth him right through the breast so strongly that he beareth to the ground him and his horse together all in a heap. he alighteth to the ground and draweth his sword. "how?" saith the lord of the moors, "would you then slay me and put me in worse plight than i am?" "by my head," saith perceval, "no, nor so swiftly, but i will slay you enough, betimes!" "so it seemeth you," saith the lord of the moors, "but it shall not be yet!" he leapeth up on his feet and runneth on perceval, sword drawn, as one that fain would harm him if he might. but perceval defendeth himself as good knight should, and giveth such a buffet at the outset as smiteth off his arm together with his sword. the knights that came after fled back all discomfited when they saw their lord wounded. and perceval made lift him on a horse and carry him to the castle and presenteth him to his mother. "lady," saith he, "see here the lord of the moors! well might you expect him eftsoons, sith that you were to have yielded him up your castle the day after to-morrow!" xxxi. "lady," saith the lord of the moors, "your son hath wounded me and taken my knights and myself likewise. i will yield you up your castle albeit i hold it mine as of right, on condition you cry me quit." "and who shall repay her," saith perceval, "for the shame that you have done her, for her knights that you have slain, whereof never had you pity? now, so help me god, if she have mercy or pity upon you, never hereafter will i trouble to come to her aid how sore soever may be her need. such pity and none other as you have had for her and my sister will i have for you. our lord god commanded in both the old law and the new, that justice should be done upon man-slayers and traitors, and justice will i do upon you that his commandment be not transgressed." he hath a great vat made ready in the midst of the court, and maketh the eleven knights be brought. h e maketh their heads be stricken off into the vat and bleed therein as much blood as might come from them, and then made the heads and the bodies be drawn forth so that nought was there but blood in the vat. after that, he made disarm the lord of the moors and be brought before the vat wherein was great abundance of blood. he made bind his feet and his hands right strait, and after that saith: "never might you be satisfied of the blood of the knights of my lady mother, now will i satisfy you of the blood of your own knights!" he maketh hang him by the feet in the vat, so that his head were in the blood as far as the shoulders, and so maketh him be held there until that he was drowned and quenched. after that, he made carry his body and the bodies of the other knights and their heads, and made them be cast into an ancient charnel that was beside an old chapel in the forest, and the vat together with the blood made he be cast into the river, so that the water thereof was all bloody. the tidings came to the castles that the son of the widow lady had slain the lord of the moors and the best of his knights. thereof were they in sore misgiving, and the most part said that the like also would he do to them save they held themselves at his commandment. they brought him the keys of all the castles that had been reft of his mother, and all the knights that had before renounced their allegiance returned thereunto and pledged themselves to be at his will for dread of death. all the land was assured in safety, nor was there nought to trouble the lady's joy save only that king fisherman her brother was dead, whereof she was right sorrowful and sore afflicted. xxxii. one day the widow lady sate at meat, and there was great plenty of knights in the hall. perceval sate him beside his sister. thereupon, behold you the damsel of the car that came with the other two damsels before the widow lady and her son, and saluted them right nobly. "damsel," saith perceval, "good adventure may you have!" "sir," saith she, "you have speeded right well of your business here, now go speed it elsewhere, for thereof is the need right sore. king hermit, that is your mother's brother, sendeth you word that, and you come not with haste into the land that was king fisherman's your uncle, the new law that god hath stablished will be sore brought low. for the king of castle mortal, that hath seized the land and castle, hath made be cried throughout all the country how all they that would fain maintain the old law and abandon the new shall have protection of him and counsel and aid, and they that will not shall be destroyed and outlawed." "ha, fair son," saith the widow lady, "now have you heard the great disloyalty of the evil man that is my brother, whereof am i right sorrowful, for that he is of my kindred." "lady," saith perceval, "your brother nor my uncle is he no longer, sith that he denieth god! rather is he our mortal enemy that we ought of right to hate more than any stranger!" xxxiii. "fair son," saith the widow lady, "i pray and beseech you that the law of the saviour be not set aside in forgetfulness and neglect there where you may exalt it, for better lord in no wise may you serve, nor one that better knoweth how to bestow fair guerdon. fair son, none may be good knight that serveth him not and loveth him. take heed that you be swift in his service nor delay not for no intent, but be ever at his commandment alike at eventide as in the morning, so shall you not bely your lineage. and the lord god grant you good intent therein and good will to go on even as you have begun." the widow lady, that much loved her son, riseth up from the tables, and all the other knights, and seemeth it that she is lady of her land in such sort as that never was she better. but full often doth she give thanks to the saviour of the world with her whole heart, and prayeth him of his pleasure grant her son length of life for the amendment both of soul and body. perceval was with his mother of a long space, and with his sister, and was much feared and honoured of all the knights of the land, alike for his great wisdom and great pains-taking, as well as for the valour of his knighthood. branch xvi. title i. this high history saith that messire gawain and lancelot were repaired to the court of king arthur from the quest they had achieved. the king made great joy thereof and the queen. king arthur sate one day at meat by the side of the queen, and they had been served of the first meats. thereupon come two knights all armed, and each bore a dead knight before him, and the knights were still armed as they had been when their bodies were alive. "sir," say the knights, "this shame and this mischief is yours. in like manner will you lose all your knights betimes and god love you not well enough to give counsel herein forthwith of his mercy." "lords," saith the king, "how came these knights to be in so evil case?" "sir," say they, "it is of good right you ought to know. the knight of the fiery dragon is entered into the head of your land, and is destroying knights and castles and whatsoever he may lay hands on, in such sort that none durst contend against him, for he is taller by a foot than any knight ever you had, and of grisly cheer, and so is his sword three times bigger than the sword of ever another knight, and his spear is well as heavy as a man may carry. two knights might lightly cover them of his shield, and it hath on the outer side the head of a dragon that casteth forth fire and flame whensoever he will, so eager and biting that none may long endure his encounter." ii. "none other, how strong soever he be, may stand against him, and, even as you see, hath he burnt and evil-entreated all other knights that have withstood him." "from what land hath come such manner of man?" "sir," say the knights, "he is come from the giant's castle, and he warreth upon you for the love of logrin the giant, whose head messire kay brought you into your court, nor never, saith he, will he have joy until such time as he shall have avenged him on your body or upon the knight that you love best." "our lord god," saith the king, "will defend us from so evil a man." he is risen from the table, all scared, and maketh carry the two dead knights to be buried, and the others turn back again when they have told their message. the king calleth messire gawain and lancelot and asketh them what he shall do of this knight that is entered into his land? "by my head, i know not what to say, save you give counsel herein." "sir," saith lancelot, "we will go against him, so please you, i and messire gawain between us." "by my head," saith the king, "i would not let you go for a kingdom, for such man as is this is no knight but a devil and a fiend that hath issued from the borders of hell. i say not but that it were great worship and prize to slay and conquer him, but he that should go against him should set his own life in right sore jeopardy and run great hazard of being in as bad plight as these two knights i have seen." the king was in such dismay that he knew not neither what to say nor to do, and so was all the court likewise in such sort as no knight neither one nor another was minded to go to battle with him, and so remained the court in great dismay. branch xvii. incipit. here beginneth one of the master branches of the graal in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost. title i. perceval had been with his mother as long as it pleased him. he hath departed with her good will and the good will of his sister, and telleth them he will return into the land as speedily as he may. he entereth into the great lonely forest, and rideth so far on his journeys that he cometh one day at the right hour of noon into a passing fair launde, and seeth a forest. he looketh amidst the launde and seeth a red cross. he looketh to the head of the launde and seeth a right comely knight sitting in the shadow of the forest, and he was clad in white garments and held a vessel of gold in his hand. at the other end of the launde he seeth a damsel likewise sitting, young and gentle and of passing great beauty, and she was clad in a white samite dropped of gold. josephus telleth us by the divine scripture that out of the forest issued a beast, white as driven snow, and it was bigger than a fox and less than a hare. the beast came into the launde all scared, for she had twelve hounds in her belly, that quested within like as it were hounds in a wood, and she fled adown the launde for fear of the hounds, the questing whereof she had within her. perceval rested on the shaft of his spear to look at the marvel of this beast, whereof he had right great pity, so gentle was she of semblance, and of so passing beauty, and by her eyes it might seem that they were two emeralds. she runneth to the knight, all affrighted, and when she hath been there awhile and the hounds rend her again, she runneth to the damsel, but neither there may she stay long time, for the hounds that are within her cease not of their questing, whereof is she sore adread. ii. she durst not venture herself in the forest. she seeth perceval and so cometh toward him for protection. she maketh as though she would lie down on his horse's neck, and he holdeth forth his hands to receive her there so as that she might not hurt herself, and evermore the hounds quested. howbeit the knight crieth out to him, "sir knight, let the beast go and hold her not, for this belongeth neither to you nor to other, but let her dree her weird." the beast seeth that no protection hath she. she goeth to the cross, and forthwith might the hounds no longer be in her, but issued forth all as it were live hounds, but nought had they of her gentleness nor her beauty. she humbled herself much among them and crouched on the ground and made semblant as though she would have cried them mercy, and gat herself as nigh the cross as she might. the hounds had compassed her round about and ran in upon her upon all sides and tore her all to pieces with their teeth, but no power had they to devour her flesh, nor to remove it away from the cross. iii. when the hounds had all to-mangled the beast, they fled away into the wood as had they been raging mad. the knight and the damsel came there where the beast lay in pieces at the cross, and so taketh each his part and setteth the same on their golden vessels, and took the blood that lay upon the earth in like manner as the flesh, and kiss the place, and adore the cross, and then betake them into the forest. perceval alighteth and setteth him on his knees before the cross and so hisseth and adoreth it, and the place where the beast was slain, in like manner as he had seen the knight and damsel do; and there came to him a smell so sweet of the cross and of the place, such as no sweetness may be compared therewith. he looketh and seeth coming from the forest two priests all afoot; and the first shouteth to him: "sir knight, withdraw yourself away from the cross, for no right have you to come nigh it.": perceval draweth him back, and the priest kneeleth before the cross and adoreth it and boweth down and kisseth it more than a score times, and manifesteth the most joy in the world. and the other priest cometh after, and bringeth a great rod, and setteth the first priest aside by force, and beateth the cross with the rod in every part, and weepeth right passing sore. iv. perceval beholdeth him with right great wonderment, and saith unto him, "sir, herein seem you to be no priest! wherefore do you so great shame?" "sir," saith the priest, "it nought concerneth you of whatsoever we may do, nor nought shall you know thereof for us!" had he not been a priest, perceval would have been right wroth with him, but he had no will to do him any hurt. therewithal he departeth and mounteth his horse and entereth the forest again, all armed, but scarce had he ridden away in such sort or ever he met the knight coward, that cried out to him as far as he could see him, "sir, for god's sake, take heed to yourself!" "what manner man are you?" saith perceval. "sir," saith he, "my name is the knight coward, and i am man of the damsel of the car. wherefore i pray you for god's sake and for your own valour that you touch me not." perceval looketh on him and seeth him tall and comely and well-shapen and adroit and all armed upon his horse, so he saith to him, "sith that you are so coward, wherefore are you armed thus?" "sir," saith he, "against the evil intent of any knight of whom i am adread, for such an one might haply meet me as would slay me forthwith." v. "are you so coward as you say?" saith perceval. "yea," saith he, "and much more." "by my head," saith he, "i will make you hardy. come now along with me, for sore pity is it that cowardize should harbour in so comely a knight. i am fain that your name be changed speedily, for such name beseemeth no knight." "ha, sir, for god's sake, mercy! now know i well that you desire to slay me! no will have i to change neither my courage nor my name!" "by my head," saith perceval, "then will you die therefor, betimes!" he maketh him go before him, will he or nill he; and the knight goeth accordingly with right sore grudging. they had scarce ridden away, when he heard in the forest off the way, two damsels that bewailed them right sore, and prayed our lord god send them succour betimes. vi. perceval cometh towards them, he and the knight he driveth before him perforce, and seeth a tall knight all armed that leadeth the damsels all dishevelled, and smiteth them from time to time with a great rod, so that the blood ran down their faces. "ha, sir knight," saith perceval, "what ask you of these two damsels that you entreat so churlishly?" "sir," saith he, "they have disherited me of mine own hold in this forest that messire gawain gave them." "sir," say they to perceval, "this knight is a robber, and none other but he now wonneth in this forest, for the other robber-knights were slain by messire gawain and lancelot and another knight that came with them, and, for the sore suffering and poverty that messire gawain and lancelot saw in us aforetime, and in the house of my brother in whose castle they lay, were they fain to give us this hold and the treasure they conquered from the robber-knights, and for this doth he now lead us away to slay and destroy us, and as much would he do for you and all other knights, so only he had the power." "sir knight," saith perceval, "let be these damsels, for well i know that they say true, for that i was there when the hold was given them." "then you helped to slay my kindred," saith the knight, "and therefore you do i defy!" "ha," saith the knight coward to perceval, "take no heed of that he saith, and wax not wroth, but go your way!" "certes," saith perceval, "this will i not do: rather will i help to challenge the honour of the damsels." vii. "ha, sir," saith the knight coward, "never shall it be challenged of me!" perceval draweth him back. "sir," saith he, "see here my champion that i set in my place." the robber knight moveth toward him, and smiteth him so sore on the shield that he breaketh his spear, but he might not unseat the coward knight, that sate still upright as aforehand in the saddle-bows. he looketh at the other knight that hath drawn his sword. the knight coward looketh on the one side and the other, and would fain have fled and he durst. but perceval crieth to him: "knight, do your endeavour to save my honour and your own life and the honour of these two damsels!" and the robber-knight dealeth him a great buffet of his sword so as that it went nigh to stun him altogether. howbeit the coward knight moveth not. perceval looketh at him in wonderment and thinketh him that he hath set too craven a knight in his place, and now at last knoweth well that he spake truth. the robber-knight smiteth him all over his body and giveth him so many buffets that the knight seeth his own blood. "by my head," saith he, "you have wounded me, but you shall pay therefor, for i supposed not that you were minded to slay me!" he draweth his sword, that was sharp and strong, and smiteth his horse right sore hard of his spurs, and catcheth the knight with his sword right in the midst of his breast with a sweep so strong that he beareth him to the ground beside his horse. he alighteth over him, unlaceth his ventail and smiteth down his coif, then striketh off his head and presenteth it to perceval. "sir," saith he, "here give i you of my first joust." "by my head," said perceval, "right dearly love i this present! now take heed that you never again fall back into the cowardize wherein you have been. for it is too sore shame to a knight!" "sir," saith he, "i will not, but never should i have believed that one could become hardy so speedily, or otherwise long ago would i have become so, and so should i have had worship and honour thereof, for many a knight hath held me in contempt herein, that elsewise would have honoured me." perceval answereth that right and reason it is that worshipful men should be more honoured than the other. "i commend these two damsels to your protection, and lead them to their hold in safety, and be at their pleasure and their will, and so say everywhere that you have for name the knight hardy, for more of courtesy hath this name than the other." "sir," saith he, "you say true, and you have i to thank for the name." the damsels give great thanks to perceval, and take leave of him, and so go their way with right good will toward the knight that goeth with them on account of the knight he had slain, so that thereof called they him the knight hardy. viii. perceval departeth from the place where the knight lieth dead, and rideth until that he draweth nigh to cardoil where king arthur was, and findeth the country round in sore terror and dismay. much he marvelleth wherefore it may be, and demandeth of some of the meaner sort wherefore they are in so sore affright. "doth the king, then, live no longer?" "sir," say the most part, "yea, he is there within in this castle, but never was he so destroyed nor so scared as he is at this present. for a knight warreth upon him against whom no knight in the world may endure." perceval rideth on until he cometh before the master hall, and is alighted on the mounting-stage. lancelot and messire gawain come to meet him and make much joy of him, as do the king and queen and all they of the court; and they made disarm him and do upon him a right rich robe. they that had never seen him before looked upon him right fainly for the worship and valour of his knighthood. the court also was rejoiced because of him, for sore troubled had it been. so as the king sate one day at meat, there came four knights into the hall, and each one of them bore before him a dead knight. and their feet and arms had been stricken off, but their bodies were still all armed, and the habergeons thereon were all black as though they had been blasted of lightning. they laid the knights in the midst of the hall. "sir," say they to the king, "once more is made manifest this shame that is done you that is not yet amended. the knight of the dragon destroyeth you your land and slayeth your men and cometh as nigh us as he may, and saith that in your court shall never be found knight so hardy as that he durst abide him or assault him." right sore shame hath the king of these tidings, and messire gawain and lancelot likewise. right sorrowful are they of heart for that the king would not allow them to go thither. the four knights turn back again and leave the dead knights in the hall, but the king maketh them be buried with the others. ix. a great murmuring ariseth amongst the knights in the hall, and the most part say plainly that they never heard tell of none that slew knights in such cruel sort, nor so many as did he; and that neither messire gawain nor lancelot ought to be blamed for that they went not thither, for no knight in the world might conquer such a man and our lord god did not, for he casteth forth fire and flame from his shield whensoever him listeth. and while this murmur was going on between the knights all round about the hall, behold you therewithal the damsel that made bear the knight in the horse-bier and cometh before the king. "sir," saith she, "i pray and beseech you that you do me right in your court. see, here is messire gawain that was at the assembly in the red launde where were many knights, and among them was the son of the widow lady, that i see sitting beside you. he and messire gawain were they that won the most prize of the assembly. this knight had white arms, and they of the assembly said that he had better done than messire gawain, for that he had been first in the assembly. it had been granted me, before the assembly began, that he that should do best thereat, should avenge the knight. sir, i have sought for him until i have now found him at your court. wherefore i pray and beseech you that you bid him do so much herein as that he be not blamed, for messire gawain well knoweth that i have spoken true. but the knight departed so soon from the assembly, that i knew not what had become of him, and messire gawain was right heavy for that he had departed, for he was in quest of him, but knew him not." x. "damsel," saith messire gawain, "truth it is that he it was that did best at the assembly in the red launde, and moreover, please god, well will he fulfil his covenant towards you." "messire gawain," saith perceval, "meseemeth you did best above all other." "by my faith," saith messire gawain, "you speak of your courtesy, but howsoever i or other may have done, you had the prize therein by the judgment of the knights. of so much may i well call upon the damsel to bear witness." "sir," saith she, "gramercy! he ought not to deny me that i require of him. for the knight that i have so long followed about and borne on a bier was son of his uncle elinant of escavalon." xi. "damsel," saith perceval, "take heed that you speak truth. i know well that elinant of escavalon was mine uncle on my father's side, but of his son know i nought." "sir," saith she, "of his deeds well deserved he to be known, for by his great valour and hardiment came he by his death, and he had to name alein of escavalon. the damsel of the circlet of gold loved him of passing great love with all her might. the comeliest knight that was ever seen of his age was he, and had he lived longer would have been one of the best knights known, and of the great love she had in him made she his body be embalmed when the knight of the dragon had slain him, he that is so cruel and maketh desolate all the lands and all the islands. the damsel of the circlet of gold hath he defied in such sort that already hath he slain great part of her knights, and she is held fast in her castle, so that she durst not issue forth, insomuch that all the knights that are there say, and the lady of the castle also, that he that shall avenge this knight shall have the circlet of gold, that never before was she willing to part withal, and the fairest guerdon will that be that any knight may have." xii. "sir," saith she, "well behoveth you therefore, to do your best endeavour to avenge your uncle's son, and to win the circlet of gold, for, and you slay the knight, you will have saved the land of king arthur that he threateneth to make desolate, and all the lands that march with his own, for no king hateth he so much as king arthur on account of the head of the giant whereof he made such joy at his court." "damsel," saith perceval, "where is the knight of the dragon?" "sir," saith she, "he is in the isles of the elephants that wont to be the fairest land and the richest in the world. now hath he made it all desolate, they say, in such sort that none durst inhabit there, and the island wherein he abideth is over against the castle of the damsel of the golden circlet, so that every day she seeth him carry knights off bodily from the forest that he slayeth and smiteth limb from limb, whereof hath she right sore grief at heart." xiii. perceval heareth this that the damsel telleth him, and marvelleth much thereat, and taketh thought within himself, sith that the adventure is thus thrown upon him, that great blame will he have thereof and he achieveth it not. he taketh leave of the king and queen, and so goeth his way and departeth from the court. messire gawain departeth and lancelot with him, and say they will bear him company to the piece of ground, and they may go thither. perceval holdeth their fellowship right dear. the king and queen have great pity of perceval, and say all that never until now no knight went into jeopardy so sore, and that sore loss to the world will it be if there he should die. they send to all the hermits and worshipful men in the forest of cardoil and bid them pray for perceval that god defend him from this enemy with whom he goeth forth to do battle. lancelot and messire gawain go with him by the strange forests and by the islands, and found the forests all void and desolate and wasted in place after place. the damsel followeth them together with the dead knight. and so far have they wandered that they come into the plain country before the forest. so they looked before them and saw a castle that was seated in the plain without the forest, and they saw that it was set in a right fair meadow-land, and was surrounded of great running waters and girdled of high walls, and had within great halls with windows. they draw nigh the castle and see that it turneth all about faster than the wind may run, and it had at the top the archers of crossbows of copper that draw their shafts so strong that no armour in the world might avail against the stroke thereof. together with them were men of copper that turned and sounded their horns so passing loud that the ground all seemed to quake. and under the gateway were lions and bears chained, that roared with so passing great might and fury that all the ground and the valley resounded thereof. the knights draw rein and look at this marvel. "lords," saith the damsel, "now may you see the castle of great endeavour. messire gawain and lancelot, draw you back, and come not nigher the archers, for otherwise ye be but dead men. and you, sir," saith she to perceval, "and you would enter into this castle, lend me your spear and shield, and so will i bear them before for warranty, and you come after me and make such countenance as good knight should, and so shall you pass through into the castle. but your fellows may well draw back, for now is not the hour for them to pass. none may pass thither save only he that goeth to vanquish the knight and win the golden circlet and the graal, and do away the false law with its horns of copper." xiv. perceval is right sorrowful when he heareth the damsel say that messire gawain and lancelot may not pass in thither with him albeit they be the best knights in the world. he taketh leave of them full sorrowfully, and they also depart sore grudgingly; but they pray him right sweetly, so lord god allow him escape alive from the place whither he goeth, that he will meet them again at some time and place, and at ease, in such sort as that they may see him without discognisance. they wait awhile to watch the good knight, that hath yielded his shield and spear to the damsel. she hath set his shield on the bier in front, then pointeth out to them of the castle all openly the shield that belonged to the good soldier; after that she maketh sign that it belongeth to the knight that is there waiting behind her. perceval was without shield in the saddle-bows, and holdeth his sword drawn and planteth him stiffly in the stirrups after such sort as maketh them creak again and his horse's chine swerve awry. after that, he looketh at lancelot and messire gawain. "lords," saith he, "to the saviour of the world commend i you." and they answer, "may he that endured pain of his body on the holy true cross protect him in his body and his soul and his life." with that he smiteth with his spurs and goeth his way to the castle as fast as his horse may carry him,--toward the turning castle. he smiteth with his sword at the gate so passing strongly that he cut a good three fingers into a shaft of marble. the lions and the beast that were chained to guard the gate slink away into their dens, and the castle stoppeth at once. the archers cease to shoot. there were three bridges before the castle that uplifted themselves so soon as he was beyond. xv. lancelot and messire gawain departed thence when they had beholden the marvel, but they were fain to go toward the castle when they saw it stop turning. but a knight cried out to them from the battlements, "lords, and you come forward, the archers will shoot and the castle will turn, and the bridges be lowered again, wherefore you would be deceived herein." they draw back, and hear made within the greatest joy that ever was heard, and they hear how the most part therewithin say that now is he come of whom they shall be saved in twofold wise, saved as of life, and saved as of soul, so god grant him to vanquish the knight that beareth the spirit of the devil. lancelot and messire gawain turn them back thoughtful and all heavy for that they may not pass into the castle, for none other passage might they see than this. so they ride on, until that they draw nigh the waste city where lancelot slew the knight. "ha," saith he to messire gawain, "now is the time at hand that behoveth me to die in this waste city, and god grant not counsel herein." he told messire gawain all the truth of that which had befallen him therein. so, even as he would have taken leave of him, behold you, the poor knight of the waste castle! xvi. "sir," saith he to lancelot, "i have taken respite of you in the city within there, of the knight that you slew, until forty days after that the graal shall be achieved, nor have i issued forth of the castle wherein you harboured you until now, nor should i now have come forth had i not seen you come for fulfilling of your pledge, nor never shall i come forth again until such time as you shall return hither on the day i have named to you. and so, gramercy to you and messire gawain for the horses you sent me, that were a right great help to us, and for the treasure and the hold you have given to my sisters that were sore poverty-stricken. but i may not do otherwise than abide in my present poverty until such time as you shall be returned, on the day whereunto i have taken respite for you, sore against the will of your enemies, for the benefits you have done me. wherefore i pray yon forget me not, for the saving of your loyalty." "by my head," saith lancelot, "that will i not, and gramercy for having put off the day for love of me." they depart from the knight and come back again toward cardoil where king arthur was. branch xviii. title i. here the story is silent of lancelot and messire gawain, and saith that perceval is in the turning castle, whereof joseus recounteth the truth, to wit, that virgil founded it in the air by his wisdom in such fashion, when the philosophers went on the quest of the earthly paradise, and it was prophesied that the castle should not cease turning until such time as the knight should come thither that should have a head of gold, the look of a lion, a heart of steel, the navel of a virgin maiden, conditions without wickedness, the valour of a man and faith and belief of god; and that this knight should bear the shield of the good soldier that took down the saviour of the world from hanging on the rood. it was prophesied, moreover, that all they of the castle and all other castles whereof this one was the guardian should hold the old law until such time as the good knight should come, by whom their souls should be saved and their death respited. for, so soon as he should be come, they should run to be baptized, and should firmly believe the new law. wherefore was the joy great in the castle for that their death should now be respited, and that they should be released of all terror of the knight that was their foe, whom they dreaded even to the death, and of the sin of the false law whereof they had heretofore been attaint. ii. right glad is perceval when he seeth the people of the castle turn them to the holy faith of the saviour, and the damsel saith to him, "sir, right well have you speeded thus far on your way; nought is there now to be done save to finish that which remaineth. for never may they that are within issue forth so long as the knight of the dragon is on live. here may you not tarry, for the longer you tarry, the more lands will be desolate and the more folk will he slay. perceval taketh leave of them of the castle, that make much joy of him, but sore misgiving have they of him on account of the knight with whom he goeth to do battle, and they say that if he shall conquer him, never yet befell knight so fair adventure. they have heard mass before that he departeth, and made rich offerings for him in honour of the saviour and his sweet mother. the damsel goeth before, for that she knew the place where the evil knight had his repair. they ride until they come into the island of elephants. the knight was alighted under an olive tree, and had but now since slain four knights that were of the castle of the queen of the golden circlet. she was at the windows of her castle and saw her knights dead, whereof made she great dole. "ha, god," saith she, "shall i never see none that may avenge me of this evildoer that slayeth my men and destroyeth my land on this wise?" she looketh up and seeth perceval come and the damsel. "sir knight, and you have not force and help and valour in you more than is in four knights, come not nigh this devil! howbeit, and you feel that you may so do battle as to overcome and vanquish him, i will give you the golden circlet that is within, and will hold with the new law that hath been of late established. for i see well by your shield that you are a christian, and, so you may conquer him, then ought i at last to be assured that your law availeth more than doth ours, and that god was born of the virgin." iii. right joyous is perceval of this that he heareth her say. he crosseth and blesseth him, and commendeth him to god and his sweet mother; and is pricked of wrath and hardiment like a lion. he seeth the knight of the dragon mounted, and looketh at him in wonderment, for that he was so big that never had he seen any man so big of his body. he seeth the shield at his neck, that was right black and huge and hideous. he seeth the dragon's head in the midst thereof, that casteth out fire and flame in great plenty, so foul and hideous and horrible that all the field stank thereof. the damsel draweth her toward the castle and leaveth the knight on the horsesaith. iv. "sir," saith she to perceval, "on this level plot was slain your uncle's son whom here i leave, for i have brought him far enough. now avenge him as best you may, i render and give him over to you, for so much have i done herein as that none have right to blame me." with that she departeth. the knight of the dragon removeth and seeth perceval coming all alone, wherefore hath he great scorn of him and deigneth not to take his spear, but rather cometh at him with his drawn sword, that was right long and red as a burning brand. perceval seeth him coming and goeth against him, spear in rest, as hard as his horse may carry him, thinking to smite him through the breast. but the knight setteth his shield between, and the flame that issued from the dragon burnt the shaft thereof even to his hand. and the knight smiteth him on the top of his helmet, but perceval covereth him of his shield, whereof had he great affiance that the sword of the foeman knight might not harm it. josephus witnesseth us that joseph of abarimacie had made be sealed in the boss of the shield some of the blood of our lord and a piece of his garment. v. when the knight seeth that he hath not hurt perceval's shield, great marvel hath he thereof, for never aforetime had he smitten knight but he had dealt him his death-blow. he turneth the head of the dragon towards perceval's shield, but the flame that issued from the dragon's head turned back again as it had been blown of the wind, so that it might not come nigh him. the knight is right wroth thereof, and passeth beyond and cometh to the bier of the dead knight and turneth his shield with the dragon's head against him. he scorcheth and burneth all to ashes the bodies of the knight and the horses. saith he to perceval, "are you quit as for this knight's burial?" "certes," saith perceval, "you say true, and much misliketh me thereof, but please god i shall amend it." vi. the damsel that had brought the knight was at the windows of the palace beside the queen. she crieth out. "perceval, fair sir," saith the damsel, "now is the shame the greater and the harm the greater, and you amend them not." right sorrowful is perceval of his cousin that is all burnt to a cinder, and he seeth the knight that beareth the devil with him, but knoweth not how he may do vengeance upon him. he cometh to him sword-drawn, and dealeth him a great blow on the shield in such sort that he cleaveth it right to the midst thereof where the dragon's head was, and the flame leapeth forth so burning hot on his sword that it waxed red-hot like as was the knight's sword. and the damsel crieth to him: "now is your sword of the like power as his; now shall it be seen what you will do! i have been told of a truth that the knight may not be vanquished save by one only and at one blow, but how this is i may not tell, whereof irketh me." perceval looketh and seeth that his sword is all in a flame of fire, whereof much he marvelleth. he smiteth the knight so passing sore that he maketh his head stoop down over the fore saddle-bow. the knight righteth him again, sore wrath that he may not put him to the worse. he smiteth him with his sword a blow so heavy that he cleaveth the habergeon and his right shoulder so that he cutteth and burneth the flesh to the bone. as he draweth back his blow, perceval catcheth him and striketh him with such passing strength that he smiteth off his hand, sword and all. the knight gave a great roar, and the queen was right joyous thereof. the knight natheless made no semblant that he was yet conquered, but turneth back toward perceval at a right great gallop and launched his flame against his shield, but it availeth him nought, for he might not harm it. perceval seeth the dragon's head, that was broad and long and horrible, and aimeth with his sword and thrusteth it up to the hilt into his gullet as straight as ever he may, and the head of the dragon hurleth forth a cry so huge that forest and fell resound thereof as far as two leagues welsh. vii. the dragon's head turneth it toward his lord in great wrath, and scorcheth him and burneth him to dust, and thereafter departed up into the sky like lightning. the queen cometh to perceval, and all the knights, and see that he is sore hurt in his right shoulder. and the damsel telleth him that never will he be healed thereof save he setteth thereon of the dust of the knight that is dead. and they lead him up to the castle with right great joy. then they make him be disarmed, and have his wound washed and tended and some of the knight's dust that was dead set thereon that it might have healing. she maketh send to all the knights of her land: "lords," saith she, "see here the knight that hath saved my land for me and protected your lives. you know well how it hath been prophesied that the knight with head of gold should come, and through him should you be saved. and now, behold, hath he come hither. the prophecy may not be belied. i will that you do his commandment." and they said that so would they do right willingly. she bringeth him there where the circlet of gold is, and she herself setteth it on his head. after that, she bringeth his sword and delivereth it unto him, wherewith he had slain the giant devil, both the knight that bare the devil, and the devil that the knight bare in his shield. viii. "sir," saith she, "may all they that will not go to be baptized, nor accept your new law, be slain of this your sword, and hereof i make you the gift." she herself made her be held up and baptized first, and all the other after. josephus maketh record that in right baptism she had for name elysa, and a good life she led and right holy, and she died a virgin. her body still lieth in the kingdom of ireland, where she is highly honoured. perceval was within the castle until that he was heal. the tidings spread throughout the lands that the knight of the golden circlet had slain the knight of the dragon, and great everywhere was the joy thereof. it was known at the court of king arthur, but much marvelled they that it was said the knight of the golden circlet had slain him, for they knew not who was the knight of the golden circlet. ix. when perceval was whole, he departed from the castle of the queen of the golden circlet, all of whose land was at his commandment. the queen told him that she would keep the golden circlet until he should will otherwise, and in such sort he left it there, for he would not carry it with him, sith that he knew not whitherward he might turn. the history telleth us that he rode on until one day he came to the castle of copper. within the castle were a number of folk that worshipped the bull of copper and believed not in any other god. the bull of copper was in the midst of the castle upon four columns of copper, and bellowed so loud at all hours of the day that it was heard for a league all round about, and there was an evil spirit within that gave answers concerning whatsoever any should ask of it. x. at the entrance to the gateway of the castle were two men made of copper by art of nicromancy, and they held two great mallets of iron, and they busied themselves striking the one after the other, and so strongly they struck that nought mortal is there in the world that might pass through amongst their blows but should be all to-crushed thereby. and on the other side was the castle so fast enclosed about that nought might enter thereinto. xi. perceval beholdeth the fortress of the castle, and the entrance that was so perilous, whereof he marvelleth much. he passeth a bridge that was within the entry, and cometh nigh them that guard the gate. a voice began to cry aloud above the gate that he might go forward safely, and that he need have no care for the men of copper that guarded the gate nor be affrighted of their blows, for no power had they to harm such a knight as was he. he comforteth himself much of that the voice saith to him. he cometh anigh the serjeants of copper, and they cease to strike at once, and hold their iron mallets quite still. and he entereth into the castle, where he findeth within great plenty of folk that all were misbelievers and of feeble belief. he seeth the bull of copper in the midst of the castle right big and horrible, that was surrounded on all sides by folk that all did worship thereunto together round about. xii. the bull bellowed so passing loud that right uneath was it to hear aught else within the castle besides. perceval was therewithin, but none was there that spake unto him, for, so intent were they upon adoring the bull that, and any had been minded to slay them what time they were yet worshipping the same, they would have allowed him so to do, and would have thought that they were saved thereby; and save this had they none other believe in the world. it was not of custom within there to be armed, for the entrance of the fortress was so strong that none might enter but by their will and commandment, save it were the pleasure of our lord god. and the devil that had deceived them, and in whom they believed, gave them such great abundance therewithin of everything they could desire, that nought in the world was there whereof they lacked. when he perceived that they held no discourse with him, he draweth himself on one side by a great hall, and so called them around him. the more part came thither, but some of them came not. the voice warneth him that he make them all pass through the entrance of the gateway there where the men with the iron mallets are, for there may he well prove which of them are willing to believe in god and which not. the good knight draweth his sword and surroundeth them all and maketh them all go in common before him, would they or nould they. and they that would not go willingly and kindly might be sure that they should receive their death. he made them pass through the entrance there where the serjeants of copper were striking great blows with their iron mallets. of one thousand five hundred that there were, scarce but thirteen were not all slain and brained of the iron mallets. but the thirteen had firmly bound their belief in our lord, wherefore the serjeants took no heed of them. xiii. the evil spirit that was in the bull of copper issued forth thereof as it had been lightning from heaven, and the bull of copper melted all in a heap so as that nought remained in that place thereof. then the thirteen that remained sent for a hermit of the forest and so made themselves be held up and baptized. after that, they took the bodies of the misbelievers and made cast them into a water that is called the river of hell. this water runneth into the sea, so say many that have seen it, and there where it spendeth itself in the sea is it most foul and most horrible, so that scarce may ship pass that is not wrecked. xiv. josephus maketh record that the hermit that baptized the thirteen had the name of denis, and that the castle was named the castle of the trial. they lived within there until the new law was assured and believed in throughout all the kingdoms, and a right good life led they and a holy. nor never might none enter with them thereinto but was slain and crushed save he firmly believed in god. when the thirteen that were baptized in the castle issued forth thereof they scattered themselves on every side among strange forests, and made hermitages and buildings, and put their bodies to penance for the false law they had maintained and to win the love of the saviour of the world. xv. perceval, as you may hear, was soldier of our lord, and well did god show him how he loved his knighthood, for the good knight had much pain and sore travail and pleased him greatly. he was come one day to the house of king hermit that much desired to see him, and made much joy of him when he saw him, and rejoiced greatly of his courage. perceval relateth to him all the greater adventures that have befallen him at many times and in many places sithence that he departed from him, and king hermit much marvelleth him of many. "uncle," saith perceval, "i marvel me much of an adventure that befell me at the outlet of a forest; for i saw a little white beast that i found in the launde of the forest, and twelve hounds had she in her belly, that bayed aloud and quested within her. at last they issued forth of her and slew her beside the cross that was at the outlet of the forest, but they might not eat of her flesh. a knight and a damsel, whereof one was at one end of the launde and the other at the other, came thither and took the flesh and the blood, and set them in two vessels of gold. and the hounds that were born of her fled away into the forest." "fair nephew," saith the hermit, "i know well that god loveth you sith that such things appear to you, for his valour and yours and for the chastity that is in your body. the beast, that was kindly and gentle and sweet, signifieth our lord jesus christ, and the twelve dogs that yelped within her signify the people of the old law that god created and made in his own likeness, and after that he had made and created them he desired to prove how much they loved him. he sent them forty years into the wilderness, where their garments never wasted, and sent them manna from heaven that served them whatsoever they would to eat and to drink, and they were without evil and without trouble and without sickness, and such joy and pleasance had they as they would. and they held one day their council, and the master of them said that and god should wax wroth with them and withhold this manna, they would have nought to eat, and that it might not last always albeit that god sent it in so passing great plenty. wherefore they purposed to set aside great part thereof in store, so that if the lord god should wax wroth they might take of that which was stored and so save themselves for a long space. they agreed among themselves and did thereafter as they had purposed and determined amongst them. xvi. "god, that seeth and knoweth all things, knew well their thought. he withdrew from them the manna from heaven that had come to them in such abundance, and which they had bestowed in caverns underground, thinking to find there the manna they had set aside, but it was changed by the will of god into efts and adders and worms and vermin, and when they saw that they had done evil, they scattered themselves over strange lands. fair, sweet nephew," saith the hermit, "these twelve hounds that bayed in the beast are the jews that god had fed, and that were born in the law that he established, nor never would they believe on him, nor love him, but rather crucified him and tore his body after the shamefullest sort they might, but in no wise might they destroy his flesh. the knight and damsel that set the pieces of flesh in vessels of gold signify the divinity of the father, which would not that his flesh should be minished. the hounds fled to the forest and became savage what time they had torn the beast to pieces, so in like manner are the jews that were and ever shall be savage, subject to them of the new law henceforth for ever." xvii. "fair uncle," saith perceval, "good right and reason is it that they should have shame and tribulation and evil reward sith that they slew and crucified him that had created and made them and deigned to be born as a man in their law. but two priests came after, whereof the one kissed the cross and worshipped it right heartily and made great joy thereof, and the other did violence thereunto and bear it with a great rod, and wept right sore and made the greatest dole in the world. with this last was i right sore wrath, and willingly would i have run upon him had he not been a priest." "fair nephew," saith the hermit, "he that beat it believed in god equally as well as he that adored, for that the holy flesh of the saviour of the world was set thereon, that abhorred not the pains of death. one smiled and made great joy for that he redeemed his souls from the pains of hell that would otherwise have been therein for evermore; and for this made he yet greater joy, that he knew he was god and man everlastingly in his nature, for he that hath not this in remembrance shall never believe aright. fair nephew, the other priest bear the cross and wept for the passing great anguish and torment and dolour that our lord god suffered thereon, for so sore was the anguish as might have melted the rock, nor no tongue of man may tell the sorrow he felt upon the cross. and therefore did he bear it and revile it for that he was crucified thereon, even as i might hate a spear or sword wherewith you had been slain. for nought else did he thus, and ever, so often as he remembereth the pain that god suffered thereon, cometh he to the cross in such manner as you saw. both twain are hermits and dwell in the forest, and he is named jonas that kissed and adored the cross, and he that beat and reviled it is named alexis." xviii. willingly heareth perceval this that his uncle telleth and recordeth him. he relateth how he did battle with the devil-knight that bare in his shield the head of a dragon that cast forth fire and flame, and how the dragon burnt up his lord at the last. "fair nephew," saith the hermit, "right glad am i of these tidings that you tell me, for i have been borne on hand that the knight of the golden circlet had slain him." "sir," saith perceval, "it may well be, but never at any time saw i knight so big and horrible." "fair nephew," saith the hermit, "none might overcome him save the good knight only, for all true worshipful men behoveth do battle with the devil, nor never may he be worshipful man that fighteth not against him. and even as the devil withal that was figured on his shield slew and burnt up his master, even so doth one devil torment and molest other in the world to come; and greater evil might not the knight of the devil do you than burn the body of your uncle's son that he had killed, as i have heard tell. power had he over his body, but, please god, not over his soul to burn it." "fair uncle," saith perceval, "i went thither by a turning castle, where were archers of copper that shot bolts, and bears and lions chained at the entrance of the gateway. so soon as i drew nigh and smote thereon with my sword the castle stopped still." "fair nephew," said king hermit, "nought had the devil outwardly besides this castle. it was the entrance to his fortress, nor would they within ever have been converted save you had been there." "sir," saith he, "right sorrowful am i of messire gawain and lancelot, for well i loved their fellowship, and great aid would they have been in my need." "fair nephew, had they been chaste as are you, well might they have entered on account of their good knighthood. for were they not wanton, the two best knights in the world are they. xix. "fair nephew, in the time of your knighthood have you much advanced the law of the saviour, for you have destroyed the falsest believe in the world, and this was of them that believed on the bull of copper and the devil that was therein. if this folk had remained, and had failed of you, never would it have been destroyed until the end of the world. wherefore marvel not that you have travail in serving god, but endure it willingly, for never had worshipful man honour without pains. but now behoveth you achieve another matter. all they of the land of king fisherman your uncle have abandoned the new law, and returned to that which god hath forbidden. but the most part do so rather perforce and for fear of the king that hath seized the land, who is my brother and your uncle, than on account of aught else. wherefore behoveth you set counsel therein, for this thing may not be achieved by any earthly man save by you only. for the castle and land should be yours of right, and sore mischief is it when one that cometh of lineage so high and so holy is traitor to god, and disloyal to the world. xx. "fair nephew," saith the good man, "the castle hath been much strengthened, for there are now nine bridges newly made, and at each bridge are there three knights tall and strong and hardy, whereof hath he much defence, and your uncle is there within that keepeth the castle. but never sithence, none of the knights of king fisherman nor of his priests have there appeared, nor knoweth any what hath befallen them. the chapel wherein the most holy graal appeared is all emptied of its sacred hallows; the hermits that are by the forest are fain of your coming, for never see they there a knight pass by that believeth in god. and so you shall have achieved this enterprise, it is a thing whereof shall god be well pleased." xxi. "fair uncle," saith perceval, "thither will i go, sith that you commend it to me, for no reason is it that he should have the castle that hath entered thereinto. of better right ought my mother to have it, that was the next-born to king fisherman, of whose death am i right sorrowful." "fair nephew, you are right! for on your account fell he into languishment, and, had you then gone again, so say many, then would he have been whole, but how this might have been i know not of a certainty. but methinketh our lord god willed his languishment and death, for had it been his will, you would have made the demand, but he willed otherwise, wherefore ought we to give thanks and praise him whatsoever he doth, for he hath foreseen of every man that which shall come to him. i have within here a white mule that is very old. fair nephew, you will take her with you. she will follow you right willingly, and a banner shall you bear, for the power of god and his virtue shall avail more than your own. seven-and-twenty knights guard the nine bridges, all chosen and of approved great valour, and none ought now to believe that a single knight may vanquish so many, save the miracle of our lord and his virtue shall open a way for him. so i pray and beseech you that you have god always in remembrance and his sweet mother, and, so at any time you be put to the worse of your knighthood, mount upon the mule and take the banner, and your enemies shall forthwith lose their force, for nought confoundeth any enemy so swiftly as doth the virtue and puissance of god. it is a thing well known that you are the best knight of the world, but set not affiance in your strength nor in your knighthood as against so many knights, for against them may you not endure." xxii. perceval hearkeneth unto his uncle's discourse and his chastening, and layeth fast hold on all that he saith, wherewith is he pleased full well, for great affiance hath he in his words. "fair nephew," saith the hermit, "two lions are there at the entry of the gateway, whereof the one is red and the other white. put your trust in the white, for he is on god's side, and look at him whensoever your force shall fail you, and he will look at you likewise in such sort as that straightway you shall know his intent, by the will and pleasure of our saviour. wherefore do according as you shall see that he would, for no intent will he have save good only, and to help you; nor may you not otherwise succeed in winning past the nine bridges that are warded of the twenty-seven knights. and god grant you may win past in such wise that you may save your body and set forward withal the law of our lord that your uncle hath hindered all that he might." xxiii. perceval departeth from the hermitage, and carrieth away the banner, according to his uncle's counsel, and the white mule followeth after. he goeth his way toward the land that was the land of king fisherman, and findeth a hermit that was issued forth of his hermitage and was going at a great pace through the forest. he abideth so soon as he beholdeth the cross on perceval's shield. "sir," saith he, "i well perceive that you are a christian, of whom not a single one have i seen this long time past. for the king of castle mortal is driving us forth of this forest, for he hath renounced god and his sweet mother, so that we durst not remain in his defence." "by my faith," saith perceval, "but you shall! for god shall lead you forward, and i after. are there more hermits in this forest?" saith perceval. "yea, sir, there be twelve here that are waiting for me at a cross yonder before us, and we are minded to go to the kingdom of logres and put our bodies to penance for god's sake, and to abandon our cells and chapels in this forest for dread of this felon king that hath seized the land, for he willeth that none who believeth in god should here abide." xxiv. perceval is come with the hermit to the cross where the good men had assembled them together, and findeth joseus, the young man that was king pelles' son, of whom he maketh right great joy, and he maketh the hermits turn back again with him, saying that he will defend them and make them safe, by god's help, in the kingdom, and prayeth them right sweetly that they make prayer for him to our lord that he grant him to win back that which of right is his own. he is come forth of the forest and the hermits with him. he draweth nigh to the castle of king fisherman, and strong was the defence at the entrance thereof. some of the knights well knew that perceval would conquer him, for long since had it been prophesied that he who bare such shield should win the graal of him that sold god for money. xxv. the knights saw perceval coming and the company of hermits with him right seemly to behold, and much marvel had they thereof. about a couple of bowshots above the bridge was a chapel fashioned like the one at camelot, wherein was a sepulchre, and none knew who lay therein. perceval abideth thereby and his company. he leaneth his shield and spear against the chapel, and maketh fast his horse and mule by the reins. he beholdeth the sepulchre, that was right fair, and forthwith the sepulchre openeth and the joinings fall apart and the stone lifteth up in such wise that a man might see the knight that lay within, of whom came forth a smell of so sweet savour that it seemed to the good men that were looking on that it had been all embalmed. they found a letter which testified that this knight was named josephus. so soon as the hermits beheld the sepulchre open, they said to perceval: "sir, now at last know we well that you are the good knight, the chaste, the holy." the knights that warded the bridge heard the tidings that the sepulchre had opened at the coming of the knight, whereof were they in the greater dismay, and well understood that it was he that was first at the graal. the tidings came to the king that held the castle, and he bade his knights not be dismayed for dread of a single knight, for that he would have no force nor power against them, nor might it never befall but that one only of his own knights should be enough to conquer him. xxvi. perceval was armed upon his horse. the hermits make the sign of the cross over him, and bless him and commend him to god. and he holdeth his spear in rest and cometh toward the three knights that guard the first bridge. they all set upon him at once and break their spears upon his shield. one of them he smiteth with such force that he maketh him topple over into the river that runneth under the bridge, both him and his horse. of him was he quit, for the river was wide and deep and swift. the others held out against him a much longer bout with sharp sword-play, but he vanquished them and smote them to pieces, and flung their bodies into the water. they of the second bridge came forward, that were right good knights, and many a tough bout had he of them and many a felon onslaught. joseus that was his uncle's son was there, and said to the other hermits that right fainly would he go help him, but that he deemed it might be sin, and they bade him take no heed of that, for that great work of mercy would it be to destroy the enemies of our lord. he doeth off his grey cape and fettleth him in his frock, and taketh one of them that were doing battle with perceval and trusseth him on his neck and so flingeth him into the river all armed, and perceval slayeth the other twain and hurleth them into the river in like manner as the other. xxvii. by the time he had won the two bridges he was full spent and weary, wherefore he bethinketh him of the lion, the manner whereof his uncle had told him. then looketh he toward the entrance of the gateway and seeth the white lion, that stood upright on his two hinder feet, for that he was fain to see him. perceval looketh him full between the two eyes, and understandeth that the lion is minded by the will of god to do him to wit that the knights of the third bridge are so hardy and of such strength that they may not be overcome of a single knight and our lord god of his holy bounty open not the way, but that he must fain take the mule and carry the banner if he would conquer them. perceval understandeth the white lion's intent, and giveth god thanks thereof and draweth him back, and joseus the young man likewise. as soon as they look back, they see that the first bridge is already lifted up behind them. xxviii. perceval cometh to where the white mule was, and she was starred on the forehead with a red cross. he mounteth thereupon, and taketh the banner and holdeth his sword drawn. so soon as the white lion seeth him coming, he unchaineth himself and runneth incontinent to the bridge that was lifted, right amidst the knights, and lowereth it forthwith. the king of castle mortal was on the battlements of the greater fortress of the castle, and crieth to the knights that warded the bridge, "lords," saith he, "you are the most chosen knights of my land and the hardiest, but no hardiment is it to lift the bridges on account of a single knight whom you durst not abide body to body, whereof meseemeth it great cowardize and not hardiment. but the lion is hardier than you all, that of his hardiment hath lowered the bridge. wherefore now know i well that had i set him to ward the first bridge, he would have warded it better than these that have allowed themselves to be slain." xxix. thereupon, behold you perceval come upon his white mule, sword drawn all naked in his fist, and cometh toward them of the third bridge, whereof he smiteth the first so sore that he overthroweth him into the water. joseus the hermit cometh forward and would fain have seized the other twain, but they cry mercy of perceval, and say that they will be at his will in all things, and so will believe on god and his sweet mother and abandon their evil lord. and they of the fourth bridge say likewise. on such condition he alloweth them to live by the counsel of joseus, and they cast away their arms and yield up the bridges at his will. perceval thinketh within himself that god's virtue hath right great power, but that knight who hath force and power ought well to approve his prowess for god's sake. for of all that he shall do or suffer for him, shall god be well pleased. for, were all the world against our lord god, and he should grant to any single one that should be his champion all his power and might, he would conquer them all in one hour of the day. but he willeth that a man should travail for him, even as he himself suffered travail for his people. xxx. perceval cometh again back and alighteth of the white mule and delivereth the banner to joseus, and then mounteth again on his destrier and cometh back to them of the fifth bridge, and these defend themselves right stoutly, for that hardy knights are they, and do battle against perceval full sturdily. joseus the hermit cometh thither and assaulteth them with passing great lustihood, that had the lord god not saved him they would have overthrown and slain him. howbeit, he holdeth the banner and grappleth them when he may lay hold, and grippeth them so straight that they may not help themselves. perceval slayeth them and crusheth them and maketh them topple over into the water that ran swiftly beneath the bridge. when they of the sixth bridge saw that these were conquered, they cried mercy of perceval and yielded themselves to him and delivered up their swords to him, and they of the seventh bridge likewise. when the red lion saw that the seventh bridge was won, and that the knights of the two bridges had yielded themselves up to perceval, he leapt up with such fury that he burst his chain as had he been wood mad. he came to one of the knights and bit him and slew him, whereof the white lion was full wroth, and runneth upon the other lion and teareth him to pieces with his claws and teeth. xxxi. straightway thereafter he raiseth himself up on his two hinder feet and looketh at perceval, and perceval at him. perceval understandeth well the lion's intent, to wit, that they of the last bridge are worse to conquer than the others, and that they may not be conquered at all save by the will of god and by him that is the lion. and the lion warned him that he go not against them with the banner, holy though it were, nor receive them into mercy what surety soever they might make, for that they are traitors, but that he must fain mount upon the white mule, for that she is a beast on god's side, and that joseus should bring the banner and all the hermits go before, that are worshipful men and of good life, so as to dismay the traitor king, and so shall the end and the conquest of the castle be brought nigh. of all this the lion made signs to perceval, for speak he could not. great affiance hath perceval in the lion's warning. he alighteth of his destrier and remounteth on the mule, and joseus holdeth the banner. the company of twelve hermits was there, right seemly and holy. they draw nigh the castle. the knights on the last bridge see perceval coming towards them and joseus the hermit holding the banner, by whom they had seen their other fellows wrestled withal and put to the worse. xxxii. the virtue of our lord and the dignity of the banner and the goodness of the white mule and the holiness of the good hermits that made their orisons to our lord so struck the knights that they lost all power over themselves, but treason might not go forth of their hearts, wherefore right heavy were they of their kinsmen that they had seen slain before them. they bethought them that and if by mercy they might escape thence, they would never end until they had slain perceval. they come to meet him and so cry him mercy passing sweetly in semblance, and say that they will do his will for ever and ever, so only he will let them depart safe and sound. perceval looketh at the lion to know what he shall do; he seeth that the lion thinketh them traitors and disloyal, and that so they were destroyed and dead the king that was in the castle would have lost his force; and that, so perceval will run upon them, the lion will help him slay them. perceval telleth the knights that never will he have mercy upon them, and forthwith runneth upon them, sword drawn, and sorely it misliked him that they defended not themselves, insomuch that he all but left to slay them for that no defence found he in them. but the lion is so far from holding them in the like disdain, that he runneth upon them and biteth and slayeth them, and then casteth forth their limbs and bodies into the water. perceval alloweth that this is well and seemly, and pleaseth him much of that he seeth the lion do, nor never before had he seen any beast that he might love and prize so highly as this one. xxxiii. the king of castle mortal was on the battlements of the wall, and seeth how his knights are dead, and how the lion helpeth to slay the last. he setteth himself on the highest place of the walls, then lifteth the skirt of his habergeon and holdeth his sword all naked, that was right keen and well-tempered, and so smiteth himself right through the body, and falleth all adown the walls into the water, that was swift and deep, in such sort that perceval saw him, and all the good hermits likewise, that marvelled much of a king that should slay himself in such manner; but they say according to the judgment of the scripture, that by right of evil man should the end be evil. on such wise was the end of this king of whom i tell you. josephus relateth us how none ought to marvel that of three brothers, even though they be sons of the same father and mother, one brother should be evil; and the real marvel, saith he, is when one evil corrupteth not the two that are good, for that wickedness is so hard and keen and beguiling, and goodness so kindly and simple and humble. cain and abel were brothers-german, yet cain slew his brother abel, the one flesh betrayed the other. but great sorrow is it, saith josephus, when the flesh that ought to be one becometh twain, and the one flesh goeth about by wickedness to deceive and destroy the other. josephus recordeth us by this evil king that was so traitorous and false and yet was of the lineage of the good soldier joseph of abarimacie. this joseph, as the scripture witnesseth, was his uncle, and this evil king was brother-german of king fisherman, and brother of the good king pelles that had abandoned his land, in order that he might serve god, and brother of the widow lady that was perceval's mother, the most loyal that was ever in great britain. all these lineages were in the service of our lord from the beginning of their lives unto the end, save only this evil king that perished so evilly as you have heard. xxxiv. you have heard how the king that had seized the castle that had been king fisherman's slew himself in such wise, and how his knights were discomfited. perceval entered into the castle and the worshipful hermits together with him. it seemed them when they were come within into the master hall, that they heard chant in an inner chapel 'gloria in excelsis deo', and right sweet praising of our lord. they found the hails right rich and seemly and fairly adorned within. they found the chapel open where the sacred hallows were wont to be. the holy hermits entered therein and made their orisons, and prayed the saviour of the world that he would swiftly restore to them the most holy graal and the sacred hallows that wont to be therewithin whereby they might be comforted. xxxv. the good men were there within with perceval, that much loved their company. josephus witnesseth us that the ancient knights that were of the household of king fisherman, and the priests and damsels, departed so soon as the king that slew himself had seized the castle, for that they would not be at his court, and the lord god preserved them from him and made them go into such a place as that they should be in safety. the saviour of the world well knew that the good knight had won the castle by his valour that should have been his own of right, and sent back thither all them that had served king fisherman. perceval made right great joy of them when he saw them, and they of him. they seemed well to be a folk that had come from some place where god and his commandments were honoured, and so indeed had they. xxxvi. the high history witnesseth us that when the conquest of the castle was over, the saviour of the world was right joyous and well pleased thereof. the graal presented itself again in the chapel, and the lance whereof the point bleedeth, and the sword wherewith st john was beheaded that messire gawain won, and the other holy relics whereof was right great plenty. for our lord god loved the place much. the hermits went back to their hermitages in the forest and served our lord as they had been wont. joseus remained with perceval at the castle as long as it pleased him, but the good knight searched out the land there where the new law had been abandoned and its maintenance neglected. he reft the lives of them that would not maintain it and believe. the country was supported by him and made safe, and the law of our lord exalted by his strength and valour. the priests and knights that repaired to the castle loved perceval much, for, so far from his goodness minishing in ought, they saw from day to day how his valour and his faith in god increased and multiplied. and he showed them the sepulchre of his uncle king fisherman in the chapel before the altar. the coffin was rich and the tabernacle costly and loaded of precious stones. and the priests and knights bear witness that as soon as the body was placed in the coffin and they were departed thence, they found on their return that it was covered by the tabernacle all dight as richly as it is now to be seen, nor might they know who had set it there save only the commandment of our lord. and they say that every night was there a great brightness of light as of candles there, and they knew not whence it should come save of god. perceval had won the castle by the command of god. the graal was restored in the holy chapel, and the other hallows as you have heard. the evil believe was done away from the kingdom, and all were assured again in the new law by the valour of the good knight. branch xix. title i. now is the story silent of perceval and cometh back to king arthur, the very matter thereof, like as testifieth the history, that in no place is corrupted and the latin lie not. king arthur was at cardoil on one day of whitsuntide that was right fair and clear, and many knights were in the hall. the king sate at meat and all the knights about him. the king looketh at the windows of the hall to right and left, and seeth that two sunbeams are shining within that fill the whole hall with light. thereof he marvelleth much and sendeth without the hall to see what it might be. the messenger cometh back again and saith thereof that two suns appear to be shining, the one in the east and the other in the west. he marvelleth much thereat, and prayeth our lord that he may be permitted to know wherefore two suns should appear in such wise. a voice appeared at one of the windows that said to him: "king, marvel not hereof that two suns should appear in the sky, for our lord god hath well the power, and know well that this is for joy of the conquest that the good knight hath made that took away the shield from herewithin. he hath won the land that belonged to good king fisherman from the evil king of castle mortal, that did away thence the good believe, and therefore was it that the graal was hidden. now god so willeth that you go thither, and that you choose out the best knights of your court, for better pilgrimage may you never make, and what time you shall return hither, your faith shall be doubled and the people of great britain shall be better disposed and better taught to maintain the service of the saviour." ii. thereupon the voice departed and well pleased was the king of that it had said. he sitteth at meat beside the queen. straightway behold you, a damsel that cometh of such beauty as never was greater, and clad right richly, and she beareth a coffer richer than ever you saw, for it was all of fine gold and set with precious stones that sparkled like fire. the coffer is not large. the damsel holdeth it between her hands. when she was alighted she cometh before the king and saluteth him the fairest she may and the queen likewise. the king returneth her salute. "sir," saith she, "i am come to your court for that it is the sovran of all other, and so bring i you here this rich vessel that you see as a gift; and it hath within the head of a knight, but none may open the coffer save he alone that slew the knight. wherefore i pray and beseech you, as you are the best king that liveth, that you first set your hand thereon, and in like manner afterwards make proof of your knights, and so the crime and the blood-wite thereof be brought home to you or to any knight that may be within yonder. i pray you that the knight who shall be able to open the coffer wherein the head of the knight lieth, and who therefore is he that slew him, shall have grace of forty days after that you shall be returned from the graal." "damsel," saith the king, "how shall it be known who the knight was?" "sir," saith she, "right eath, for the letters are sealed within that tell his name and the name of him that slew him." the king granteth the damsel her will in such wise as she had asked of him. he hath received the coffer, then maketh her be set at meat and right richly honoured. iii. when the king had eaten, the damsel cometh before him. "sir," saith she, "make your knights be summoned and ready for that which you have granted me, and you yourself first of all." "damsel," saith the king, "right willingly." he setteth his hand to the coffer, thinking to open it, but it was not right that it should open for him. as he set his hand thereon the coffer sweated through just as had it been sprinkled all over and was wet with water. the king marvelled greatly, and so made messire gawain set his hand to it and lancelot and all those of the court, but he that might open it was not among them. messire kay the seneschal had served at meat. he heard say that the king and all the others had essayed and proved the coffer but might not open it. he is come thither, all uncalled for. "now, then, kay," saith the king, "i had forgotten you." "by my head," saith kay, "you ought not to forget me, for as good knight am i and of as much worth as they that you have called before me, and you ought not to have delayed to send for me. you have summoned all the others, and me not a whit, and yet am i as well able, or ought to be, to open the coffer as are they; for against as many knights have i defended me as they, and as many have i slain in defending my body as have they." "kay," saith the king, "shall you be so merry and you may open the coffer, and if you have slain the knight whose head lieth therein? by my head, i that am king would fain that the coffer should not open for me, for never was no knight so poor as that he should have neither kinsman nor friend, for he is not loved of all the world that is hated by one man." "by my head," saith kay, "i would that all the heads of all the knights i have slain, save one only, were in the midst of this hall, and that there were letters sealed with them to say that they were slain by me. then would you believe what you are not willing to believe for the envious ones that think they are better worth than i, and yet have not served you so well." iv. "kay," saith the king, "come forward, there is no need of this." messire kay the seneschal cometh to the dais before the king, whereon was the coffer, and taketh it right boldly and setteth one of his hands below it and the other above. the coffer opened as soon as he clapped hand thereon, and the head within could be seen all openly. a passing delicate-savoured smell and right sweet issued therefrom, so that not a knight in the hall but smelt it. "sir," saith kay to the king, "now may you know that some prowess and some hardiment have i done in your service, nor might none of your knights that you prize so highly open the coffer this day, nor would you have known this day who is therein for them! but now you know it by me, and therefore of so much ought you to be well pleased with me!" v. "sir," saith the damsel that had brought the coffer, "let the letters be read that are within, so shall you know who the knight was and of what lineage, and what was the occasion of his death." the king sitteth beside the queen, and biddeth call one of his own chaplains. then maketh he all the knights in the hall be seated and keep silence, and commandeth the chaplain that he should spell out the letters of gold all openly according as he should find them written. the chaplain looketh at them, and when he had scanned them down, began to sigh. "sir," saith he to the king and queen, "hearken unto me, and all the other, your knights. vi. "these letters say that the knight whose head lieth in this vessel was named lohot and he was son of king arthur and queen guenievre. he had slain on a day that is past, logrin the giant, by his hardiment. messire kay the seneschal was passing by there, and so found lohot sleeping upon logrin, for such was his custom that he went to sleep upon the man after that he had slain him. messire kay smote off lohot's head, and so left the head and the body on the piece of ground. he took the head of the giant and so bore it to the court of king arthur. he gave the king and queen and all the barons of the court to understand that he had slain him, but this did he not; rather, that he did was to slay lohot, according to the writing and the witness of these letters." when the queen heareth these letters and this witting of her son that came thus by his death, she falleth in a swoon on the coffer. after that she taketh the head between her two hands, and knew well that it was he by a scar that he had on his face when he was a child. the king himself maketh dole thereof so sore that none may comfort him, for before these tidings he had thought that his son was still on live and that he was the best knight in the world, and when the news came to his court that the knight of the golden circlet had slain the knight of the dragon, he supposed that it had been lohot his son, for that none had named perceval nor gawain nor lancelot. and all they of the court are right sorrowful for the death of lohot, and messire kay hath departed, and if the damsel had nor respited the day until the fortieth after the king's return, vengeance would have been taken of kay or ever he might have turned him thence. for never did no man see greater dole made in the king's court than they of the table round made for the youth. king arthur and the queen were so stricken of sorrow that none durst call upon them to make cheer. the damsel that brought thither the coffer was well avenged of the shame that messire kay the seneschal had done her on a day that was past, for this thing would not have been known so soon save it had been by her. vii. when the mourning for the king's son was abated, lancelot and many others said unto him, "sir, you know well that god willeth you should go to the castle that was king fisherman's on pilgrimage to the most holy graal, for it is not right to delay a thing that one hath in covenant with god." "lords," saith the king, "right willingly will i go, and thereto am i right well disposed." the king apparelleth himself for the pilgrimage, and saith that messire gawain and lancelot shall go with him, without more knights, and taketh a squire to wait upon his body, and the queen herself would he have taken thither but for the mourning she made for her son, whereof none might give her any comfort. but or ever the king departed he made the head be brought into the isle of avalon, to a chapel of our lady that was there, where was a worshipful holy hermit that was well loved of our lord. the king departed from cardoil and took leave of the queen and all the knights. lancelot and messire gawain go along with him and a squire that carrieth their arms. kay the seneschal was departed from the court for dread of the king and his knights. he durst not abide in the greater britain, and so betook himself into the lesser. briant of the isles was of great power in those times, a knight of great strength and hardiment, for all great britain had had many disputes between him and king arthur. his land was full strong of castles and forests and right fruitful, and many good knights had he in his land. when he knew that kay the seneschal had departed in such sort from the court, and that he had crossed the sea, he sent for him and held him of his household, and said that he would hold him harmless against the king and against all men. when he knew that the king had departed he began to war upon the land and to slay his men and to challenge his castles. branch xx. title i. the story saith that king arthur goeth his way and lancelot and messire gawain with him, and they had ridden so far one day that night came on in a forest and they might find no hold. messire gawain marvelled him much that they had ridden the day long without finding neither hold nor hermitage. night was come and the sky was dark and the forest full of gloom. they knew not whitherward to turn to pass the night. "lords," saith the king, "where may we be able to alight to-night?" "sir, we know not, for this forest is fight wearisome." they make the squire climb up a tall tree and tell him to look as far as he may to try whether he may espy any hold or house where they may lodge. the squire looketh on all sides, and then telleth them he seeth a fire a long way off as if it were in a waste house, but that he seeth nought there save the fire and the house. "take good heed," saith lancelot, "in which quarter it is, so that you may know well how to lead us thither." he saith that right eath may he lead them. ii. with that he cometh down and mounteth again on his hackney, and they go forward a great pace and ride until they espy the fire and the hold. they pass on over a bridge of wattles, and find the courtyard all deserted and the house from within great and high and hideous. but there was a great fire within whereof the heat might be felt from afar. they alight of their horses, and the squire draweth them on one side amidst the hall, and the knights set them beside the fire all armed. the squire seeth a chamber in the house and entereth thereinto to see if he may find any meat for the horses, but he cometh forth again the swiftest he may and crieth right sweetly on the mother of the saviour. they ask him what aileth him, and he saith that he hath found the most treacherous chamber ever he found yet, for he felt there, what with heads and what with hands, more than two hundred men dead, and saith that never yet felt he so sore afeared. lancelot went into the chamber to see whether he spake true, and felt the men that lay dead, and groped among them from head to head and felt that there was a great heap of them there, and came back and sate at the fire all laughing. the king asketh whether the squire had told truth. lancelot answereth him yea, and that never yet had he found so many dead men together. "methinketh," saith messire gawain, "sith that they are dead we have nought to fear of them, but god protect us from the living." iii. while they were talking thus, behold you a damsel that cometh into the dwelling on foot and all alone, and she cometh lamenting right grievously. "ha, god!" saith she, "how long a penance is this for me, and when will it come to an end?" she seeth the knights sitting in the midst of the house. "fair lord god," saith she, "is he there within through whom i am to escape from this great dolour?" the knights hearken to her with great wonderment. they look and see her enter within the door, and her kirtle was all torn with thorns and briars in the forest. her feet were all bleeding for that she was unshod. she had a face of exceeding great beauty. she carried the half of a dead man, and cast it into the chamber with the others. she knew lancelot again so soon as she saw him. "ha, god!" saith she, "i am quit of my penance! sir," saith she, "welcome may you be, you and your company!" lancelot looketh at her in wonderment. "damsel," saith he, "are you a thing on god's behalf?" "certes, sir," saith she, "yea! nor be you adread of nought! i am the damsel of the castle of beards, that was wont to deal with knights so passing foully as you have seen. you did away the toll that was levied on the knights that passed by, and you lay in the castle that demanded it of them that passed through the demesne thereof. but you had me in covenant that so the holy graal should appear unto you, you would come back to me, for otherwise never should i have been willing to let you go. you returned not, for that you saw not the graal. for the shame that i did to knights was this penance laid upon me in this forest and this manor, to last until such time as you should come. for the cruelty i did them was sore grievous, for never was knight brought to me but i made his nose be cut off or his eyes thrust out, and some were there as you saw that had their feet or their hands stricken off. now have i paid full dear thereof since, for needs must i carry into this chamber all the knights that are slain in this forest, and within this manor must i cast them according to the custom thereof, alone, without company; and this knight that i carried in but now hath lain so long in the forest that wild beasts have eaten half of his body. now am i quit of this foul penance, thanks to god and to you, save only that i must go back when it shall be daylight in like manner as i came here." "damsel," saith lancelot, "right glad am i that we should have come to lodge the night here within, for love of you, for i never saw i damsel that might do so cruel penance." "sir," saith she, "you know not yet what it is, but you will know it ere long this night, both you and your fellows, and the lord god shield you from death and from mischief! every night cometh a rout of knights that are black and foul and hideous, albeit none knoweth whence they come, and they do battle right sore the one against other, and the stour endureth of a right long while; but one knight that came within yonder by chance, the first night i came hither, in like manner as you have come, made a circle round me with his sword, and i sate within it as soon as i saw them coming, and so had i no dread of them, for i had in remembrance the saviour of the world and his passing sweet mother. and you will do the same, and you believe me herein, for these are knights fiends." lancelot draweth his sword and maketh a great circle round the house-place, and they were within. v. thereupon, behold you the knights that come through the forest with such a rushing as it seemed they would rend it all up by the roots. afterward, they enter into the manor and snatch great blazing firebrands and fling them one at another. they enter into the house battling together, and are keen to fall upon the knights, but they may not. they hurl the firebrands at them from afar, but they are holding their shields and their swords naked. lancelot maketh semblant as though he would leap towards them, and sore great cowardize it seemeth him nor to go against them. "sir," saith the damsel, "take heed that you go not forth of the circle, for you will be in sore jeopardy of death, for well you see what evil folk be these." lancelot was nor minded to hold himself back, but that he would go toward them sword drawn, and they run upon him on all sides, but he defendeth him stoutly and smiteth the burning firebrands so that he maketh red-hot charcoal fly, and thrusteth his sword amidst their faces. king arthur and messire gawain leap up to help lancelot and smite upon these evil folk and cut them limb from limb, and they bellow like fiends so that the whole forest resoundeth thereof. and when they fell to the ground, they may no longer endure, but become fiends and ashes, and their bodies and their horses become devils all black in the shape of ravens that come forth of their bodies. they marvel right sore what this may be, and say that such hostel is right grievous. vi. when they had put them all to the worse, they sate them down again and rested; but scarce were they seated or ever another rout of yet blacker folk came about them, and they bare spears burning and flaming, and many of them carried dead knights that they had slain in the forest, and dropped them in the midst of the house, and then bid the damsel carry and set them with the others. howbeit, she answereth that she is quit of their commandment and service, nor no longer is forced to do nought for them sith that she hath done her penance. they thrust forward their spears toward the king and the two knights, as though they were come to avenge their companions; but they all three leapt up together and attacked them right stoutly. but this rout was greater and of knights more hideous. they began to press the king and his knights hard, and they might not put them to the worse as they did the others. and while they were thus in the thickest of the conflict, they heard the stroke of a bell sounding, and forthwith the knight fiends departed and hurried away a great pace. "lords," saith the damsel, "had this sound not been heard, scarce might you have endured, for yet another huge rout of this folk was coming in such sort as that none might have withstood them, and this sound have i heard every night, whereby my life hath been saved." vii. josephus telleth us that as at this time was there no bell neither in greater britain nor in lesser; but folk were called together by a horn, and in many places there were sheets of steel, and in other places clappers of wood. king arthur marvelled him much of this sound, so clear and sweet was it, and it well seemed him that it came on god's behalf, and right fain was he to see a bell and so he might. they were the night until the morrow in the house, as i tell you. the damsel took leave of them and so departed. as they came forth of the hold, they met three hermits that told them they were going to search for the bodies that were in this manor so that they might bury them in a waste chapel that was hard by, for such knights had lain there as that henceforward the haunting of the evil folk would be stayed in such sort as that they would have no more power to do hurt to any, wherefore they would set therewithin a worshipful hermit that should build up the place in holiness for the service of god. the king was right joyful thereof, and told them that it had been too perilous. they parted from the hermits and entered into a forest, nor was there never a day so long as king arthur was on pilgrimage, so saith the history, but he heard the sound of one single bell every hour, whereof he was right glad. he bade messire gawain and lancelot that they should everywhere conceal his name, and that they should call him not lord but comrade. they yielded him his will, and prayed to our lord that he would guide and lead them to such a castle and such a hostel as that they might be lodged honourably therein. they rode on until evening drew nigh, and they found a right fair hold in the forest, whereinto they entered and alighted. the damsel of the hold came to meet them and made them right great cheer, then made them be disarmed, afterward bringeth them right rich robes to wear. she looketh at lancelot and knoweth him again. viii. "sir," saith she, "you had once, on a day that is past, right great pity of me, and saved me my honour, whereof am i in great unhappiness. but better love i to suffer misease in honour, than to have plenty and abundance in shame or reproach, for shame endureth, but sorrow is soon overpassed." thereupon behold you the knight of the hold, whither he cometh from shooting in the forest and maketh carry in full great plenty venison of deer and wild boar. he alighted to greet the knights, and began to laugh when he saw lancelot. "by my head," saith he, "i know you well for you disappointed me of the thing i best loved in the world, and made me marry this damsel that never yet had joy of me, nor never shall have." "faith, sir," saith lancelot, "you will do your pleasure therein, for she is yours. truth it is that i made you marry her, for you were fain to do her a disgrace and a shame in such sort that her kinsfolk would have had shame of her." "by my head," saith the knight, "the damsel that i loved before loveth you no better hereof, nay, rather, fain would she procure your vexation and your hurt and your shame if she may, and great power hath she in this forest." "sir," saith lancelot, "i have sithence spoken to her and she to me, and so hath she told me her will and her wish." thereupon the knight bade the knights take water, and the lady taketh the basins and presenteth water to the knights. "avoid, damsel," saith the king, "take it away! never, please god, shall it befall that we should accept such service from you." "by my head," saith the knight, "but so must you needs do, for other than she shall not serve you to-night in this matter, or otherwise shall you not eat with me this night there within." ix. lancelot understandeth that the knight is not overburdened of courtesy, and he seeth the table garnished of good meat, and bethinketh him he will not do well to lose such ease, for misease enough had they the night before. he maketh the king take water of the lady, and the same service did she for all of them. the knight biddeth them be seated. the king would have made the lady sit beside him at the table, but the knight said that there she should not sit. she goeth to sit among the squires as she was wont to do. the knights are sorry enough thereof, but they durst not gainsay the will of her lord. when they had eaten, the knight said to lancelot, "now may you see what she hath gained of me by your making me take her perforce, nor never, so help me god, so long as i live shall she be honoured otherwise by me, for so have i promised her that i love far more." "sir," saith lancelot, "to my thinking you do ill herein and a sin, and meseemeth you should have great blame thereof of them that know it, and may your churlishness be your own, for nought thereof take i to myself." x. lancelot telleth the king and messire gawain that were he not lodged in his hostel, and had him outside of the hold, he would willingly have set the blood of his body on it but he would have handled him in such sort as that the lady should be maintained in greater honour, either by force or by prayer, in like manner as he did when he made him marry her. they were right well lodged the night and lay in the hold until the morrow, when they departed thence, and rode right busily on their journeys until they came into a very different land, scarce inhabited of any folk, and found a little castle in a combe. they came thitherward and saw that the enclosure of the castle was fallen down into an abysm, so that none might approach it on that side, but it had a right fair gateway and a door tall and wide whereby one entered. they beheld a chapel that was right fair and rich, and below was a great ancient hall. they saw a priest appear in the midst of the castle, bald and old, that had come forth of the chapel. they are come thither and alighted, and asked the priest what the castle was, and he told them that it was the great tintagel. "and how is this ground all caved in about the castle?" "sir," saith the priest, "i will tell you. sir," saith he, "king uther pendragon, that was father of king arthur, held a great court and summoned all his barons. the king of this castle that then was here was named gorlois. he went to the court and took his wife with him, that was named ygerne, and she was the fairest dame in any kingdom. king uther sought acquaintance of her for her great beauty, and regarded her and honoured her more than all the others of his court. king gorlois departed thence and made the queen come back to this castle for the dread that he had of king uther pendragon. king uther was very wroth with him, and commanded him to send back the queen his wife. king godois said that he would not. thereupon king uther pendragon defied him, and then laid siege about this castle where the queen was. king gorlois was gone to seek for succour. king uther pendragon had merlin with him of whom you have heard tell, that was so crafty. he made him be changed into the semblance of king gorlois, so that he entered there within by merlin's art and lay that night with the queen, and so begat king arthur in a great hall that was next to the enclosure there where this abysm is. and for this sin hath the ground sunken in on this wise." he cometh with them toward the chapel that was right fair, and had a right rich sepulchre therein. "lords, in this sepulchre was placed the body of merlin, but never mought it be set inside the chapel, wherefore perforce it remained outside. and know of a very truth that the body lieth not within the sepulchre, for, so soon as it was set therein, it was taken out and snatched away, either on god's behalf or the enemy's, but which we know not." xi. "sir," saith king arthur, "and what became of king gorlois?" "sir." saith he, "the king slew him on the morrow of the night he lay with his wife, and so forthwith espoused queen ygerne, and in such manner as i tell you was king arthur conceived in sin that is now the best king in the world." king arthur hath heard this as concerning his birth that he knew not, and is a little shamed thereof and confounded on account of messire gawain and lancelot. he himself marvelleth much thereof, and much it misliketh him that the priest hath said so much. they lay the night in the hold, and so departed thence on the morrow when they had heard mass. lancelot and messire gawain, that thought they knew the forest, found the land so changed and different that they knew not whither they were become, and such an one as should come into the land that had been king fisherman's, and he should come again another time within forty days, should not find the castle within a year. xii. josephus telleth us that the semblances of the islands changed themselves by reason of the divers adventures that by the pleasure of god befell therein, and that the quest of adventures would not have pleased the knights so well and they had not found them so different. for, when they had entered into a forest or an island where they had found any adventure, and they came there another time, they found holds and castles and adventures of another kind, so that their toils and travails might not weary them, and also for that god would that the land should be conformed to the new law. and they were the knights that had more toil and travail in seeking adventures than all the knights of the world before them, and in holding to that whereof they had made covenant; nor of no court of no king in the world went forth so many good knights as went forth from the court of king arthur, and but that god loved them so much, never might they have endured such toil and travail as they did from day to day; for without fait, good knights were they, and good knights not only to deal hard buffets, but rather in that they were loyal and true, and had faith in the saviour of the world and his sweet mother, and therefore dreaded shame and loved honour. king arthur goeth on his way and messire gawain and lancelot with him, and they pass through many strange countries, and so enter into a great forest. lancelot called to remembrance the knight that he had slain in the waste city whither behoved him to go, and knew well that the day whereon he should come was drawing nigh. he told king arthur as much, and then said, that and he should go not, he would belie his covenant. they rode until they came to a cross where the ways forked. "sir," saith lancelot, "behoveth me go to acquit me of my pledge, and i go in great adventure and peril of death, nor know i whether i may live at all thereafter, for i slew the knight, albeit i was right sorry thereof, but or ever i slew him, i had to swear that i would go set my head in the like jeopardy as he had set his. now the day draweth nigh that i must go thither, for i am unwilling to fail of my covenant, whereof i should be blamed, and, so god grant me to escape therefrom, i will follow you speedily." the king embraceth him and kisseth him at parting and messire gawain also, and they pray god preserve his body and his life, and that they may see him again ere it be long. lancelot would willingly have sent salute to the queen had he durst, for she lay nearer his heart than aught beside, but he would not that the king nor messire gawain should misdeem of the love they might carry to their kinswoman. the love is so rooted in his heart that he may not leave it, into what peril soever he may go; rather, he prayeth god every day as sweetly as he may, that he save the queen, and that he may deliver his body from this jeopardy. he hath ridden until that he cometh at the hour of noon into the waste city, and findeth the city empty as it was the first time he was there. xiii. in the city wherein lancelot had arrived were many waste houses and rich palaces fallen down. he had scarce entered within the city when he heard a great cry and lamentation of dames and damsels, but he knew not on which side it was, and they say: "ha, god, how hath the knight betrayed us that slew the knight, inasmuch as he returneth not! this day is the day come that he ought to redeem his pledge! never again ought any to put trust in knight, for that he cometh not! the others that came hither before him have failed us, and so will he also for dread of death; for he smote off the head of the comeliest knight that was in this kingdom and the best, wherefore ought he also to have his own smitten off, but good heed taketh he to save it if he may!" thus spake the damsels. lancelot much marvelled where they might be, for nought could he espy of them, albeit he cometh before the palace, there where he slew the knight. he alighteth, then maketh fast his horse's reins to a ring that was fixed in the mounting-stage of marble. scarce hath he done so, when a knight alighteth, tall and comely and strong and deliver, and he was clad in a short close-fitted jerkin of silk, and held the axe in his hand wherewith lancelot had smitten off the head of the other knight, and he came sharpening it on a whetstone to cut the better. lancelot asketh him, "what will you do with this axe?" "by my head," saith the knight, "that shall you know in such sort as my brother knew when you cut off his head, so i may speed of my business." "how?" saith lancelot, "will you slay me then?" "that shall you know," saith he, "or ever you depart hence. have you not loyally promised hereof that you would set your head in the same jeopardy as the knight set his, whom you slew without defence? and no otherwise may you depart therefrom. wherefore now come forward without delay and kneel down and stretch your neck even as my brother did, and so will i smite off your head, and, if you do nor this of your own good will, you shall soon find one that shall make you do it perforce, were you twenty knights as good as you are one. but well i know that you have not come hither for this, but only to fulfil your pledge, and that you will raise no contention herein." lancelot thinketh to die, and is minded to abide by that he hath in covenant without fail, wherefore he lieth down on the ground as it were on a cross, and crieth mercy of god. he mindeth him of the queen, and crieth god of mercy and saith, "ha, lady" saith he, "never shall i see you more! but, might i have seen you yet once again before i die, exceeding great comfort had it been to me, and my soul would have departed from me more at ease. but this, that never shall i see you more, as now it seemeth me, troubleth me more than the death whereby behoveth me to die, for die one must when one hath lived long enough. but faithfully do i promise you that my love shall fail you not yet, and never shall it be but that my soul shall love you in the other world like as my body hath loved you in this, if thus the soul may love!" with that the tears fell from his eyes, nor, never sithence that he was knight, saith the story, had he wept for nought that had befallen him nor for heaviness of heart, but this time and one other. he taketh three blades of grass and so eateth thereof in token of the holy communion, then signeth him of the cross and blesseth him, riseth up, setteth himself on his knees and stretcheth forth his neck. the knight lifteth up the axe. lancelot heareth the blow coming, boweth his head and the axe misseth him. he saith to him, "sir knight, so did not my brother that you slew; rather, he held his head and neck quite still, and so behoveth you to do!" two damsels appeared at the palace-windows of passing great beauty, and they knew lancelot well. so, as the knight was aiming a second blow, one of the damsels crieth to him, "and you would have my love for evermore, throw down the axe and cry the knight quit! otherwise have you lost me for ever!" the knight forthwith flingeth down the axe and falleth at lancelot's feet and crieth mercy of him as of the most loyal knight in the world. "but you? have mercy on me, you! and slay me not!" saith lancelot, "for it is of you that i ought to pray mercy!" "sir," saith the knight, "of a surety will i not do this! rather will i help you to my power to save your life against all men, for all you have slain my brother." the damsels come down from the palace and are come to lancelot. xiv. "sir," say they to lancelot, "greatly ought we to love you, yea, better than all knights in the world beside. for we are the two damsels, sisters, that you saw so poor at the waste castle where you lay in our brother's house. you and messire gawain and another knight gave us the treasure and the hold of the robber-knights that you slew; for this city which is waste and the waste castle of my brother would never again be peopled of folk, nor should we never have had the land again, save a knight had come hither as loyal as are you. full a score knights have arrived here by chance in the same manner as you came, and not one of them but hath slain a brother or a kinsman and cut off his head as you did to the knight, and each one promised to return at the day appointed; but all failed of their covenant, for not one of them durst come to the day; and so you had failed us in like manner as the others, we should have lost this city without recovery and the castles that are its appanages." xv. so the knight and the damsels lead lancelot into the palace and then make him be disarmed. they hear presently how the greatest joy in the world is being made in many parts of the forest, that was nigh the city. "sir," say the damsels, "now may you hear the joy that is made of your coming. these are the burgesses and dwellers in the city that already know the tidings." lancelot leaneth at the windows of the hall, and seeth the city peopled of the fairest folk in the world, and great thronging in the broad streets and the great palace, and clerks and priests coming in long procession praising god and blessing him for that they may now return to their church, and giving benison to the knight through whom they are free to repair thither. lancelot was much honoured throughout the city. the two damsels are at great pains to wait upon him, and right great worship had he of all them that were therewithin and them that came thither, both clerks and priests. branch xxi. title i. therewithal the history is silent of lancelot, and speaketh word of the king and messire gawain, that are in sore misgiving as concerning him, for right gladly would they have heard tidings of him. they met a knight that was coming all armed, and messire gawain asketh him whence he came, and he said that he came from the land of the queen of the golden circlet, to whom a sore loss hath befallen; for the son of the widow lady had won the circlet of gold for that he had slain the knight of the dragon, and she was to keep it safe for him and deliver it up to him at his will. "but now hath nabigant of the rock reft her thereof, and a right outrageous knight is he and puissant; wherefore hath he commanded a damsel that she bring it to an assembly of knights that is to be held in the meadow of the tent of the two damsels, there where messire gawain did away the evil custom. the damsel that will bring the golden circlet will give it to the knight that shall do best at the assembly. nabigant is keenly set upon having it, and maketh the more sure for that once aforetime he hath had it by force of arms. and i am going to the knights that know not these tidings, in order that when they shall hear them, they shall go to the assembly." therewithal the knight departeth. the king and messire gawain have ridden so far that they come to the tent where messire gawain destroyed the evil custom by slaying the two knights. he found the tent garnished within and without in like manner as it was when he was there, and messire gawain made the king be seated on a quilted mattress of straw, right costly, and thereafter be disarmed of a squire, and he himself disarmed him, and they washed their hands and faces for the rust wherewith both of them were besmuttered. and messire gawain found the chests unlocked that were at the head of the couch, and made the king be apparelled of white rich stuffs that he found, and a robe of cloth of silk and gold, and he clad himself in the like manner, neither was the chest not a whit disfurnished thereby, for the tent was all garnished of rich adornments. when they were thus dight, a man might have sought far or ever he should find so comely knights. ii. thereupon, behold you the two damsels of the tent coming. "damsels," saith messire gawain, "welcome may you be." "sir," say they, "good adventure may you have both twain. it seemeth us that you take right boldly that which is ours, yet never for neither of us would you do a thing whereof you were beseeched." "messire gawain" saith the elder, "no knight is there in this kingdom but would be right joyous and he supposed that i loved him, and i prayed you of your love on a day that is past, for the valour of your knighthood, yet never did you grant it me. how durst you have affiance in me of aught, and take the things that are mine own so boldly, when i may not have affiance in you?" "damsel, for your courtesy and the good custom of the land; for you told me when the evil customs were overthrown, that all the honours and all the courtesies that are due to knights should ever be ready within for all them that should come hither for harbour." "messire gawain, you say true, but of right might one let the courtesy tarry and pay back churlishness by churlishness." iii. "the assembly of knights will begin to-morrow in this launde that is so fair. there will be knights in plenty, and the prize will be the circlet of gold. now shall we see who will do best. the assembly will last three whole days, and of one thing at least you may well make boast between you and your comrade, that you have the fairest hostel and the most pleasant and the most quiet of any knights at the assembly." the younger damsel looketh at king arthur. "and you," saith she, "what will you do? will you be as strange toward us as messire gawain is friendly with others?" iv. "damsel," saith the king, "messire gawain will do his pleasure and i mine. strange shall i not be in respect of you, nor toward other damsels; rather shall they be honoured on my part so long as i live, and i myself will be at your commandment." "sir," saith she, "gramercy greatly. i pray you, therefore, that you be my knight at the tournament." "damsel, this ought i not to refuse you, and right glad at heart shall i be and i may do aught that shall please you; for all knights ought to be at pains for the sake of dame or damsel." "sir," saith she, "what is your name?" v. "damsel," saith he, "my name is arthur, and i am of tincardoil." "have you nought to do with king arthur?" "damsel, already have i been many times at his court, and, if he loved me not nor i him, i should not be in messire gawain's company. in truth, he is the king in the world that i love best." the damsel looketh at king arthur, but wotteth not a whir that it is he, and full well is she pleased with the seeming and countenance of him. as for the king, lightly might he have trusted that he should have her as his lady-love so long as he remained with her; but there is much to say betwixt his semblant and his thought, for he showeth good semblant toward the damsel, that hath over much affiance therein, but his thought is on queen guenievre in what place soever he may be. for nought loveth he so well as her. vi. the damsels made stable the horses and purvey for the bodies of the knights right richly at night, and they lay in two right rich beds in the midst of the hall, and their arms were all set ready before. the damsels would not depart until such time as they were asleep. the harness of the knights that came to the assembly came on the morrow from all parts. they set up their booths and stretched their tents all round about the launde of the forest. king arthur and messire gawain were risen in the morning and saw the knights come from all parts. the elder damsel cometh to messire gawain and saith unto him, "sir," saith she, "i will that you bear to-day red arms that i will lend you, for the love of me, and take heed that they be well employed, and i desire that you should not be known by your arms; rather let it be said that you are the red knight, and you shall allow it accordingly." "damsel, gramercy greatly!" saith messire gawain, "i will do my endeavour in arms the best i may for love of you." the younger damsel cometh to king arthur; "sir," saith she, "my sister hath made her gift and i will make mine. i have a suit of arms of gold, the richest that knight may wear, that i will lend you, for methinketh they will be better employed on you than on ever another knight; so i pray you that you remember me at the assembly in like manner as i shall ofttimes remember you." vii. "damsel," saith the king, "gramercy! no knight is there that should see you but ought to have you in remembrance in his heart for your courtesy and your worth." the knights were come about the tents. the king and messire gawain were armed and had made caparison their horses right richly. the damsel that should give the golden circlet was come. nabigant of the rock had brought great fellowships of knights together with him, and ordinance was made for the assembly. viii. the younger damsel saith to king arthur: "well may you know that no knight that is here this day hath better arms than are yours, wherefore take heed that you show you to be good knight for love of me." "damsel," saith king arthur, "god grant that i be so." so they laid hold on their reins and mounted their horses, that made great leaping and went away a great gallop. saith the younger damsel to her sister: "what think you of my knight, doth he not please you?" "yea," saith the elder, "but sore misliketh me of messire gawain for that he is not minded to do as i would have him. but he shall yet aby it dear." king arthur and messire gawain strike into the midst of the assembly like as it were two lions unchained, and at their first coming they smite down two knights to the ground under the feet of their horses. messire gawain taketh the two horses and sendeth them by a squire to the damsels of the tent, that made much joy thereof. after that were they not minded to take more booty as of horses or arms, but searched the fellowships on one side and the other; nor was there no knight that came against them but they pierced his shield or bore him to the ground, insomuch as none was there that might endure their buffets. nabigant espieth messire gawain and cometh toward him, and messire gawain toward him again, and they hurtle together either on other so strongly that messire gawain beareth nabigant to the ground, him and his horse together all in a heap. and king arthur was not idle, for no knight durst come against him but he overthrew him, so as that all withdrew them back and avoided his buffets. and many knights did well that day at the assembly, but none might be the match of either of them twain in deeds of arms, for, save it were lancelot or perceval, were no knights on live that had in them so much hardiment and valour. after that it was evensong the knights drew them back to their tents, and they say all that the knight of the golden arms and the knight of the red arms had done better than they all at the assembly. king arthur and messire gawain come back to the tent of the damsels, that make disarm them and do upon them the rich robes and make great joy of them. thereupon, behold you, a dwarf that cometh: "damsels, make great joy! for all they of the assembly say with one accord that your knights have done best this day." king arthur and messire gawain sate to eat, and right well were they served of every kind of meats and of great cups of wine and sops in wine. king arthur made the younger damsel sit beside him, and messire gawain the elder in like manner, and when they had eaten they went to lie down and fell on sleep, for right sore weary were they and forespent of the many buffets they had given and received, and they slept until the morrow. ix. when the day appeared they rose up. thereupon, behold you the younger damsel where she cometh and saluteth king arthur. "and you, damsel!" saith king arthur, "god give you joy and good adventure!" "sir," saith she, "i will that you bear to-day these white arms that you see here, and that you do no worse to-day than yesterday you did, sith that better you may not do." "messire gawain," saith the elder damsel, "remember you of the king there where his land was compassed about of a wall of stone, and you harboured one night in his castle, what time you went to seek for the sword wherewith john baptist was beheaded, when he was fain to take away the sword from you, whereof you had so sore misliking? natheless, he yielded you up the sword upon covenant that you should do that which a damsel should first ask you to do thereafter, and you promised him loyally that so would you do?" "certes, damsel," saith messire gawain, "well do i remember the same." "now, therefore," saith the damsel, "would i fain prove whether you be indeed so loyal as men say, and whether you will hold your covenant that you made. wherefore i pray and beseech you that this day you shall be he that doth worst of all the knights at the assembly, and that you bear none other arms save your own only, so as that you shall be known again of all them that are there present. and, so you will not do this, then will you have failed of your covenant, and myself will go tell the king that you have broken the promise that you made to him right loyally." "damsel," saith messire gawain, "never yet brake i covenant with none, so it were such as i might fulfil or another on my behalf." king arthur made arm him of the white arms that the younger damsel had given him, and messire gawain of his own, but sore it irked him of this that the damsel hath laid upon him to do, sith that needs must he lose worship and he hold to his covenant, albeit not for nought that is in the world will he fail of the promise he hath made. so they come into the assembly. x. king arthur smiteth with his spurs like a good knight and overthroweth two knights in his onset, and messire gawain rideth a bandon betwixt two fellowships to be the better known. the most part say, "see! there is messire gawain, the good knight that is king arthur's nephew." nabigant of the rock cometh toward him as fast as his horse may carry him, lance in rest. messire gawain seeth him coming toward him right furiously. he casteth his shield down on the ground and betaketh him to flight as swiftly as he may. they that beheld him, some two score or more, marvel thereof, and say, "did ever one see the like overpassing cowardize!" nabigant saith that he never yet followed a knight that was vanquished, nor never will follow one of such conditions, for no great prize would it be to take him and win his horse. other knights come to joust with him, but messire gawain fleeth and avoideth them the best he may, and maketh semblance that none is there he durst abide. he draweth toward king arthur for safety. the king hath great shame of this that he seeth him do, and right sore pains hath he of defending messire gawain, for he holdeth as close to him as the pie doth to the bramble when the falcon would take her. in such shame and dishonour was messire gawain as long as the assembly lasted, and the knights said that he had gotten him off with much less than he deserved, for that never had they seen so craven knight at assembly or tournament as was he, nor never henceforth would they have dread of him as they had heretofore. from this day forward may many lightly avenge themselves upon him of their kinsfolk and friends that he hath slain by the forest. the assembly brake up in the evening, whereof the king and messire gawain were right well pleased. the knights disarm them at their hostels and the king and messire gawain at the damsels' tent. xi. with that, behold you the dwarf that cometh. "by my head, damsels, your knights go from bad to worse! of him in the white arms one may even let pass, but messire gawain is the most coward ever saw i yet, and so he were to run upon me to-morrow and i were armed like as is he, i should think me right well able to defend me against him. 'tis the devil took him to a place where is such plenty of knights, for the more folk that are there the better may one judge of his ill conditions. and you, sir," saith he to the king, "wherefore do you keep him company? you would have done best to-day had he not been there. he skulked as close by you, to be out of the buffets, as a hare doth to the wood for the hounds. no business hath good knight to hold company with a coward. i say not this for that i would make him out worse that he is, for i remember the two knights he slew before this tent." the damsel heareth the dwarf talking and smileth thereat, for she understandeth that blame enough hath messire gawain had at the assembly. the knights said at their hostels that they knew not to whom to give the circlet of gold, sith that the knight of the golden armour and he of the red armour were not there; for they did the best the first day of the assembly, and much they marvelled that they should not come when it was continued on the morrow. "gawain," saith the king, "sore blame have you had this day, and i myself have been all shamed for your sake. never thought i that so good a knight as you might ever have known how to counterfeit a bad knight as you did. you have done much for the love of the damsel, and right well had she avenged herself of you and you had done her great annoy. howbeit, and to-morrow your cowardize be such as it hath been to-day, never will the day be when you shall not have blame thereof." xii. "by my faith." saith messire gawain, "behoveth me do the damsel's pleasure sith that we have fallen by ill-chance into her power." they went to bed at night and took their rest as soon as they had eaten, and on the morrow the damsel came to messire gawain. "i will," saith she, "that you be clad in the same arms as was your comrade on the first day, right rich, that i will lend you, and i will, moreover, that you be knight so good as that never on any day were you better. but i command you, by the faith you pledged me the other day, to obey this caution, that you make yourself known to none, and so any man in the world shall ask your name, you shall say that you are the knight of the golden arms." "damsel," saith gawain, "gramercy, i will do your pleasure." the younger damsel cometh back to the king: "sir," saith she, "i will that you wear new arms: you shall bear them red, the same as messire gawain bore the first day, and i pray you be such as you were the first day, or better." xiii. "damsel, i will do my best to amend myself and my doings, and right well pleased am i of that it pleaseth you to say." their horses were caparisoned and the knights mounted, all armed. they come together to the tournament with such an onset as that they pass through the thickest of the press and overthrew knights and horses as many as they encountered. king arthur espieth nabigant that came right gaily caparisoned, and smiteth him so passing strong a buffet in the midst of his breast that he beareth him down from his horse, in such sort that he breaketh his collar-bone, and presenteth the destrier, by his squire, to the younger damsel, that maketh great joy thereof. and messire gawain searcheth the fellowships on all sides, and so well did he search that scarce was one might endure his blows. king arthur is not idle, but pierceth shields and beateth in helms, the while all look on in wonderment at him and messire gawain. the story saith that the king would have done still better, but that he put not forth his full strength in deeds of arms, for that messire gawain had done so ill the day before, and now he would fain that he should have the prize. xiv. the damsel that held the golden circlet was in the midst of the assembly of knights, and had set it in a right rich casket of ivory with precious stones, right worshipfully. when the damsel saw that the assembly was at an end, she made all the knights stay, and prayed them they should speak judgment true, concealing nought, who had best deserved of arms, and ought therefore of right to have the golden circle. they said all, that of right judgment the knight of the golden arms and he of the red arms ought to have the prize above all the others, but that of these two, he of the golden arms ought to have the prize, for so well did he the first day as that no knight might do better, and on the last day likewise, and that if he of the red arms had put forth his full strength on the last day, he would have done full as well or better. the circlet of gold was brought to messire gawain, but it was not known that it was he; and messire gawain would fain that it had been given to my lord king arthur. the knights departed from the assembly. the king and messire gawain came back to the tent and brought the golden circlet, whereof the damsels made great joy. thereupon, behold you! the dwarf that cometh back. "damsels, better is it to lodge knights such as these than messire gawain the coward, the craven that had so much shame at the assembly! you yourselves would have been sore blamed had you lodged him. this knight hath won the golden circlet by force of arms, and messire gawain nought but shame and reproach." the damsel laugheth at this that the dwarf saith, and biddeth him on his eyes and head, begone! xv. the king and messire gawain were disarmed. "sir," saith the damsel, "what will you do with the golden circlet?" "damsel," saith messire gawain, "i will bear it to him that first won it in sore peril of death, and delivered it to the queen that ought to have kept it safe, of whom it hath been reft by force." the king and messire gawain lay the night in the tent. the younger damsel cometh to the king. "sir, many feats of arms have you done at the assembly, as i have been told, for love of me, and i am ready to reward you." "damsel, right great thanks. your reward and your service love i much, and your honour yet more, wherefore i would that you should have all the honour that any damsel may have, for in damsel without honour ought none to put his affiance. our lord god grant you to preserve yours." "damsel," saith she to the other that sitteth before messire gawain, "this knight and messire gawain have taken counsel together. there is neither solace nor comfort in them. let us leave them to go to sleep, and ill rest may they have, and lord god defend us ever hereafter from such guests." "by my head," saith the eider damsel, "were it not for the golden circlet that he is bound of right to deliver again to the queen that had it in charge, who is my lady, they should not depart from this land in such sort as they will. but, and messire gawain still be nice as concerneth damsels, at least i now know well that he is loyal in anotherwise, so as that he will not fail of his word." xvi. with that the damsels departed, as did likewise the king and messire gawain as soon as they saw the day. nabigant, that was wounded at the tournament, was borne away on a litter. meliot of logres was in quest of messire gawain. he met the knights and the harness that came from the assembly, and asked of many if they could tell him tidings of king arthur's nephew, messire gawain, and the most part answer, "yea, and right bad tidings enough." then they ask him wherefore he demandeth. "lords," saith he, "his liege man am i, and he ought of right to defend my land against all men, that nabigant hath taken from me without right nor reason, whom they are carrying from thence in a litter, wherefore i am fain to beseech messire gawain that he help me to recover my land." "in faith, sir knight," say they, "we know not of what avail he may be to others that may not help himself. messire gawain was at the assembly, but we tell you for true, it was he that did worst thereat." "alas," saith meliot of logres, "then have i lost my land, and he hath become even such an one as you tell me." "you would readily believe us," say they, "had you seen him at the assembly!" meliot turneth him back, right sorrowful. xvii. king arthur and messire gawain depart from the tent, and come a great pace as though they fain would escape thence to come nigher the land where they would be, and great desire had they of the coming of lancelot. they rode until that they came one night to the waste manor whither the brachet led messire gawain when he found the dead knight that lancelot had slain. they lodged there the night, and found there knights and damsels of whom they were known. the lady of the waste manor sent for succour to her knights, saying that she held there king arthur that slew other knights, and that his nephew messire gawain was also there within, but dearly would she have loved that lancelot had been with them that slew her brother. knights in plenty came to her to do hurt to king arthur and messire gawain, but she had at least so much courtesy in her that she would not suffer any of them to do them ill within her hold, albeit she kept seven of their number, full of great hardiment, to guard the entrance of the bridge, so that king arthur and messire gawain might not depart thence save only amidst the points of their spears. xviii. this high history witnesseth us that lancelot was departed from the waste city wherein he was much honoured, and rode until that he came to a forest where he met meliot of logres, that was sore dismayed of the tidings he had heard of messire gawain. lancelot asketh him whence he cometh, and he saith from seeking messire gawain, of whom he had tidings whereof he was right sorrowful. "how," saith lancelot, "is he then otherwise than well?" "yea," saith he, "as i have heard tell: for he wont to be good knight and hath now become evil. he was at the assembly of knights whereof i met the harness and the fellowships, and they told me that never yet was such cowardize in any knight, but that a knight who was with him did right well. but howsoever he may have borne himself, right fain am i to find him, for, maugre what any may say, i may scarce believe that he is so bad after all." "sir," saith lancelot, "i will seek him for you, and you can come along with me and it seemeth you good." meliot of logres betaketh him back with lancelot. they ride until they happen by chance upon the waste manor where the king and messire gawain were lodged; and they were armed, and were minded to go forth from thence. but the seven knights guarded the issue, all armed. the king and messire gawain saw that no good would it do them to remain there within, wherefore they passed over the bridge and came perforce to the place where the seven knights were watching for them. thereupon, they went toward them all armed and struck among them, and the knights received them on the points of their lances. xix. thereupon, behold you! lancelot and the knight with him, whom they had not been looking for. lancelot espied the king and messire gawain; then the knights cried out and struck among them as a hawk striketh amongst larks, and made them scatter on one side and the other. lancelot hath caught one at his coming, and smiteth him with his spear through the body, and meliot of logres slayeth another. king arthur knew lancelot, and right glad was he to see him safe and sound, as was messire gawain likewise. lancelot and meliot of logres made clear the passage for them. the knights departed, for longer durst they not abide. the damsel of the castle held a squire by the hand, that was right passing comely. she knew lancelot, and when she saw him she called him. xx. "lancelot, you slew this squire's brother, and, please god, either he or another shall take vengeance thereof." lancelot holdeth his peace when he heareth the dame speak, and departeth from the waste hold. meliot of logres knew messire gawain and messire gawain him again, and great joy made they the one of the other. "sir," saith meliot, "i am come to lay plaint before you of nabigant of the rock that challengeth me of the land whereof i am your man, and saith that he will defend it against none but you only. sir, the day is full nigh, and if you come not to the day, i shall have lost my quarrel, and you held me thereof in covenant what time i became your man." "right fainly will i go," saith messire gawain. he goeth his way thither accordingly by leave of the king and lancelot, and saith that he will return to them the speediest he may. xxi. king arthur and lancelot go their way as fast as they may toward the land that was king fisherman's. messire gawain rideth until he cometh to the land of nabigant of the rock. meliot doeth nabigant to wit that messire gawain was come, and that he was ready to uphold his right by him that was his champion. nabigant was whole of the wound he gat at the assembly, and held messire gawain of full small account for the cowardize that he saw him do, and bid his knights not meddle betwixt them two, for, and messire gawain had been four knights he thought to vanquish them all. he issueth forth of his castle all armed, and is come there where messire gawain awaited him. messire gawain seeth him coming, and so draweth on one side, and nabigant, that was stark outrageous, setteth his spear in rest and cometh toward messire gawain without another word, and smiteth him on the shield so that he maketh his spear fly all in pieces. and messire gawain catcheth him right in the midst of his breast, and pierceth him with his spear through the thick of his heart, and he falleth to the ground dead; and the knights run upon messire gawain; but he lightly delivereth himself of them, and meliot of logres likewise. messire gawain entereth the castle by force, doing battle against all the knights, and holdeth them in such a pass as that he maketh them do homage to meliot of logres, and deliver up to him the keys of the castle. he maketh them come to an assembly from the whole of the land they had reft away from him, and thereafter departeth and followeth after king arthur. in the forest, he overtaketh a damsel that was going on her way a great pace. xxii. "damsel," saith messire gawain, "lord god guide you, whither away so fast?" "sir," saith she, "i am going to the greatest assembly of knights you saw ever." "what assembly?" saith messire gawain. "sir," saith she, "at the palace meadow, but the knight i am seeking is he that won the circlet of gold at the meadow of the tent. fair sir, can you give me any tidings of him?" saith she. "damsel," saith messire gawain, "what would you do herein?" "certes, sir, i would right fain find him. my lady, that kept the circlet of gold for the son of the widow lady, that won it aforetime, hath sent me to seek him." "for what intent, damsel?" saith messire gawain. "sir, my lady sendeth for him and beseecheth him by me, for the sake of the saviour of the world, that if he had ever pity of dame or damsel, he will take vengeance on nabigant that hath slain her men and destroyed her land, for she hath been told how he that won back the golden circlet ought of right to take vengeance upon him." xxiii. "damsel," saith messire gawain, "be not any longer troubled hereof, for i tell you that the knight that won the golden circlet by prize of arms hath killed nabigant already." "sir," saith she, "how know you this?" "i know the knight well," saith he, "and i saw him slay him, and behold, here is the circlet of gold that i have as a token hereof, for that he beareth it to him that hath won the graal, to the intent that your lady may be quit of her charge." messire gawain showeth her the golden circlet in the casket of ivory, that he kept very nigh himself. right joyful was the damsel that the matter had thus fallen out, and goeth her way back again to tell her lady of her joy. messire gawain goeth on his way toward the assembly, for well knoweth he that, and king arthur and lancelot have heard the tidings, there will they be. he goeth thitherward as fast as he may, and as straight, and scarce hath he ridden away or ever he met a squire that seemed right weary, and his hackney sore worn of the way. messire gawain asked him whence he came, and the squire said to him. "from the land of king arthur, where is great war toward, for that none knoweth not what hath become of him. many folk go about saying that he is dead, for never sithence that he departed from cardoil, and messire gawain and lancelot with him, have no tidings been heard of him; and he left the queen at cardoil to take his place, and also on account of her son's death, and the most part say that he is dead. briant of the isles and my lord kay with him are burning his land, and carrying off plunder before all the castles. of all the knights of the table round are there now no more than five and thirty, and of these are ten sore wounded, and they are in cardoil, and there protect the land the best they may." xxiv. when messire gawain heareth these tidings, they touch his heart right sore, so that he goeth the straightest he may toward the assembly, and the squire with him that was sore fordone. messire gawain found king arthur and lancelot, and the knights were come from all the kingdom to the piece of ground. for a knight was come thither that had brought a white destrier and borne thither a right rich crown of gold, and it was known throughout all the lands that marched with this, that the knight that should do best at the assembly should have the destrier and the crown, for the queen that ware it was dead, and it would behove him to guard and defend the land whereof she had been lady. on account of these tidings had come thither great plenty of folk and of folk. king arthur and messire gawain and lancelot set them of one side. the story saith that at this assembly king arthur bare the red shield that the damsel gave him; messire gawain had his own, such as he was wont to bear, and lancelot a green shield that he bare for the love of the knight that was slain for helping him in the forest. they struck into the assembly like lions unchained, and cast down three knights at their first onset. they searched the fellowships on every side, smote down knights and overthrew horses. xxv. king arthur overtook no knight but he clave his shield to the boss: all swerved aside and avoided his buffets. and messire gawain and lancelot are not idle on the other hand, but each held well his place. but the more part had wonderment looking at the king, for he holdeth him at bay like a lion when the staghounds would attack him. the assembly lasted throughout on such wise, and when it came to an end, the knights said and adjudged that the knight of the red shield had surpassed all other in doing well. the knight that had brought the crown came to the king, but knew him not a whit: "sir," saith he, "you have by your good deeds of arms won this crown of gold and this destrier, whereof ought you to make great joy, so only you have so much valour in you as that you may defend the land of the best earthly queen that is dead, and whether the king be alive or dead none knoweth, wherefore great worship will it be to yourself and you may have prowess to maintain the land, for right broad is it and right rich and of high sovranty." xxvi. saith king arthur, "whose was the land, and what was the name of the queen whose crown i see?" "sir, the king's name was arthur, and the best king in the world was he; but in his kingdom the more part say that he is dead. and this crown was the crown of queen guenievre that is dead and buried, whereof is sore sorrow. the knights that may not leave cardoil lest briant of the isles should seize the city, they sent me to the kingdom of logres and charged me with the crown and destrier for that i have knowledge of the isles and foreign lands; wherefore they prayed me i should go among the assemblies of knights, that so i might hear tidings of my lord king arthur and my lord gawain and lancelot, and, so i might find them, that i should tell them how the land hath fallen into this grievous sorrow." king arthur heareth tidings whereof he is full sorrowful. he draweth on one side, and the knights make the most grievous dole in the world. lancelot knoweth not what he may do, and saith between his teeth that now hath his joy come to an end and his knighthood is of no avail, for that he hath lost the high queen, the valiant, that heart and comfort gave him and encouragement to do well. the tears ran down from his comely eyes right amidst his face and through the ventail, and, had he durst make other dole, yet greater would it have been. of the mourning the king made is there nought to speak, for this sorrow resembleth none other. he holdeth the crown of gold, and looketh full oft at the destrier for love of her, for he had given it her; and messire gawain may not stint of making dole. xxvii. "certes", saith he, "now may i well say that the best queen in the world and of most understanding is dead, nor never hereafter shall be none of equal worth." "sir," saith lancelot to the king, "so it please you, and messire gawain be willing, i will go back toward cardoil, and help to defend your land to the best i may, for sore is it discounselled, until such time as you shall be come from the graal." "certes," saith messire gawain to the king, "lancelot hath spoken well, so you grant him your consent." "that do i with right good will," saith the kind, "and i pray him right heartily that he go thither and be guardian of my land and the governance thereof, until such a time as god shall have brought me back." lancelot taketh leave of the king and goeth his way back, all sorrowing and full of discontent. branch xxii. incipit. of lancelot the story is here silent, and so beginneth another branch of the graal in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost. title i. you may well understand that king arthur is no whit joyful. he maketh the white destrier go after him, and hath the crown of gold full near himself. they ride until they come to the castle that belonged to king fisherman, and they found it as rich and fair as you have heard told many a time. perceval, that was there within, made right great joy of their coming, as did all the priests and ancient knights. perceval leadeth king arthur, when he was disarmed, into the chapel where the graal was, and messire gawain maketh present to perceval of the golden circlet, and telleth him that the queen sendeth it to him, and relateth also how nabigant had seized it, and moreover, how nabigant was dead. the king offereth the crown that had been queen guenievre's. when perceval knew that she was dead, he was right sorrowful thereof in his heart, and wept and lamented her right sweetly. he showeth them the tomb of king fisherman, and telleth them that none had set the tabernacle there above the coffin, but only the commandment of our lord, and he showeth them a rich pall that is upon the coffin, and telleth them that every day they see a new one there not less rich than is this one. king arthur looketh at the sepulchre and saith that never tofore hath he seen none so costly. a smell issueth therefrom full delicate and sweet of savour. the king sojourneth in the castle and is highly honoured, and beholdeth the richesse and the lordship and the great abundance that is everywhere in the castle, insomuch that therein is nought wanting that is needful for the bodies of noble folk. perceval had made set the bodies of the dead knights in a charnel beside an old chapel in the forest, and the body of his uncle that had slain himself so evilly. behind the castle was a river, as the history testifieth, whereby all good things came to the castle, and this river was right fair and plenteous. josephus witnesseth us that it came from the earthly paradise and compassed the castle around and ran on through the forest as far as the house of a worshipful hermit, and there lost the course and had peace in the earth. all along the valley thereof was great plenty of everything continually, and nought was ever lacking in the rich castle that perceval had won. the castle, so saith the history, had three names. ii. one of the names was eden, the second, castle of joy, and the third, castle of souls. now josephus saith that none never passed away therein but his soul went to paradise. king arthur was one day at the castle windows with messire gawain. the king seeth coming before him beyond the bridge a great procession of folk one before another; and he that came before was all clad in white, and bare a full great cross, and each of the others a little one, and the more part came singing with sweet voices and bear candles burning, and there was one behind that carried a bell with the clapper and all at his neck. "ha, god," saith king arthur, "what folk be these?" "sir," saith perceval, "i know them all save the last. they be hermits of this forest, that come to chant within yonder before the holy graal, three days in the week." iii. when the hermits came nigh the castle, the king went to meet them, and the knights adore the crosses and bow their heads before the good men. as soon as they were come into the holy chapel, they took the bell from the last and smote thereon at the altar, and then set it on the ground, and then began they the service, most holy and most glorious. the history witnesseth us that in the land of king arthur at this time was there not a single chalice. the graal appeared at the sacring of the mass, in five several manners that none ought not to tell, for the secret things of the sacrament ought none to tell openly but he unto whom god hath given it. king arthur beheld all the changes, the last whereof was the change into a chalice. and the hermit that chanted the mass found a brief under the corporal and declared the letters, to wit, that our lord god would that in such vessel should his body be sacrificed, and that it should be set upon record. the history saith not that there were no chalices elsewhere, but that in all great britain and in the whole kingdom was none. king arthur was right glad of this that he had seen, and had in remembrance the name and the fashion of the most holy chalice. then he asked the hermit that bare the bell, whence this thing came? "sir," saith he to messire gawain, "i am the king for whom you slew the giant, whereby you had the sword wherewith st john was beheaded, that i see on this altar. i made baptize me before you and all those of my kingdom, and turn to the new law, and thereafter i went to a hermitage by the sea, far from folk, where i have been of a long space. i rose one night at matins and looked under my hermitage and saw that a ship had taken haven there. i went thither when the sea was retreated, and found within the ship three priests and their clerks, that told me their names and how they were called in baptism. all three were named gregory, and they came from the land of promise, and told me that solomon had cast three bells, one for the saviour of the world, and one for his sweet mother, and one for the honour of his saints, wherefore they had brought this hither by his commandment into this kingdom for that we had none here. they told me that and i should bear it into this castle, they would take all my sins upon themselves, by our lord's pleasure, in such sort as that i should be quit thereof. and i in like manner have brought it hither by the commandment of god, who willeth that this should be the pattern of all those that shall be fashioned in the realm of this island where never aforetime have been none." "by my faith," saith messire gawain to the hermit, "i know you right well for a worshipful man, for you held your covenant truly with me." king arthur was right glad of this thing, as were all they that were within. it seemed him that the noise thereof was like the noise that he had heard sound ever since he had moved from cardoil. the hermits went their way each to his hermitage when they had done the service. iv. one day, as the king sate at meat in the hall with perceval and messire gawain and the ancient knights, behold you therewithal one of the three damsels of the car that cometh, and she was smitten all through her right arm. "sir," saith she to perceval, "have mercy on your mother and your sister and on us. aristor of moraine, that is cousin to the lord of the moors that you slew, warreth upon your mother, and hath carried off your sister by force into the castle of a vavasour of his, and saith that he will take her to wife and will have all her land that your mother ought to hold of right, maugre your head. but never had knight custom so cruel as he, for when he shall have espoused the damsel, whomsoever she may be, yet will he never love her so well but that he shall cut off her head with his own hand, and so thereafter go seek for another to slay in like manner. natheless in one matter hath he good custom, that never will he do shame to none until such time as he hath espoused her. sir, i was with my lady your sister when he maimed me in this manner. wherefore your mother sendeth you word and prayeth you that you succour her, for you held her in covenant that so you would do and she should have need thereof and you should know it; for and you consent to her injury and loss, the shame will be your own." perceval heard these tidings, and sore sorrowful was he thereof. "by my head," saith the king to perceval, "i and my nephew, so please you, will go to help you." "sir," saith he, "gramercy, but go and achieve your own affair also, for sore need have you thereof; wherefore i pray and beseech you that you be guardian of the castle of camelot, if that my lady mother shall come thither, for thereof make i you lord and champion, and albeit the castle be far away from you, yet garnish it and guard it, for it is builded in a place right fair." v. lords, think not that it is this camelot whereof these tellers of tales do tell their tales, there, where king arthur so often held his court. this camelot that was the widow lady's stood upon the uttermost headland of the wildest isle of wales by the sea to the west. nought was there save the hold and the forest and the waters that were round about it. the other camelot, of king arthur's, was situate at the entrance of the kingdom of logres, and was peopled of folk and was seated at the head of the king's land, for that he had in his governance all the lands that on that side marched with his own. branch xxiii. title i. of perceval the story is here silent, and saith that king arthur and messire gawain have taken leave of perceval and all them of the castle. the king leaveth him the good destrier that he won, with the golden crown. they have ridden, he and messire gawain together, until they are come to a waste ancient castle that stood in a forest. the castle would have been right fair and rich had any folk wonned therein, but none there were save one old priest and his clerk that lived within by their own toil. the king and messire gawain lodged there the night, and on the morrow went into a right rich chapel that was therein to hear mass, and it was painted all around of right rich colours of gold and azure and other colours. the images were right fair that were there painted, and the figures of them for whom the images were made. the king and messire gawain looked at them gladly. when the mass was said, the priest cometh to them and saith: "lords," saith he, "these imagings are right fair, and he that had them made is full loyal, and dearly loved the lady and her son for whom he had them made. sir," saith the priest, "it is a true history." "of whom is the history, fair sir?" saith king arthur. "of a worshipful vavasour that owned this hold, and of messire gawain, king arthur's nephew, and his mother. sir," saith the priest, "messire gawain was born there within and held up and baptized, as you may see here imaged, and he was named gawain for the sake of the lord of this castle that had that name. his mother, that had him by king lot, would not that it should be known. she set him in a right fair coffer, and prayed the good man of this castle that he would carry him away and leave him where he might perish, but and if he would not do so, she would make another do it. this gawain, that was loyal and would not that the child should be put to death, made seal letters at the pillow-bere of his cradle that he was of lineage royal on the one side and the other, and set therein gold and silver so as that the child might be nurtured in great plenty, and spread above the child a right rich coverlid. he carried him away to a far distant country, and so came one early morning to a little homestead where dwelt a right worshipful man. he delivered the child to him and his wife, and bade them they should keep him and nurture him well, and told them that it might be much good should come to them thereof. the vavasour turned him back, and they took charge of the child and nurtured him until that he were grown, and then took him to rome to the holy father, and showed him the sealed letters. the holy father saw them and understood that he was the son of a king. he had pity upon him, and gave him to understand that he was of his kindred. after that, he was elected to be emperor of rome. but he would not be emperor lest he should be reproached of his birth that had before been concealed from him. he departed thence, and lived afterwards within yonder. now is it said that he is one of the best knights in the world, insomuch that none durst take possession of this castle for dread of him, nor of this great forest that lieth round about it. for, when the vavasour that dwelt here was dead, he left to messire gawain, his foster-son, this castle, and made me guardian thereof until such time as messire gawain should return." ii. the king looketh at messire gawain, and seeth him stoop his head toward the ground for shame. "fair nephew, be not ashamed, for as well might you reproach me of the same. of your birth hath there been great joy, and dearly ought one to love the place and honour it, where so good a knight as are you was born." when the priest understood that it was messire gawain, he made great cheer to him, and was all ashamed of that he had recorded as concerning his birth. but he saith to him: "sir, small blame ought you to have herein, for you were confirmed in the law that god hath established and in loyalty of marriage of king lot and your mother. this thing king arthur well knoweth, and our lord god be praised for that, you have come hither!" branch xxiv. title i. here the story is silent of the kingdom, and of king arthur and messire gawain that remain in the castle to maintain and guard it until they shall have garnished it of folk. here speaketh it word of the knight's son of the waste manor, there whither the brachet led messire gawain where he found the knight that lancelot had slain. he had one son whose name was meliant, and he had not forgotten his father's death; rather, thereof did wrath rankle in his heart. he heard tell that briant of the isles had great force and great puissance, and that he warred upon king arthur's land, insomuch as that he had already slain many of his knights. thitherward goeth he, and is come to where briant was in a castle of his own. he telleth him how lancelot had slain his father in such sort, and prayeth him right courteously that he would make him knight, for that right fain would he avenge his father, and therefore would he help him in the war the best he might. briant made much joy thereof, and made him knight in right costly sort, and he was the comeliest knight and the most valiant of his age in briant's court, and greatly did he desire to meet with lancelot. they marvelled much in the land and kingdom what had become of him. the more part thought that he was dead, albeit dead he was not, but rather sound and hale and whole, had it not been for the death of queen guenievre, whereof the sorrow so lay at his heart that he might not forget it. he rode one day amidst a forest, and overtook a knight and a damsel that made great joy together, singing and making disport. "by god," saith the damsel, "if this knight that cometh here will remain, he shall have right good lodging. it is already nigh eventide, and never will he find hostel so good to-day." "damsel." saith lancelot, "of good hostel have i sore need, for i am more than enough weary." "so be all they," saith she, "that come from the land of the rich king fisherman, for none may suffer the pain and travail and he be not good knight." ii. "ah, damsel," saith lancelot, "which is the way to the castle whereof you speak?" "sir," saith the knight, "you will go by this cross that you see before you, and we will go by that other way, to a certain hold. haply we shall find you at the castle or ever you depart thence." lancelot goeth his way and leaveth them. "by my head," saith the damsel to the knight, "this that goeth there is lancelot. he knoweth me not, albeit i know him well, and i hear that he is sore troubled of his sorrow and mis-ease. natheless, please god, i will have vengeance of him or ever he departeth from the castle whither he goeth to harbour. he made marry perforce a knight that loved me better than aught beside, and to a damsel that he loved not a whit. and so much might he still better perceive when he saw that she ate not at his table, but was seated along with the squires, and that none did aught for her at the castle. but the knight will not abandon her for his own honour, and for that i should be blamed thereof." the evening draweth on and lancelot goeth toward the castle, that was right uneath to find and in an unfrequented part. he espieth it at the head of the forest, and seeth that it is large and strong, with strong barbicans embattelled, and at the entrance of the gateway were fifteen heads of knights hanging. he found without a knight that came from the forest, and asked him what castle it was, and he made answer that it was called the castle of the griffon. "and why are these heads hanging at this door?" "sir," saith he, "the daughter of the lord of the castle is the fairest in the world and that is known in any kingdom, and needs must she be offered to wife to all knights that harbour within. he that can draw a sword that is fixed in a column in the midst of the hall, and fetch it forth, he shall have her of right without forfeit." iii. "all these have made assay whose heads you see hanging at the door, but never might none of them remove the sword, and on this occasion were they beheaded. now is it said that none may draw it forth, unless he that draweth be better knight than another, and needs must he be one of them that have been at the graal. but, and you be minded to believe me, fair sir," saith the knight, "you will go elsewhither, for ill lodging is it in a place where one must needs set body and life in adventure of death, and none ought to be blamed for escaping from his own harm. sir, the castle is right fell, for it hath underground, at the issue of a cavern that is there, a lion and a griffon that have devoured more than half a hundred knights." "sir," saith lancelot, "it is evening, nor know i how i may go farther this day, for i know not whither i go sith that i know not the places nor the ways of the forest." "sir," saith the knight, "i speak only for your own good, and god grant you depart hence, honour safe." lancelot findeth the door of the castle all open, and entereth in all armed, and alighteth before the master-hall. the king was leaning at the windows, and biddeth stall his horse. iv. lancelot is entered into the hall, and findeth knights and damsels at the tables and playing at the chess, but none did he find to salute him nor make him cheer of his coming save the lord only, for such was the custom of the castle. the lord bade him be disarmed. "sir," saith he, "right well may you allow me wear my arms, for they be the fairest garniture and the richest i have." "sir," saith the lord of the castle, "no knight eateth armed within yonder, but he that cometh armed in hither disarmeth himself by my leave. he may take his arms again without gainsay, so neither i nor other desire to do him a hurt." with that two squires disarm him. the lord of the castle maketh bring a right rich robe wherein to apparel him. the tables were set and the meats served. the damsel issued forth of her chamber and was accompanied of two knights as far as the hall. she looketh at lancelot, and seeth that he is a right comely knight, and much liketh her of his bearing and countenance, and she thinketh to herself that sore pity would it be so comely knight should have his head smitten off. v. lancelot saluted the damsel and made great cheer, and when they had eaten in hall, forthwith behold you, the damsel where she cometh that lancelot overtook in the forest with the knight. "sir," saith she to the lord of the castle, "you have harboured this night your deadly enemy that slew your brother at the waste manor." "by my faith," saith the lord of the manor, "i think not so, for him would i not have harboured, nor will i not believe it for true until such time as i have proved it. sir," saith he to lancelot, "make the demand that the others make!" "what is it?" saith lancelot. "see there my daughter! ask her of me, and if you be such as you ought to be, i will give her to you." "sir," saith lancelot, "no knight is there in the world so good but ought to plume him upon having her to wife, so always she were willing, and, so i thought that you would be willing to give her to me, i would willingly ask you." lancelot spake otherwise than as he thought, for the departing of the queen and the sorrow thereof lay so at his heart that never again might he lean upon any love in the world, neither of dame nor damsel. he asked his daughter of the knight of the castle, and came before him to save the custom so that he might not have blame thereof. and he showed him the sword that is in the column, all inlaid with gold. "go," saith he, "and fulfil the custom, as other knights have done." "what is it?" saith lancelot. "they might not draw forth the sword from this column, and so failed of my daughter and of their lives." "lord god," saith lancelot, "defend me from this custom!" and he cometh toward the column as fast as he may, and seizeth the sword with both hands. so soon as he touched it, the sword draweth it forth with such a wrench that the column quaked thereof. the damsel was right joyful thereat, albeit she misdoubted the fellness and cruelty of her father, for never yet had she seen knight that pleased her so much to love as he. "sir," saith the other damsel, "i tell you plainly, this is lancelot, the outrageous, that slew your brother. natheless, is it no lie that he is one of the best knights of the world, albeit by the stoutness of his knighthood and his valour many an outrage hath he done, and more shall he yet do and he escape you, and, so you will believe me, you will never allow him to depart thus; sith that and you kill him or slay him you will save the life of many a knight." the daughter of the lord of the castle is sore displeased of the damsel for this that she saith, and looketh at lancelot from time to time and sigheth, but more durst she not do. much marvelleth she, sith that lancelot hath drawn the sword forth of the column, that he asketh her not of her father as his own liege woman, but he was thinking of another thing, and never was he so sorrowful of any lady as he was for the queen. but whatsoever thought or desire he may have therein, he telleth the lord of the castle that he holdeth him to his covenant made at such time as the sword was still fixed in the column. "i have a right not to hold thereto," saith the lord of the castle, "nor shall i break not my vow and i fail you herein; for no man is bound to give his daughter to his mortal enemy. sith that you have slain my brother, you are my mortal enemy, and were i to give her to you, she ought not to wish it, and were she to grant you her love she would be a fool and a madwoman." right sorrowful is the damsel or this that she heareth her father say. she would fain that lancelot and she were in the forest, right in the depth thereof. but lancelot had no mind to be as she was thinking. the lord of the castle made guard the gateway of the castle well, in such sort that lancelot might issue therefrom on no side. afterward he bade his knights privily that they take heed on their lives that they be all ready on the morrow and all garnished of their arms, for that it was his purpose to smite off lancelot's head and hang it above all the others. vi. the daughter of the lord knew these tidings and was right sorrowful thereof, for she thinketh never more to have joy at heart and he shall be slain in such manner. she sendeth him greeting by her own privy messenger, as she that loveth him better than aught else living in the world, and so biddeth and prayeth him be garnished of his arms, and ready to protect his life, for that her father is fain to smite off his head. "sir," saith the messenger, "your force would avail you nought as against my lord, for to-morrow there will be a dozen knights all armed at the issue of the gate whereby you entered to-night, and he saith that he purposeth to cut off your head there where he cut the heads off the other knights. without the gate there will likewise be another dozen knights all armed. no knight is there in the world so good as that he might issue forth of this castle through the midst of these four and twenty knights, but my lady sendeth you word that there is a cavern under this castle that goeth therefrom underground as far as the forest, so that a knight may well pass thereby all armed, but there is therein a lion, the fiercest and most horrible in the world, and two serpents that are called griffons, that have the face of a man and the beaks of birds and eyes of an owl and teeth of a dog and ears of an ass and feet of a lion and tail of a serpent, and they have couched them therewithin, but never saw no man beasts so fell and felonous. wherefore the damsel biddeth you go by that way, by everything that you have ever loved, and that you fail her not, for she would fain speak with you at the issue of the cavern in an orchard that is nigh a right broad river not far from this castle, and will make your destrier be brought after you underground." "by my head," saith lancelot, "and she had not conjured me in such sort, and were it not for love of herself, i would have rather set myself in hazard with the knights than with the wild beasts, for far father would i have delivered myself from them, and so i might, than go forth in such-wise." "she sendeth you word," saith the messenger, "that so you do not thus, no further trouble will she take concerning you. she doth it of dread lest she lose your love; and here behold a brachet that she sendeth you by me that you will carry with you into the cavern. so soon as you shalt see the serpent griffons that have couched them therein, you shall show them this and cast her down before them. the griffons love her as much as one beast may love another, and shall have such joy and such desire to play with the brachet that they will leave you alone, and have such good will toward you that they will not look at you after to do you any hurt. but no man is there in the world, no matter how well soever he were armed, nor how puissant soever he were in himself, might never pass them otherwise, but he should be devoured of them. but no safeguard may you have as against the lion but of god only and your own hardiment." "tell my damsel," saith lancelot, "that all her commandment will i do, but this cowardize resembleth none other, that i shall go fight with beasts and leave to do battle with knights." this was then repeated to the damsel, that marvelled her much thereat, and said that he was the hardiest knight in the world. vii. lancelot armed him toward daybreak, and had his sword girt, his shield at his neck, and his spear in his hand. so he entered into the cavern, all shamefast, and the brachet followeth after, that he deigned not to carry, and so cometh he to the place where the griffons were. so soon as they heard him coming they dress them on their feet, and then writhe along as serpents, then cast forth such fire, and so bright a flame amidst the rock, as that all the cavern is lighted up thereof, and they see by the brightness of light of their jaws the brachet coming. so soon as they have espied her, they carry her in their claws and make her the greatest cheer in the world. lancelot passeth beyond without gainsay, and espieth, toward the issue of the cavern, the lion that was come from the forest all famished. he cometh thither right hardily, sword drawn. the lion cometh toward him, jaws yawning, and claws bared, thinking to fix them in his habergeon, but lancelot preventeth him and smiteth him so stoutly that he cutteth off thigh and leg together. when the lion feeleth himself thus maimed, he seizeth him by the teeth and the claws of his fore feet and rendeth away half the skirt of his habergeon. thereupon lancelot waxeth wroth. he casteth his shield to the ground and approacheth the lion closer. he seeth that he openeth his jaws wide to avenge himself, and thrusteth his sword the straightest he may into his gullet, and the lion giveth out a roar and falleth dead. the damsel, that had come into the cavern, heareth that the lion is dead. viii. lancelot issued forth and so cometh into the orchard beside the forest, and wiped his sword on the freshness of the green grass. thereupon behold you the damsel that cometh. "sir," saith she to lancelot, "are you wounded in any place?" "damsel, nowhere, thank god!" another damsel leadeth a horse into the orchard. the damsel of the castle looketh at lancelot. "sir," saith the damsel, "meseemeth that you are not over joyous." "damsel," saith he, "if i be not, i have good right, for i have lost the thing in the world that most i loved." "and you have won me," saith she, "so you remain not here, that am the fairest damsel in this kingdom, and i have saved you your life for this, that you grant me your love, for mine own would i fain give unto you." "gramercy, damsel," saith lancelot, "your love and your good will fain would i have; but neither you nor none other damsel ought not to have affiance in me, and i might so soon set carelessly aside the love to whom my heart owed its obedience, for the worthiness and the courtesy that were lodged in her. nor never hereafter, so long as i live, shall i love none other in like manner; wherefore all others commend i to god, and to yourself, as for leave-taking to one at whose service i fain would be; i say that if you shall have need of me, and so i be in place and free, i will do all i may to protect your honour." ix. "ha, god!" saith the damsel, "how am i betrayed, sith that i am parted from the best knight in the world! lancelot, you have done that which never yet no knight might do! now am i grieved that you should escape on such wise, and that your life hath been saved in this manner by me. better should i love you mine own dead, than another's living. now would i fain that you had had your head smitten off, and that it were hanging with the others! so would i solace myself by beholding it!" lancelot took no account of that he heard, for the grief that lay at his heart of the queen. he mounteth on his horse and issueth forth of the orchard by a postern gate, and entereth into the forest, and commendeth him to god. the lord of the castle of the griffons marvelleth much that lancelot delayeth so long. he thinketh that he durst not come down, and saith to his knights, "let us go up and cut off his head, sith that he durst not come down." he maketh search for him all through the hall and the chambers, but findeth him not. "he hath gone," saith he, "through the cavern, so have the griffons devoured him." so he sendeth the twain most hardy of his knights to see. but the brachet had returned after the damsel, whereof the griffons were wroth, and they forthwith seized on the two knights that entered into their cavern and slew them and devoured. x. when the lord of the castle knew it, he went into the chamber where his daughter was, and found her weeping, and thinketh that it is for the two knights that are dead. news is brought him that the lion is dead at the issue of the cavern, and thereby well knoweth he that lancelot is gone. he biddeth his knights follow after him, but none was there so hardy as that he durst follow. the damsel was right fain they should go after him, if only they might bring him back to the castle, for so mortally was she taken of his love that she thought of none other thing. but lancelot had her not in remembrance, but only another, and rode on sadly right amidst the forest, and looked from time to time at the rent the lion had made in his habergeon. he rideth until he is come toward evening to a great valley where was forest on the one side and the other, and the valley stretched onward half a score great leagues welsh. he looketh to the right, and on the top of the mountain beside the valley he seeth a chapel newly builded that was right fair and rich, and it was covered of lead, and had at the back two quoins that seemed to be of gold. by the side of this chapel were three houses dight right richly, each standing by itself facing the chapel. there was a right fair grave-yard round about the chapel, that was enclosed at the compass of the forest, and a spring came down, full clear, from the heights of the forest before the chapel and ran into the valley with a great rushing; and each of the houses had its own orchard, and the orchard an enclosure. lancelot heareth vespers being chanted in the chapel, and seeth the path that turned thitherward, but the mountain is so rugged that he could not go along it on horseback. so he alighteth and leadeth his horse after him by the reins until he cometh nigh the chapel. xi. there were three hermits therewithin that had sung their vespers, and came over against lancelot. they bowed their heads to him and he saluted them, and then asked of them what place was this? and they told him that the place there was avalon. they make stable his horse. he left his arms without the chapel and entereth therein, and saith that never hath he seen none so fair nor so rich. there were within three other places, right fair and seemly dight of rich cloths of silk and rich corners and fringes of gold. he seeth the images and the crucifixes all newly fashioned, and the chapel illumined of rich colours; and moreover in the midst thereof were two coffins, one against the other, and at the four corners four tall wax tapers burning, that were right rich, in four right rich candlesticks. the coffins were covered with two pails, and there were clerks that chanted psalms in turn on the one side and the other. "sir," saith lancelot to one of the hermits, "for whom were these coffins made?" "for king arthur and queen guenievre." "king arthur is not yet dead," saith lancelot. "no, in truth, please god! but the body of the queen lieth in the coffin before us and in the other is the head of her son, until such time as the king shall be ended, unto whom god grant long life! but the queen bade at her death that his body should be set beside her own when he shall end. hereof have we the letters and her seal in this chapel, and this place made she be builded new on this wise or ever she died." xi. when lancelot heareth that it is the queen that lieth in the coffin, he is so straitened in his heart and in his speech that never a word may he say. but no semblant of grief durst he make other than such as might not be perceived, and right great comfort to him was it that there was an image of our lady at the head of the coffin. he knelt down the nighest he might to the coffin, as it had been to worship the image, and set his race and his mouth to the stone of the coffin, and sorroweth for her right sweetly. "ha, lady," saith he, "but that i dread the blame of the people, never again would i seek to depart from this place, but here would i save my soul and pray for yours; so would it be much recomforting to me that i should be so nigh, and should see the sepulchre wherein your body lieth that had so great sweetness and bounty. god grant me of your pleasure, that at my death i may still be a-nigh, and that i may die in such manner and in such place as that i may be shrouded and buried in this holy chapel where this body lieth." the night cometh on. a clerk cometh to the hermits and saith, "never yet did no knight cry mercy of god so sweetly, nor of his sweet mother, as did this knight that is in the chapel." and the hermits make answer that knights for the most part do well believe in god. they come to the chapel for him and bid him come thence, for that meat is ready and he should come to eat, and after that go to sleep and rest, for it is full time so to do. he telleth them that as for his eating this day it is stark nought, for a desire and a will hath taken him to keep vigil in the chapel before one of the images of our lady. no wish had he once to depart thence before the day, and he would fain that the night should last far longer than it did. the good men durst not force him against his will; they say, rather, that the worshipful man is of good life who will keep watch in such manner throughout the night without drink or meat, for all that he seemeth to be right weary. xiii. lancelot was in the chapel until the morrow before the tomb. the hermits apparelled them to do the service that they chanted each day, mass for the soul of the queen and her son. lancelot heareth them with right good will. when the masses were sung, he taketh leave of the hermits and looketh at the coffin right tenderly. he commendeth the body that lieth therein to god and his sweet mother; then findeth he without the chapel his horse accoutred ready, and mounteth forthwith, and departeth, and looketh at the place and the chapel so long as he may see them. he hath ridden so far that he is come nigh cardoil, and findeth the land wasted and desolate, and the towns burnt, whereof is he sore grieved. he meeteth a knight that came from that part, and he was wounded full sore. lancelot asketh him whence he cometh, and he saith, "sir, from towards cardoil. kay the seneschal, with two other knights, is leading away messire ywain li aoutres toward the castle of the hard rock. i thought to help to rescue him, but they have wounded me in such sort as you see." "are they ever so far away?" saith lancelot. "sir, they will pass just now at the head of this forest; and so you are fain to go thither, i will return with you right willingly and help you to the best i may." lancelot smiteth his horse with the spurs forthwith, and the knight after him, and espieth kay the seneschal, that was bringing messire ywain along at a great pace, and had set him upon a trotting hackney, for so he thought that none would know him. lancelot overtaketh him and crieth, "by my head, kay the seneschal, shame had you enough of that you did to king arthur when you slew his son, and as much more ought you now to have of thus warring upon him again!" he smiteth his horse of his spurs, lance in rest, and kay the seneschal turneth toward him, and they mell together with their spears on their shields, and pierce them in such sort that an ells-length of each shaft passeth through beyond. xiv. the lances were strong so as that they brast not. they draw them back to themselves so stoutly and come together so fiercely that their horses stagger and they lose the stirrups. lancelot catcheth kay the seneschal at the passing beyond, in the midst of the breast, and thrusteth his spear into him so far that the point remained in the flesh, and kay to-brast his own; and sore grieved was he when he felt himself wounded. the knight that was wounded overthrew one of the two knights. kay is on the ground, and lancelot taketh his horse and setteth messire ywain li aoutres thereupon, that was right sore wounded so as that he scarce might bear it. kay the seneschal maketh his knight remount, and holdeth his sword grasped in his fist as though he had been stark wood. lancelot seeth the two knights sore badly wounded, and thinketh that and he stay longer they may remain on the field. he maketh them go before him, and kay the seneschal followeth them behind, himself the third knight, that is right wroth of the wound he feeleth and the blood that he seeth. lancelot bringeth off his knights like as the wild-boar goeth among the dogs, and kay dealeth him great buffets of his sword when he may catch him, and lancelot him again, and so they depart, fencing in such sort. xv. when kay the seneschal seeth that he may not harm him, he turneth him back, full of great wrath, and his heart pricketh to avenge him thereof and he may get at him, for he is the knight of the court that most he hateth. he is come back to the castle of the hard rock. briant of the isles asketh him who hath wounded him in such sort, and he telleth him that he was bringing thither ywain li aoutres when lancelot rescued him. "and the king," saith briant, "is he repaired thither?" "i have heard no tidings of him at all," saith kay, "for no leisure had i to ask of any." briant and his knights take much thought as concerning lancelot's coming, for they are well persuaded that lancelot hath come for that the king is dead and messire gawain, whereof they make right great joy. kay the seneschal maketh him be disarmed and his wound searched. they tell him he need not fear it shall be his death, but that he is right sore wounded. xvi. lancelot is entered into the castle of cardoil, and his wounded knights withal, and findeth the folk in sore dismay. great dole make they in many places and much lamentation for king arthur, and say that now nevermore may they look for succeur to none, and he be dead and messire gawain. but they give lancelot joy of that he hath rescued messire ywain li aoutres, and were so somewhat comforted and made great cheer. the tidings thereof came to the knights that were in the castle, and they all come forward to meet him save they that were wounded, and so led him up to the castle, and messire ywain with him and the other knight that was wounded. all the knights of the castle were right glad, and ask him tidings of king arthur, and whether he were dead or no. and lancelot telleth them that he was departed from him at the palace meadow, where he won the white destrier and the crown of gold there where the tidings were brought to him that queen guinievre was dead. xvii. "then you tell us of a truth that the king is on live, and messire gawain?" "both, you may be certain!" saith lancelot. thereupon were they gladder than before. they told him of their own mischance, how briant of the isles had put them to the worse, and how kay the seneschal was with him to do them hurt. for he it is that taketh most pains to do them evil. "by my head," saith lancelot, "kay the seneschal ought of right to take heed and with-hold him from doing you ill, but he departed from the field with the point of my spear in him when i rescued messire ywain." xviii. the knights are much comforted of the coming of lancelot, but he is much grieved that he findeth so many of them wounded. meliant of the waste manor is at the castle of the hard rock, and good fellow is it betwixt him and kay the seneschal. he is right glad of the tidings he hath heard, that lancelot is come, and saith that he is the knight of the world that most he hateth, and that he will avenge him of his father and he may meet him. there come before the castle of cardoil one day threescore knights armed, and they seize upon their booty betwixt the castle and the forest. lancelot issueth forth all armed, and seven of the best of the castle with him. he cometh upon them after that they have led away their plunder. he overtaketh one knight and smiteth him with his spear right through the body, and the other knights make an onset upon the others and many to-brake their spears, and much clashing was there of steel on armour; and there fell at the assembly on one side and the other full a score knights, whereof some were wounded right sore. meliant of the waste manor espied lancelot, and right great joy made he of seeing him, and smiteth him so stout a buffet on the shield that he to-breaketh his spear. xix. lancelot smiteth him amidst the breast so grimly that he maketh him bend backwards over the saddle behind, and so beareth him to the ground, legs uppermost, over his horse's croup, and trampleth him under his horse's feet. lancelot was minded to alight to the ground to take him, but briant of the isles cometh and maketh him mount again perforce. the numbers grew on the one side and the other of knights that came from cardoil and from the hard rock. right great was the frushing of lances and the clashing of swords and the overthrow of horses and knights. briant of the isles and lancelot come against each other so stoutly that they pierce their shields and cleave their habergeons, and they thrust with their spears so that the flesh is broken under the ribs and the shafts are all-to-splintered. they hurtle against each other so grimly at the by-passing that their eyes sparkle as it were of stars in their heads, and the horses stagger under them. they hold their swords drawn, and so return the one toward the other like lions. such buffets deal they upon their helms that they beat them in and make the fire leap out by the force of the smiting of iron by steel. and meliant cometh all armed toward lancelot to aid briant of the isles, but lucan the butler cometh to meet him, and smiteth him with his spear so stoutly that he thrusteth it right through his shield and twisteth his arm gainst his side. he breaketh his spear at the by-passing, and meliant also breaketh his, but he was wounded passing sore. xx. thereupon he seizeth him by the bridle and thinketh to lead him away, but the knights and the force of briant rescue him. the clashing of arms lasted great space betwixt briant of the isles and lancelot, and each was mightily wrath for that each was wounded. either seized other many times by the bridle, and each was right fain to lead the other to his own hold, but the force of knights on the one side and the other disparted them asunder. thus the stour lasted until evening, until that the night sundered them. but briant had nought to boast of at departing, for lancelot and his men carried off four of his by force right sore wounded, besides them that remained dead on the field. briant of the isles and meliant betook them back all sorrowful for their knights that are taken and dead. lancelot cometh back to cardoil, and they of the castle make him right great joy of the knights that they bring taken, and say that the coming of the good knight lancelot should be great comfort to them until such time as king arthur should repair back and messire gawain. the wounded knights that were in the castle turned to healing of their wounds, whereof was lancelot right glad. they were as many as five and thirty within the castle. of all the king's knights were there no more save lancelot and the wounded knight that he brought along with him. branch xxv. title i. here the story is silent of lancelot and the knights that are at cardoil, and saith that king arthur and messire gawain are in the castle where the priest told messire gawain how he was born. but they cannot depart thence at their will, for ahuret the bastard that was brother of nabigant of the rock, that messire gawain slew on account of meliot of logres, knoweth well that they are therewithin, and hath assembled his knights and holdeth them within so strait that they may not depart without sore damage. for he hath on the outer side a full great plenty of knights, and the king and messire gawain have with them but only five of the forest and the country that are upon their side, and they hold them so strait within that they may not issue out from thence; yea, the brother of nabigant sweareth that they shall not depart thence until such time as he shall have taken messire gawain, and taken vengeance on his fellow of his brother whom he slew. the king saith to messire gawain that he hath much shame of this that they are so long shut up therewithin, and that he better loveth to die with honour than to live with shame within the castle. so they issued forth, spears in rest, and ahuret and his knights, whereof was there great plenty, made much joy thereat. ii. the king and messire gawain strike among them, and each overthroweth his man; but ahuret hath great shame of this that he seeth his knights put to the worse by so few folk. he setteth his spear in rest and smiteth one of king arthur's knights through the body and beareth him down dead. then returneth he to messire gawain, and buffeteth him so strongly that he pierceth his shield, but he maketh drop his own spear and loseth his stirrups, and messire gawain waxeth wroth and smiteth him so grimly and with such force that he maketh him bend back over the hinder bow of his saddle. but ahuret was strong and of great might, and leapeth back between the bows and cometh toward king arthur that he saw before him, but he knew him not. he left messire gawain, and the king smiteth him with such a sweep that he cutteth off his arm, spear and all. there was great force of knights, so that they ran upon them on all sides; and never would they have departed thence sound and whole, but that thereupon meliot of logres cometh thither with fifteen knights, for that he had heard tidings of messire gawain, how he was besieged in a castle there, where he and king arthur between them were in such plight that they had lost their five knights, so that they were not but only two that defended themselves as best they might, as they that had no thought but to remain there, for the odds of two knights against thirty was too great. iii. thereupon, behold you, meliot of logres with fifteen knights, and they come thither where the king and messire gawain are in such jeopardy, and they strike so stoutly among them that they rescue king arthur and messire gawain from them that had taken them by the bridle, and so slay full as many as ten of them, and put the others to flight, and lead away their lord sore maimed. and messire gawain giveth meliot much thanks of the bounty he hath done, whereby he hath saved them their lives; and he giveth him the castle, and is fain that he hold it of him, for in no place might he have better employment, and that well hath he deserved it of his service in such need. meliot thanketh him much, and prayeth messire gawain instantly that and he shall have need of succour he will come to aid him, in like manner as he would do by him everywhere. and messire gawain telleth him that as of this needeth him not to make prayer, for that he is one of the knights of the world that most he ought of right to love. the king and messire gawain take leave of meliot, and so depart, and meliot garnisheth the castle that was right fair and rich and well-seated. branch xxvi. title i. of meliot the story is here silent, and saith that king arthur and messire gawain have ridden so far that they are come into the isle of avalon, there where the queen lieth. they lodge the night with the hermits, that made them right great cheer. but you may well say that the king is no whit joyful when he seeth the coffin where the queen lieth and that wherein the head of his son lieth. thereof is his dole renewed, and he saith that this holy place of this holy chapel ought he of right to love better than all other places on earth. they depart on the morrow when they have heard mass. the king goeth the quickest he may toward cardoil, and findeth the land wasted and desolate in many places, whereof is he right sorrowful, and understandeth that kay the seneschal warreth upon him with the others. he marvelleth much how he durst do it. he is come to cardoil. when they of the castle know it they come to meet him with right great cheer. the tidings went throughout all the land, and they of the country were right joyous thereof, for the more part believed that he was dead. they of the castle of the hard rock knew it, but little rejoiced they thereat. but kay the seneschal was whole of his wound and bethought him that great folly would he do to remain longer there to war upon the king, for well knew he that and the king held him and did that which he had proclaimed, his end were come. he departeth from the castle, where he had sojourned of a long while, and crossed again stealthily over-sea, and came into little britain, and made fast a castle for fear of the king, that is called chinon, and was there long time, without the king warring upon him, for enough adventures had he in other parts. ii. to cardoil was the king repaired and messire gawain. you may well understand that the land was much rejoiced thereof, and that all the knights were greatly comforted, and knights came back to the court from all parts. they that had been wounded were whole again. briant of the isles stinted not of his pride nor of his outrage, but rather stirred up the war the most he might, he and meliant still more, and said that never would he cease therefrom until death, nor never would he have rest until such time as he should have vengeance of lancelot. the king was one day at cardoil at meat, and there was in the hall great throng of knights, and messire gawain sate beside the king. lancelot sate at the table, and messire ywain the son of king urien, and sagramors li desirous, and ywain li aoutres, and many more other knights round about the table, but there were not so many as there wont to be. messire lucan the butler served before the king of the golden cup. the king looked round about the table and remembered him of the queen. he was bent upon thinking rather than on eating, and saw that his court was much wasted and worsened of her death. and what time the king was musing in such sort, behold you a knight come into the hall all armed before the king; and he leaneth on the staff of his spear. "sir," saith the knight, "listen, so please you, to me, and all these others, listen! madeglant of oriande sendeth me here to you, and commandeth that you yield up the table round to him, for sith that the queen is dead, you have no right thereof, for he is her next of kin and he that hath the best right to have and to hold it; and, so you do not this, you he defieth as the man that disinheriteth him, for he is your enemy in two manner of ways, for the table round that you hold by wrong, and for the new law that you hold. but he sendeth you word by me, that so you will renounce your belief and take queen jandree his sister, that he will cry you quit as of the table round and will be of your aid everywhere. but and if you do not this, have never affiance in him. and so sendeth he word to you by me!" iii. therewith the knight departeth, and the king remaineth all heavy in thought, and when they had eaten, he rose from the tables and all the knights. he speaketh to messire gawain and lancelot, and taketh counsel with all the others. "sir," saith messire gawain, "you will defend yourself the best you may, and we will help you to smite your enemies. great britain is all at your will. you have not as yet lost any castle. nought hath been broken down nor burnt but open ground and cottages and houses, whereof is no great harm done to yourself, and the shame thereof may lightly be amended. king madeglant is of great hardiment as of words, but in arms will he not vanquish you so soon. if that he warreth upon you toward the west, send thither one of the best knights of your court that may maintain the war and defend the land against him." iv. the king sojourned at cardoil of a long space. he believed in god and his sweet mother right well. he brought thither from the castle where the graal was the pattern whereby chalices should be made, and commanded make them throughout all the land so as that the saviour of the world should be served more worshipfully. he commanded also that bells be cast throughout his land after the fashion of the one he had brought, and that each church should have one according to the means thereof. this much pleased the people of his kingdom, for thereby was the land somewhat amended. the tidings came to him one day that briant and meliant were riding through his land with great routs of folk, and were minded to assiege pannenoisance; and the king issued forth of cardoil with great throng of knights all armed, and rode until he espied briant and his people, and briant him again. they ranged their battles on both sides, and came together with such might and so great a shock as that it seemed the earth shook; and they melled together at the assembly with their spears so passing grimly as that the frushing thereof might be heard right far away. some fourteen fell in the assembly that rose up again never more. meliant of the waste manor searcheth for lancelot in the midst of the stour until he findeth him, and runneth upon him right sturdily and pierceth his shield with his spear. lancelot smiteth him such a sweep amidst the breast, that he thrusteth his spear right through his shoulder, and pinneth him so strongly that the shaft is all to-brast, and the end thereof remaineth in his body. and meliant, all stricken through as he is, runneth upon him and passeth his spear right through the shield and through the arm, in such sort that he pinneth it to his side. he passeth beyond and breaketh his spear, and afterward returneth to lancelot, sword in fist, and dealeth him a buffet on the helm so grimly that he all to-battered it in. lancelot waxeth right wroth thereof, and he grieveth the more for that he feeleth him wounded. he cometh toward meliant, sword drawn, and holding him well under cover of his shield and cover of his helm, and smiteth meliant so fiercely that he cleaveth his shoulder down to the rib in such sort that the end of the spear wherewith he had pierced him fell out therefrom. meliant felt himself wounded to the death, and draweth him back all sorrowful, and other knights run upon lancelot and deliver assault. messire ywain and sagramors li desirous and messire gawain were on the other side in great jeopardy, for the people of briant of the isles came from all parts, and waxed more and more, and on all sides the greater number of knights had the upper hand therein. king arthur and briant of the isles were in the midst of the battle, and dealt each other right great buffets. briant's people come thither and take king arthur by the bridle, and the king defendeth himself as a good knight, and maketh a ring about him amongst them that attack him, the same as doth a wild boar amongst the dogs. messire ywain is come thither and lucan the butler, and break through the press by force. thereupon, behold you sagramors li desirous, that cometh as fast as his horse may gallop under him, and smiteth briant of the isles right before his people with such a rush that he beareth him to the ground in a heap, both him and his horse. briant to-brast his thigh bone in the fall that he made. sagramors holdeth sword drawn and would fain have thrust it into his body, when the king crieth to him that he slay him not. v. briant's people were not able to succour their lord. nay, rather, they drew back on all sides, for the stout had lasted of a long space. so they tended the dead and the wounded, of whom were enough on one side and the other. king arthur made carry briant of the isles to cardoil, and bring along the other knights that his own knights had taken. right joyous were the folks at cardoil when the king came back. they bore meliant of the waste manor on his shield to the hard rock, but he scarce lived after. the king made briant of the isles be healed, and held him in prison of a long while, until briant gave him surety of all his lands and became his man. the king made him seneschal of all his lands, and briant served him right well. vi. lancelot was whole of his wound, and all the knights of theirs. king arthur was safely stablished, and redoubted and dreaded of all lands and of his own land like as he wont to be. briant hath forgotten all that is past, and is obedient to the king's commands and more privy is he of his counsel than ever another of the knights, insomuch that he put the others somewhat back, whereof had they much misliking. the felony of kay the seneschal lay very nigh the king's heart, and he said that and any would take vengeance upon him for the same, greatly would he love him thereof, for so disloyally hath he wrought against him that he durst not let the matter be slurred over; and a sore misfortune is it for the world when a man of so poor estate hath slain so high a man as his son for no misdeed, and that strangers ought by as good right as they that knew him or himself take vengeance upon him thereof, so that others might be adread of doing such disloyalty. vii. briant was feared and redoubted throughout all great britain. king arthur had told them that they were all to be at his commandment. and one day while the king was at cardoil, behold you a damsel that cometh into the hail and saith unto him: "sir, queen jandree hath sent me over to you, and biddeth you do that whereof her brother sent you word by his knight. she is minded to be lady and queen of your land, and that you take her to wife, for of high lineage is she and of great power, wherefore she biddeth you by me that you renounce the new law and that you believe in the god in whom she believeth, and, so you do not this, you may not have affiance in your land, for king madeglant hath as now made ready his host to enter into the chief of your land, and hath sworn his oath that he will not end until he shall have passed all the borders of the isles that march upon your land, and shall come upon great britain with all his strength, and so seize the table round that ought to be his own of right. and my lady herself would come hither but for one thing, to wit, that she hath in her such disdain of them that believe in the new law, that she deigneth not behold none of them, for, so soon as she was stablished queen, made she her eyes be covered for that she would not look upon none that were of that believe. but the gods wherein she believeth did so much for her, for that she loveth and worshippeth them, that she may discover her eyes and her face, and yet see not at all, whereof is she right glad, for that the eyes in her head are beautiful and gentle. but great affiance hath she in her brother, that is mighty and puissant, for he hath her in covenant that he will destroy all them that believe in the new law, in all places where he may get at them, and, when he shall have destroyed them in great britain and the other islands, so that my lady might not see none therein, so well is she with the gods wherein she believeth, that she will have her sight again all whole nor until that hour is she fain to see nought." viii. "damsel," saith the king, "i have heard well that which you tell me of this that you have in charge to say; but tell your lady on my behalf, that the law which the saviour of the world hath established by his death and by his crucifixion never will i renounce, for the love that i have in him. but tell her that she believe in god and in his sweet mother, and that she believe in the new law, for by the false believe wherein she abideth is she blinded in such sort, nor never will she see clear until she believe in god. tell her moreover, i send her word that never more shall there be queen in my land save she be of like worth as was queen guenievre." "then i tell you plainly," saith she, "that you will have betimes such tidings as that good for you they will not be." the damsel departeth from cardoil, and cometh back to where the queen was, and telleth her the message king arthur sendeth her. "true," saith she, "i love him better than all in the world, and yet refuseth he my will and my commandment. now may he no longer endure!" she sendeth to her brother king madeglant, and telleth him that she herself doth defy him and he take not vengeance on king arthur and bring him not into prison. branch xxvii. title i. this history saith that the land of this king was full far away from the land of king arthur, and that needs must he pass two seas or ever he should approach the first head of king arthur's land. he arrived in albanie with great force of men with a great navy. when they of the land knew it, they garnished them against him and defended their lands the best they might; then they sent word to king arthur that king madeglant was come in such manner into the land, with great plenty of folk, and that he should come presently to succour them or send them a knight so good as that he might protect them, and that in case he doth not so, the land will be lost. when king arthur understood these tidings, it was not well with him. he asked his knights whom he might send thither. and they say, let him send lancelot thither, for that he is a worthy knight and a kingly, and much understandeth of war, and hath in him as much loyalty as hath ever another that they know. the king maketh him come before him. ii. "lancelot," saith the king, "such affiance have i in you and in your knighthood, that it is my will to send you to the furthest corner of my land, to protect it, with the approval of my knights, wherefore i pray and require you that you do your power herein as many a time have you done already in my service. and i will give you in command forty knights." "sir," saith lancelot, "against your will am i not minded to be, but in your court are there other knights full as good, or better than i, whom you might well send thither. but i would not that you should hold this of cowardize in me, and right willingly will i do your pleasure, for none ought i to serve more willingly than you." the king giveth him much thanks of this that he saith. lancelot departeth from the court, and taketh forty knights with him, and so cometh into the land of albanie where king madeglant hath arrived. when they of the land knew that lancelot was come, great joy had they thereof in their hearts, for ofttimes had they heard tell of him and of his good knighthood. they were all at his commandment, and received him as their champion and protector. iii. king madeglant one day issued forth of his ships to do battle against lancelot and them of the land. lancelot received him right stoutly, and slew many of his folk, and the more part fled and would fain have drawn them to their ships, but lancelot and his people went after and cut a part of them to pieces. king madeglant, with as many of his men as he might, betaketh himself to his own ship privily, and maketh put to sea the soonest he may. they that might not come to the ships remained on dry land, and were so cut up and slain. madeglant went his way discomfited. of ten ships full of men that he had brought he took back with him but two. the land was in peace and assured in safety. lancelot remained there of a long space. they of the country loved him much and gave themselves great joy of his valour and his great bounty, insomuch that most of them say ofttimes that they would fain have such a knight as was he for king, by the goodwill of king arthur, for that the land is too far away; but and if he would set there a knight or other man that might protect the land, they would take it in right good part, and he should hold the land of him, for they might not safeguard it at their will without a champion, for that land without a lord may but little avail. they of the land loved lancelot well, as i tell you. king arthur was at cardoil, and so were his knights together with him. he thought to be assured in his kingdom and to live peaceably; but what time he sate at meat one day in cardoil, behold you thereupon a knight that cometh before the table round without saluting him. "sir," saith he, "where is lancelot?" "sir," saith the king to the knight, "he is not in this country." "by my head," saith the knight, "that misliketh me. wheresoever he be, he is your knight and of your household; wherefore king claudas sendeth you word that he is his mortal enemy, and you also, if so be that for love of him you receive him from this day forward, for he hath slain his sister's son, meliant of the waste manor, and he slew the father of meliant likewise, but the father belongeth not to king claudas. iv. meliant was the son of his sister-german, wherefore much grieveth he of his death." "sir knight," saith the king, "i know not how the covenant may be between them as of this that you tell me, but well know i that king claudas holdeth many a castle that king claudas ought not of right to have, whereof he disherited his father, but meet is it that each should conquer his own right. but so much i tell you plainly, that never will i fail mine own knight and he be such as durst defend himself of murder, but and if he hath no will to do this, then well may i allow that right be done upon him. but, sith that he will not love his own death, neither i nor other ought greatly to love him and he refuse to redress his wrong. when lancelot shall know these tidings, i know well that such is his valour and his loyalty that he will readily answer in reason, and will do all that he ought to do to clear himself of such a charge." "sir," saith the knight, "you have heard well that i have told you. once more, i tell you plainly, king claudas sendeth you word that so you harbour his enemy henceforward and in such manner as you have done heretofore, he will be less than pleased with you." v. with that the knight departeth, and the king remaineth at cardoil. he sendeth for briant of the isles, his seneschal, and a great part of his knights, and demandeth counsel of them what he may do. messire ywain saith that he killed meliant in the king's service, as one that warred upon his land, albeit the king had done him no wrong, and had so made common cause with the king's enemies without demanding right in his court. nor never had meliant appealed lancelot of murder nor of treason, nor required him of the death of his father. rather, lancelot slew him in open war, as one that warred upon his lord by wrong. "sir," saith messire ywain to the king, "howsoever lancelot might have wrought in respect of meliant, your land ought not to be called to account, for you were not in the kingdom, nor knew not that either had done other any wrong, and therefore say i that king claudas will do great wrong and he bring plaint or levy war against you on this account." "messire ywain," saith briant of the isles, "matter of common knowledge is it that lancelot slew the lord of the waste manor and meliant his son after the contention that was betwixt king arthur and me. but, after that he had slain the father, he ought of right to have taken good heed that he did no wrong to the son, but rather ought he to have sought peace and accord." vi. "briant," saith messire gawain, "lancelot is nor here; and, moreover, he is now on the king's business. well know you that meliant came to you and that you made him knight, and that thereafter he warred upon the king's land without reasonable occasion. the king was far away from the land as he that made pilgrimage to the graal. he was told tidings that his land was being put to the worse, and he sent lancelot to protect it. he accordingly maintained the war as best he might until such time as the king was returned. meliant knew well that the king was come back, and that never had he done wrong to none in his court that wished to demand right therein. he neither came thither nor sent, either to do right or to demand right, whether he did so for despite or whether it was for that he knew not how to do it. in the meanwhile he warred upon the king, that had never done him a wrong nor refused to do him a right. lancelot slew him in the king's war and upon his land in defence thereof. there was peace of the war, as was agreed on between you and the king, but and if any should therefore hold lancelot to blame of the death of meliant, meseemeth that therein is he wrong. for the others are not held to answer for them that they slew; but and if you wish to say that lancelot hath not slain him with reason, howsoever he may have wrought aforetime in respect of his father, i am ready to maintain his right by my body on behalf of his." vii. "messire gawain," saith briant of the isles, "you will not as at this time find none that will take up your gage on account of this affair, nor ought any to make enemies of his friends, nor ought you to counsel me so to do. king madeglant warreth upon him and king claudas maketh war upon him also. they will deliver attacks enough. but i should well allow, for the sake of saving his land and keeping his friends, that the king should suffer lancelot to remain at a distance from his court for one year, until tidings should have come to king claudas that he had been bidden leave thereof, so as that king arthur might have his good will and his love." sagramors li desirous leapeth forward. "briant of the isles," saith sagramors, "ill befall him that shall give such counsel to a lord or his knight, and the knight have well served his lord, albeit he may have slain in his wars a knight without murder and without treason, that he should give him his leave! right ill will lancelot hitherto have bestowed his services, and the king on this account give him his leave! after that, let king claudas come! let him lay waste and slay, and right great worship shall king arthur have thereof! i say not this for that lancelot hath need be afeared of king claudas body to body, nor of the best knight in his land, but many things befall whereof one taketh no heed; and so king arthur give leave to lancelot from his court, it will be counted unto him for cowardize, and neither i nor you nor other knight ought never more to have affiance in him." "lord," saith briant of the isles, "better would it avail the king to give lancelot leave for one year, than it would to fight for him ten years and have his land wasted and put to the worse." viii. thereupon, behold you! orguelleux of the launde come, that had not been at the court of a long time, and it had been told him whereof these words were. "briant," saith orguelleux of the launde, "evil fare the knight that would fain grieve and harm with their lord them that have served him well! sith that lancelot is not here, say nought of him that ought not to be said. the court of king arthur hath been as much renowned and made honoured by lancelot as by ever another knight that is in it, and, but for him, never would his court have been so redoubted as it is. for no knight is there so cruel to his foes nor so redoubted throughout all great britain as is lancelot, and, for that king arthur loveth you, make him not that he hate his knights, for such four or such six be there in his castle as may depart therefrom without returning, the loss whereof should scarce be made good by us. lancelot hath well served the king aforetime, and the king well knoweth how much he is worth; and if so be that king claudas purposeth to war on king arthur for lancelot's sake, according as i have heard, without any reason, and king arthur be not more craven than he wont to be, he may well abide his warfare and his strife so treason harm him not. for so many good knights hath king arthur yet, that none knoweth such knights nor such king in the world beside." branch xxviii. title i. this story saith that briant would have been wroth with a will against orguelleux of the launde, had it not been for the king, and orguelleux against him, for orguelleux heeded no danger when anger and ill-will carried him away. therewithal the talk came to an end. when the king learnt the tidings that madeglant was discomfited and that the land of albanie was in peace, he sent word to lancelot to return back. they of the land were very sorrowful when he departed, for great affiance had they in his chivalry. so he came back thither where king arthur was. all they of the land made a great joy, for well loved was he of many, nor were there none that hated him save of envy alone. they told him the tidings of king claudas, and also in what manner briant had spoken. lancelot took no notice outwardly, as he that well knew how to redress all his grievances. he was at the court of a long while, for that king claudas was about to send over thither some one of his knights. briant of the isles would fain that the king should have given him his leave, for more he hated him than ever another knight in the court, sith he it was that many a time had harmed him more than any other. by briant's counsel, king claudas sent his knight to king arthur's court, wherein did he not wisely, for that he thereby renewed a matter whereof afterward came right great mischief, as this title witnesseth. ii. madeglant of oriande heard say that lancelot was repaired back, and that the land of albanie was all void save for the folk of the country. he maketh ready his navy at once and cometh back to the land in great force. he burneth the land and layeth it waste on every side, and doth far worse therein than he did aforetime. they of the land sent over to king arthur and told him of their evil plight, warning him that, and he send them not succour betimes, they will leave the land and yield up the castles, for that they might not hold them longer. he took counsel, the king with his knights, whom he might send thither, and they said that lancelot had already been there and that now another knight should be sent thither. the king sent thither briant of the isles, and lent him forty knights. briant, that loved not the king in his heart, came into the land, but only made pretence of helping him to defend it. one day fell out a battle betwixt madeglant and briant and all their men. briant was discomfited, and had many of his knights killed. madeglant and his people spread themselves over the land and laid the towns in ruins and destroyed the castles, that were disgarnished, and put to death all them that would not believe in their gods, and cut off their heads. iii. all they of the land and country longed with sorrow for lancelot, and said that had he remained there, the land would not have been thus destroyed, nor might they never have protection of no knight but of him alone. briant of the isles returned back, as he that would the war against king arthur should increase on every side, for, what good soever the king may do him, he loveth him not, nor never will so long as he is on live. but no semblant thereof durst he show, for, sith that the best of his knights had been slain in the battle, so had he no power on his side, as against lancelot and the good knights of his fellowship, whereof he would fain that there had been not one. iv. king arthur was at cardoil on one day of whitsuntide. many were the knights that were come to this court whereof i tell you. the king was seated at meat, and the day was fair and clear, and the air clean and fresh. sagramors li desirous and lucan the butler served before the king. and what time they had served of the first meats, therewithal behold you, a quarrel, like as it had been shot from a cross-bow, and striketh in the column of the hall before the king so passing strong that there was not a knight in the hall but heard it when it struck therein. they all looked thereat in great wonderment. the quarrel was like as it were of gold, and it had about it a many costly precious stones. the king saith that quarrel so costly cometh not from a poor place. lancelot and messire gawain say that never have they seen one so rich. it struck so deep in the column that the iron point thereof might not be seen, and a good part of the shaft was also hidden. thereupon, behold you, a damsel of surpassing great beauty that cometh, sitting on a right costly mule, full well caparisoned. she had a gilded bridle and gilded saddle, and was clad in a right rich cloth of silk. a squire followed after her that drove her mule from behind. she came before king arthur as straight as she might, and saluted him right worshipfully, and he made answer the best he might. "sir," saith she, "i am come to speak and demand a boon, nor will i never alight until such time as you shall have granted it to me. for such is my custom, and for this am i come to your court, whereof i have heard such tidings and such witness in many places where i have been, that i know you will not deny me herein." v. "damsel, tell me what boon you would have of me?" "sir," saith she, "i would fain pray and beseech you that you bid the knight that may draw forth this quarrel from this column go thither where there is sore need of him." "damsel," saith the king, "tell me the need." "sir," saith she, "i will tell it you plainly when i shall see the knight that shall have drawn it forth." "damsel," saith the king, "alight! never, please god, shall you go forth of my court denied of that you ask." lucan the butler taketh her between his arms and setteth her to the ground, and her mule is led away to be stabled. when the damsel had washen, she was set in a seat beside messire ywain, that showed her much honour and served her with a good will. he looked at her from time to time, for she was fair and gentle and of good countenance. when they had eaten at the tables, the damsel prayeth the king that he will hasten them to do her business. "sir," saith she, "many a good knight is there within yonder, and right glad may he be that shall draw it forth, for i tell you a right good knight is he, sith that none may achieve this business save he alone." "fair nephew," saith the king, "now set your hand to this quarrel and give it back to the damsel." "ha, sir," saith he, "do me not shame! by the faith that i owe you, i will not set my hand forward herein this day, nor ought you to be wroth hereof. behold, here have you lancelot with you, and so many other good knights, that little worship should i have herein were i to set myself forward before them." "messire ywain," saith the king, "set your hand hereto! it may be that you think too humbly of yourself herein." "sir," saith messire ywain, "nought is there in the world that i would not do for you, but as for this matter i pray you hold me excused." "sagramors, and you, orguelleux of the launde, what will you do?" saith the king. "sir," say they, "when lancelot hath made assay, we will do your pleasure, but before him, so please you, we will not go." vi. "damsel," saith the king, "pray lancelot that he be fain to set his hand, and then the rest shall go after him if needs be." "lancelot," saith the damsel, "by the thing that most you love, make not mine errand bootless, but set your hand to the quarrel and then will the others do that they ought of right to do. for no leisure have i to tarry here long time." "damsel," saith lancelot, "ill do you, and a sin, to conjure me for nought, for so many good knights be here within, that i should be held for a fool and a braggart and i put myself forward before all other." "by my head," saith the king, "not so! rather will you be held as a knight courteous and wise and good, as now you ought to be, and great worship will it be to yourself and you may draw forth the quarrel, and great courtesy will it be to aid the damsel. wherefore i require you, of the faith you owe me, that you set your hand thereto, sith that the damsel prayeth you so to do, before the others." vii. lancelot hath no mind to disobey the king's commandment; and he remembered that the damsel had conjured him by the thing that most he loved; nor was there nought in the world that he loved so much as the queen, albeit she were dead, nor never thought he of none other thing save her alone. then standeth he straight upright, doth off his robe, and cometh straight to the quarrel that is fixed in the column. he setteth his hand thereunto and draweth it forth with a right passing strong wrench, so sturdily that he maketh the column tremble. then he giveth it to the damsel. "sir," saith she to king arthur, "now is it my devoir to tell you plainly of my errand; nor might none of the knights here within have drawn forth the quarrel save only he; and you held me in covenant how he that should draw it forth should do that which i shall require of him, and that he might do it, nor will i pray nor require of him nought that is not reason. needs must he go to the chapel perilous the swiftest he may, and there will he find a knight that lieth shrouded in the midst of the chapel. he will take of the cloth wherein he is shrouded and a sword that lieth at his side in the coffin, and will take them to the castle perilous; and when he shall there have been, he shall return to the castle where he slew the lion in the cavern wherein are the two griffons, and the head of one of them shall he take and bring to me at castle perilous, for a knight there lieth sick that may not otherwise be healed." viii. "damsel." saith lancelot, "i see that you reckon but little of my life, so only that your wish be accomplished." "sir," saith she, "i know as well as you what the enterprise is, nor do i no whit desire your death, for, and were you dead, never would the knight be whole for whose sake you undertake it. and you will see the fairest damsel that is in any kingdom, and the one that most desireth to see you. and, so you tarry not, through her shall you lightly get done that you have to do. see now that you delay it not, but do that is needful swiftly sith that it hath been laid upon you, for the longer you tarry, the greater will be the hazard of mischance befalling you." the damsel departeth from the court and taketh her leave and goeth her way back as fast as she may, and saith to herself: "lancelot, albeit you have these pains and this travail for me, yet would i not your death herein, but of right ought i to rejoice in your tribulation, for into two of the most perilous places in the world are you going. greatly ought i to hate you, for you reft me of my friend and gave him to another, and while i live may i never forget it." the damsel goeth her way, and lancelot departeth from the court and taketh leave of the king and of all the others. he issueth forth of cardoil, all armed, and entereth into the forest that is deep, and so goeth forth a great pace, and prayeth god guide him into safety. branch xxix. title i. therewithal the story is silent of lancelot, and saith that briant of the isles is repaired to cardoil. of the forty knights that he took with him, but fifteen doth he bring back again. thereof is king arthur right sorrowful, and saith that he hath the fewer friends. they of the land of albanie have sent to king arthur and told him that and he would not lose the land for evermore he must send them lancelot, for never saw they knight that better knew how to avenge him on his enemies and to do them hurt than was he. the king asketh briant of the isles how it is that his knights are dead in such sort? "sir," saith briant, "madeglant hath great force of people, and what force of men soever may run upon them, they make a castle of their navy in such sort that none may endure against them, and never did no folk know so much of war as do they. the land lieth far away from you, and more will it cost you to hold it than it is worth; and, if you will believe my counsel, you will trouble yourself no more about it, and they of the country would be well counselled and they did the same." "briant," saith the king, "this would be great blame to myself. no worshipful man ought to be idle in guarding and holding that which is his own. the worshipful man ought not to hold of things so much for their value as for their honour, and if i should leave the land disgarnished of my aid and my counsel, they will take mine, and will say that i have not heart to protect my land; and even now is it great shame to myself that they have settled themselves there and would fain draw away them of the land to their evil law. and i would fain that lancelot had achieved that he hath undertaken, and i would have sent him there, for none would protect the land better than he, and, were he now there along with forty knights and with them of the country, madeglant would make but short stay there." "sir," saith briant, "they of the country reckon nought of you nor any other but lancelot only, and they say that and you send him there they will make him king." "it may well be that they say so," saith the king, "but never would lancelot do aught that should be against my will." "sir," saith briant, "sith that you are not minded to believe me, i will say no more in this matter, but in the end his knighthood will harm you rather than help you and you take no better heed thereof than up to this time you have done." branch xxx. title i. of briant of the isles the story is here silent, whom king the believeth too much in many things, and saith that lancelot goeth his way right through the forest, full heavy in thought. he had not ridden far when he met a knight that was right sore wounded. he asked him whence he came and who had wounded him in such manner. "sir," saith he, "i come from the chapel perilous, where i was not able to defend me against an evil folk that appeared there; and they have wounded me in such sort as you see, and but for a damsel that came thereinto from the forest i should not have escaped on live. but she aided me on such condition that and i should see a knight they call lancelot, or perceval, or messire gawain, i should tell which of them soever i should first meet withal that he should go to her without delay, for much she marvelleth her that none of them cometh into the chapel, for none ought to enter there but good knights only. but much do i marvel, sir, how the damsel durst enter there, for it is the most marvellous place that is, and the damsel is of right great beauty; natheless she cometh thither oftentimes alone into the chapel. a knight lieth in the chapel that hath been slain of late, that was a fell and cruel knight and a hardy." "what was his name?" saith lancelot. "he was named ahuret the bastard," saith the knight; "and he had but one arm and one hand, and the other was smitten off at a castle that messire gawain gave meliot of logres when he succoured him against this knight that lieth in the coffin. and meliot of logres hath slain the knight that had assieged the castle, but the knight wounded him sore, so that he may not be whole save he have the sword wherewith he wounded him, that lieth in the coffin at his side, and some of the cloth wherein he is enshrouded; and, so god grant me to meet one of the knights, gladly will i convey unto him the damsel's message." "sir knight," saith lancelot, "one of them have you found. my name is lancelot, and for that i see you are wounded and in evil plight, i tell it you thus freely." "sir," saith the knight, "now may god protect your body, for you go in great peril of death. but the damsel much desireth to see you, i know not for what, and well may she aid you if she will." ii. "sir knight, god hath brought us forth of many a peril, and so will he also from this and it be his pleasure and his will." with that, lancelot departeth from the knight, and hath ridden so far that he is come at evensong to the chapel perilous, that standeth in a great valley of the forest, and hath a little churchyard about it that is well enclosed on all sides, and hath an ancient cross without the entrance. the chapel and the graveyard are overshadowed of the forest, that is right tall. lancelot entereth therein all armed. he signeth him of the cross and blesseth him and commendeth him to god. he seeth in the grave-yard coffins in many places, and it seemeth him that he seeth folk round about that talk together, the one with another. but he might not hear that they said. he might not see them openly, but very tall they seemed him to be. he is come toward the chapel and alighteth of his horse, and seeth a shed outside the chapel, wherein was provender for horses. he goeth thither to set his own there, then leaneth his shield against his spear at the entrance of the chapel, and entereth in, where it was very dark, for no light was there save only of a single lamp that shone full darkly. he seeth the coffin that was in the midst of the chapel wherein the knight lay. iii. when he had made his orison before an image of our lady, he cometh to the coffin and openeth it as fast as he may, and seeth the knight, tall and foul of favour, that therein lay dead. the cloth wherein he was enshrouded was displayed all bloody. he taketh the sword that lay at his side and lifteth the windingsheet to rend it at the seam, then taketh the knight by the head to lift him upward, and findeth him so heavy and so ungain that scarce may he remove him. he cutteth off the half of the cloth wherein he is enshrouded, and the coffin beginneth to make a crashing so passing loud that it seemed the chapel were falling. when he hath the piece of the cloth and the sword he closeth the coffin again, and forthwith cometh to the door of the chapel and seeth mount, in the midst of the grave-yard as it seemed him, great knights and horrible, and they are appareled as it were to combat, and him thinketh that they are watching for him and espy him. iv. thereupon, behold you, a damsel running, her kirtle girt high about her, right through the grave-yard a great pace. "take heed you move not until such time as it is known who the knight is!" she is come to the chapel. "sir knight, lay down the sword and this that you have taken of the windingsheet of the dead knight!" "damsel," saith lancelot, "what hurt doth it you of this that i have?" "this," saith she, "that you have taken it without my leave; for i have him in charge, both him and the chapel. and i would fain," saith she, "know what is your name?" "damsel," saith he, "what would you gain of knowing my name?" "i know not," saith she, "whether i shall have either loss or gain thereof, but high time already is it that i should ask you it to my sorrow, for many a time have i been deceived therein." "damsel," saith he, "i am called lancelot of the lake." "you ought of right," saith she, "to have the sword and the cloth; but come you with me to my castle, for oftentimes have i desired that you and perceval and messire gawain should see the three tombs that i have made for your three selves." v. "damsel," saith he, "no wish have i to see my sepulchre so early betimes." "by my head," saith she, "and you come not thither, you may not issue from hence without tribulation; and they that you see there are earthly fiends that guard this grave-yard and are at my commandment." "never, damsel, please god," saith lancelot, "may your devils have power to harm a christian." "ha, lancelot," saith she, "i beseech and pray you that you come with me into my castle, and i will save your life as at this time from this folk that are just now ready to fall upon you; and, so you are not willing to do this, yield me back the sword that you have taken from the coffin, and go your way at once." "damsel," saith lancelot, "into your castle may i not go, nor desire i to go, wherefore pray me no more thereof, for other business have i to do; nor will i yield you back the sword, whatsoever may befall me, for a certain knight may not otherwise be healed, and great pity it were that he should die." "ha, lancelot," saith she, "how hard and cruel do i find you towards me! and as good cause have i to be sorry that you have the sword as have you to be glad. for, and you had not had it upon you, never should you have carried it off from hence at your will; rather should i have had all my pleasure of you, and i would have made you be borne into my castle, from whence never should you nave moved again for nought you might do; and thus should i have been quit of the wardenship of this chapel and of coming thereinto in such manner as now oftentimes i needs must come. vi. "but now am i taken in a trap, for, so long as you have the sword, not one of them that are there yonder can do you evil nor hinder you of going." of this was lancelot not sorry. he taketh leave of the damsel, that departeth grudgingly, garnisheth him again of his arms, then mounteth again on his horse and goeth his way right through the grave-yard. he beholdeth this evil folk, that were so foul and huge and hideous, it seemed as if they would devour everything. they made way for lancelot, and had no power to hurt him. he is issued forth of the grave-yard and goeth his way through the forest until daylight appeared about him, fair and clear. he found the hermit there where he had heard mass, then ate a little, then departed and rode the day long until setting of the sun, but could find no hold on the one side nor the other wherein he might lodge, and so was benighted in the forest. vii. lancelot knew not which way to turn, for he had not often been in the forest, and knew not how the land lay nor the paths therein. he rode until he found a little causeway, and there was a path at the side that led to an orchard that was at a corner of the forest, where there was a postern gate whereby one entered, and it was not made fast for the night. and the orchard was well enclosed with walls. lancelot entered in and made fast the entrance, then took off his horse's bridle and let him feed on the grass. he might not espy the castle that was hard by for the abundance of trees and the darkness of the night, and so knew not whither he was arrived. he laid his shield for a pillow and his arms at his side and fell on sleep. but, had he known where it was he had come, little sleep would he have had, for he was close to the cavern where he slew the lion and where the griffons were, that had come in from the forest all gorged of victual, and were fallen on sleep, and it was for them that the postern gate had been left unbolted. a damsel went down from a chamber by a trapdoor with a brachet on her arm for fear of the griffons, and as she went toward the postern-gate to lock it, she espied lancelot, that lay asleep in the midst of the orchard. she ran back to her lady the speediest she might, and said unto her: "up, lady!" saith she, "lancelot is sleeping in the orchard!" she leapt up incontinent and came to the orchard there where lancelot was sleeping, then sate her down beside him and began to look at him, sighing the while, and draweth as near him as she may. "fair lord god," saith she, "what shall i do? and i wake him first he will have no care to kiss me, and if i kiss him sleeping he will awake forthwith; and better hap is it for me to take the most i may even in such-wise than to fail of all, and, moreover, if so be i shall have kissed him, i may hope that he will not hate me thereof, sith that i may then boast that i have had at least so much of that which is his own." she set her mouth close to him and so kissed him the best and fairest she might, three times, and lancelot awakened forthwith. he leapt up and made the cross upon him, then looked at the damsel, and said: "ha, god! where, then, am i?" "fair sweet friend," saith she, "you are nigh her that hath all set her heart upon you and will remove it never." "i cry you mercy, damsel," saith lancelot, "and i tell you, for nought that may befall, one that loveth me, please god, never will i hate! but that which one hath loved long time ought not so soon to fall away from the remembrance of a love that is rooted in the heart, when she hath been proven good and loyal, nor ought one so soon to depart therefrom." viii. "sir," saith she, "this castle is at your commandment, and you will remain therein, and well may you know my thought towards you. would that your thought were the same towards me." "damsel," saith he, "i seek the healing of a knight that may not be healed save i bring him the head of one of your serpents." "certes, sir, so hath it been said. but i bade the damsel say so only for that i was fain you should come back hither to me." "damsel," saith he, "i have come back hither, and so may i turn back again sith that of the serpent's head is there no need." "ha, lancelot," saith she, "how good a knight are you, and how ill default do you make in another way! no knight, methinketh, is there in the world that would have refused me save only you. this cometh of your folly, and your outrage, and your baseness of heart! the griffons have not done my will in that they have not slain you or strangled you as you slept, and, so i thought that they would have power to slay you, i would make them come to slay you now. but the devil hath put so much knighthood into you that scarce any man may have protection against you. better ought i to love you dead than alive. by my head, i would fain that your head were hanged with the others that hang at the entrance of the gateway, and, had i thought you would have failed me in such wise i would have brought my father hither to where you were sleeping, and right gladly would he have slain you." ix. "none that knoweth the covenant between me and you ought to hold you for a good knight; for you have cozened me of my right according to the tenor and custom of the castle if that through perversity or slothfulness you durst not take me when you have won me." "damsel," saith lancelot, "you may say your will. you have done so much for me sithence that i came hither that i ought not to be afeard of you, for traitor is the man or woman that kisseth another to procure his hurt." "lancelot, i took but that i might have, for well i see that none more thereof may i have never again." he goeth to put the bridle on his destrier, and then taketh leave of the damsel, that parteth from him right sorrowfully; but lancelot would no longer tarry, for great throng of knights was there in the castle, and he was not minded to put him in jeopardy for nought. he issueth forth of the orchard, and the damsel looketh after him as long as she may see him. after that, cometh she to her chamber, sad and vexed at heart, nor knoweth she how she may bear herself, for the thing in the world that most she loveth is far away, and no joy may she have thereof. x. lancelot rideth right amidst the forest until it is day, and cometh at the right hour of noon to the castle perilous, where meliot of logres lay. he entered into the castle. the damsel that was at king arthur's court cometh to meet him. "lancelot," saith she, "welcome may you be!" "damsel," saith he, "good adventure may you have!" he was alighted at the mountingstage of the hall. she maketh him mount up the steps and afterward be disarmed. "damsel," saith he, "behold, here is some of the winding-sheet wherein the knight was shrouded, and here is his sword; but you befooled me as concerning the serpent's head." "by my head," saith the damsel, "that did i for the sake of the damsel of the castle of griffons that hateth you not a whit, for so prayed she me to do. now hath she seen you, and so will she be more at ease, and will have no cause to ask me thereof." xi. the damsel leadeth lancelot to where meliot of logres lay. lancelot sitteth him down before him and asketh how it is with him? "meliot," saith the damsel, "this is lancelot, that bringeth you your healing." "ha, sir, welcome may you be!" "god grant you health speedily," said lancelot. "ha, for god's sake," saith meliot, "what doth messire gawain? is he hearty?" "i left him quite hearty when i parted from him," saith lancelot, "and so he knew that you had been wounded in such sort, full sorry would he be thereof and king arthur likewise." "sir," saith he, "the knight that assieged them maimed me in this fashion, but was himself maimed in such sort that he is dead thereof. but the wounds that he dealt me are so cruel and so raging, that they may not be healed save his sword toucheth them and if be not bound with some of the winding-sheet wherein he was shrouded, that he had displayed about him, all bloody." "by my faith," saith the damsel, "behold them here!" "ha, sir," saith he, "gramercy of this great goodness! in every way appeareth it that you are good knight, for, but for the goodness of your knighthood, the coffin wherein the knight lieth had never opened so lightly, nor would you never have had the sword nor the cloth, nor never till now hath knight entered therein but either he were slain there, or departed thence wounded right grievously." they uncover his wounds, and lancelot unbindeth them, and the damsel toucheth him of the sword and the winding-sheet, and they are assuaged for him. and he saith that now at last he knoweth well he need not fear to die thereof. lancelot is right joyful thereof in his heart, for that he seeth he will be whole betimes; and sore pity had it been of his death, for a good knight was he, and wise and loyal. xi. "lancelot," saith the lady, "long time have i hated you on account of the knight that i loved, whom you reft away from me and married to another and not to me, and ofttimes have i put myself to pains to grieve you of some ill deed for that you did to me, for never was i so sorrowful for aught that befell me. he loved me of right great love, and i him again, and never shall that love fail. but now is it far further away from me than it was before, and for this bounty that you have done, never hereafter need you fear aught of my grievance." "damsel," saith lancelot, "gramercy heartily." he was lodged in the castle the night richly and worshipfully, and departed thence on the morrow when he had taken leave of the damsel and meliot, and goeth back a great pace toward the court of king arthur, that was sore dismayed, for madeglant was conquering his islands and great part of his land. the more part of the lands that he conquered had renounced the new law for fear of death and held the false believe. and messire gawain and many other knights were departed from king arthur's court for that the king trusted more in briant of the isles than he did in them. xiii. for many times had king arthur sent knights against madeglant since lancelot was departed from the court, to the intent that they should put to rebuke the enemies of his land, but never saw he one come back from thence nought discomfited. the king of oriande made much boast that he would fulfil for his sister all that she had bidden him, for he thought that king arthur would yield himself up betimes unto him and yield all his land likewise. the king greatly desired the return of lancelot, and said ofttimes that and he had been against his enemies as nigh as the others he had sent they would not have durst so to fly against him. in the midst of the dismay wherein was king arthur, lancelot returned to the court, whereof was the king right joyous. lancelot knew that messire gawain and messire ywain were not there, and that they held them aloof from the court more willingly than they allowed on account of briant of the isles, that king arthur believed in more than ever a one of the others. he was minded to depart in like sort, but the king would not let him, but said to him rather, "lancelot, i pray and beseech you, as him that i love much, that you set your pains and your counsel on defending my land, for great affiance have i in you." "sir," saith lancelot, "my aid and my force shall fail you never; take heed that yours fail not me." "of right ought i not to fail you," saith the king, "nor will i never, for i should fail myself thereby." xiv. the history saith that he gave lancelot forty knights in charge, and that he is come into an island where king madeglant was. or ever he knew of his coming, lancelot had cut off his retreat, for he cut his cables and beat his anchors to pieces and broke up his ships. after that, he struck among the people of madeglant, and slew as many of them as he would, he and his knights. the king thought to withdraw him back, both him and his fellowship, into safety as he wont, but he found himself right ill bested. lancelot drove him toward the sea, whither he fled, but only to find himself no less discomfit there, and slew him in the midst of his folk, and all his other knights were slain and cast into the sea. this island was freed of him by lancelot, and from thence he went to the other islands that madeglant had conquered and set again under the false law, and there did away the false law from them that had been set thereunder by fear of death, and stablished the land in such sort as it had been tofore. he roved so long from one island to another that presently he came to albanie where he had succoured them at first. xv. when they of the land saw him come, they well knew that the king of oriande was dead and the islands made free, whereof made they great joy. the land was some deal emptied of the most puissant and the strongest, for they were dead along with their lord. lancelot had brought with him some of the best knights and most puissant. he was come with a great navy into the land and began to destroy it. they of the land were misbelievers, for they believed in false idols and in false images. they saw that they might not defend the land, sith that their lord was dead. the more part let themselves be slain for that they would not renounce the evil law, and they that were minded to turn to god were saved. the kingdom was right rich and right great that lancelot conquered and attorned to the law of our lord in such wise. he made break all the false images of copper and fatten wherein they had believed tofore, and whereof false answers came to them of the voices of devils. thereafter he caused be made crucifixes and images in the likeness of our lord, and in the likeness of his sweet mother, the better to confirm them of the kingdoms in the law. xvi. the strongest and most valiant of the land assembled one day and said that it was high time a land so rich should no longer be without a king. they all agreed and came to lancelot and told him how they would fain that he should be king of the realm he had conquered, for in no land might he be better employed, and they would help him conquer other realms enow. lancelot thanked them much, but told them that of this land nor of none other would he be king save by the good will of king arthur only; for that all the conquest he had made was his, and by his commandment had he come thither, and had given him his own knights in charge that had helped him to reconquer the lands. xvii. king claudas had heard tell how lancelot had slain the king of oriande and that none of the islands might scarce be defended against him. he had no liking of him, neither of his good knighthood nor of his conquest, for well remembered he of the land that he had conquered from king ban of benoic that was lancelot's father, and therefore was he sorry of the good knighthood whereof lancelot was everywhere held of worth and renown, for that he was tenant of his father's land. king claudas sent a privy message to briant and bore him on hand that, and he might do so much as that king arthur should forbid lancelot his court, and that it were ill with him with the king, he would have much liking thereof and would help him betimes to take vengeance on his enemies, for, so lancelot were forth of his court, and messire gawain, the rest would scarce abide long time, and thus should they have all their will of king arthur's land. briant sent word back to king claudas that messire gawain and messire ywain began to hold them aloof from the court, and that as for most part of the other he need not trouble him a whit, for he might so deal as that in short time lancelot should be well trounced, would they or nould they. xviii. tidings are come to king arthur's court that the king of oriande is dead and his people destroyed, and that lancelot hath conquered his kingdom and slain the king, and reconquered all the lands wherein he had set the false law and the false believe by his force and by dread of him. and the more part say in the court that they of the realm of oriande nor those of the other islands will not let lancelot repair to court, and are doing their endeavour to make him king; and nought is there in the world, and he command them, they will not do, and that never was no folk so obedient to any as are they of all these lands to him. briant of the isles cometh one day privily to king arthur, and saith: "sir," saith he, "much ought i to love you, for that you have made me seneschal of your land; whereby meseemeth you have great affiance in me, and my bounden duty is it to turn aside that which is evil from you and to set forward your good everywhere, and, did i not so, no whit loyal should i be towards you. xix. "tidings are come to me of late that they of the kingdom of oriande and albanie and of the other islands that are your appanages have all leagued together, and have sworn and given surety that they will aid one another against you, and they are going presently to make lancelot their king, and will come down upon your land as speedily as they may wheresoever he may dare lead them, and they have sworn their oath that they will conquer your kingdom just as you now hold it, and, so you be not garnished against them betimes, you may have thereof sore trouble to your own body as well as the loss whereof i tell you." "by my head," saith the king, "i believe not that lancelot durst think this, nor that he would have the heart to do me evil." "by my head," saith briant, "long time have i had misgivings both of this and of him, but one ought not to tell one's lord all that one knows, for that one cannot be sure either that it be not leasing or that folk wish to meddle in his affairs out of envy. but nought is there in the world that i will conceal from you henceforward for the love that you bear me and for that you have affiance in me, and so may you well have, for i have abandoned my land for you that marched with your own, whereby you may sorely straiten your enemies, for well you know that in your court is there no knight of greater puissance than am i." xx. "by my head," saith the king, "i am fain to love you and hold you dear, nor shall you never be removed from my love nor from my service for nought that may be said of any, so manifestly have i seen your goodness and your loyalty. i will bid lancelot by my letters and under my seal that he come to speak with me, for sore need have i thereof, and when he shall be here we will take account of this that you have told me, for this will i not, that he nor none other that may be my knight shall dare rise in arms against me, for such power ought lord of right to have over his knight, and to be feared and dreaded of him, for elsewise is he feeble, and lordship without power availeth nought." xxi. the king sent his letters by his messenger to lancelot. the messenger sought him until he found him in the kingdom of oriande, and delivered him the letters and the seal of the king. so soon as he knew that which the letters say, he took leave of them of the land, that were right sorrowful. he departed thence and came back to cardoil, bringing with him all the knights that he had in charge, and told the king that he had reconquered for him all the islands, and that the king of oriande was dead and that his land was attorned to the law of our lord. the king bade briant of the isles that he should make forty knights come armed under their cloaks ready to take lancelot prisoner as soon as he should command them. the tidings come to lancelot, there where he was in his hostel, that the king had made knights come all armed to the palace. lancelot bethought him that some need had arisen and that he would arm himself likewise, so he made him be armed and came to the hall where the king was. "sir," saith briant, "lancelot thinketh him of something, for he hath armed himself at his hostel, and is come hither in such manner and at such time without your leave, and he may do something more yet. you ought well to ask him wherefore he wisheth to do you evil, and in what manner you have deserved it." he biddeth him be called before him. "lancelot," saith the king, "wherefore are you armed?" "sir, i was told that knights had come in hither armed, and i was feared lest some mishap had befallen you, for i would not that any evil should betide you." "you come hither for another thing," saith the king, "according to that i have been given to wit, and, had the hall been void of folk, you hoped to have slain me." the king commandeth him be taken forthwith without gainsay of any. the knights that were armed did off their cloaks and leapt toward him on all sides, for they durst not disobey the king's commandment, and the more part were men of briant of the isles. xxii. lancelot seeth them coming towards him with their keen swords and saith, "by my head, an evil guerdon do you return me of the services i have done for you." the knights come to him all together swords drawn, and run upon him all at once. he goeth defending himself, as far as the wall of the hall, whereof he maketh a castle to his back, but before he cometh thither he hath slain or wounded seven. he began to defend himself right stoutly on all sides, but they gave him great buffets of their swords, and no fair play is it of thirty or forty blows to one. nor ought none believe that one single knight might deliver himself from so many men, seeing that they were eager to take him and do him a hurt. lancelot defended him the best he might, but the numbers were against him, and, anyway, or ever he let himself be taken he sold himself right dear, for of the forty knights he harmed at least a score, and of them was none that was not sore wounded and the most part killed; and he caught briant of the isles, that was helping to take him, so sore that he made his sword drink the blood of his body, in such sort that the wound was right wide. the knights laid hold on lancelot on all sides, and the king commanded that none should harm him, but that they should bring him to his dungeon in the prison. lancelot marvelled him much wherefore the king should do this, nor might he understand wherefore this hatred was come so lately. he is put in the prison so as the king hath commanded. all they of the court are sorry thereof, save briant and his knights, but well may he yet aby it dear, so god bring lancelot out or prison. some say, "now is the king's court lost, sith that messire gawain and the other knights have thus forsaken it, and lancelot is put in prison for doing well, ill trust may the others have therein." they pray god yet grant briant of the isles an evil guerdon, for well know they that all this is of his procurement. and of an evil guerdon shall he not fail so god protect lancelot and bring him forth of prison. branch xxxi. title i. thereupon the story is silent of lancelot, and cometh back to perceval that had not heard these tidings, and if he had known them, right sorrowful would he have been thereof. he is departed from his uncle's castle that he hath reconquered, and was sore grieved of the tidings that the damsel that was wounded brought him of his sister that aristor had carried away by force to the house of a vavasour. he was about to take her to wife and cut off her head on the day of the new year, for such was his custom with all them that he took. perceval rideth one day, all heavy in thought, and taketh his way as fast as he may toward the hermitage of his uncle king hermit. he is come thither on an eventide, and seeth three hermits issued forth of the hermitage. he alighteth and goeth to meet them so soon as he seeth them. "sir," say the hermits, "enter not in, for they are laying out a body there." "who is it?" saith perceval. "sir," say the hermits, "it is the good king pelles that aristor slew suddenly after mass on account of one of his nephews, perceval, whom he loveth not, and a damsel is laying out the body there within." when perceval heard the news or his uncle that is dead, thereof was he right grieved at heart, and on the morrow was he at his uncle's burial. when mass was sung, perceval would have departed, as he that had great desire to take vengeance on him that had done him such shame. ii. thereupon behold you the damsel that is his. "sir," saith she, "full long time have i been seeking you. behold here the head of a knight that i carry hanging at the bow of my saddle, in this rich casket of ivory that you may see, and by none ought he to be avenged but by you alone. discharge me thereof, fair sir, of your courtesy, for i have carried it too long a time, and this king arthur knoweth well and messire gawain, for each hath seen me at court along with the head, but they could give me no tidings of you, and my castle may i not have again until such time as he be avenged." "who, then, was the knight, damsel?" saith perceval. "sir, he was son of your uncle bruns brandalis, and were he on live, would have been one of the best knights in the world." "and who slew him, damsel?" saith perceval. "sir, the knight of the deep forest that leadeth the lion, foully in treason there where he thought him safe. for had he been armed in like manner as was the other, he would not have slain him." "damsel," said perceval, "this grieveth me that he hath slain him, and it grieveth me likewise of mine uncle king hermit, whom i would avenge more willingly than all the men in the world, for he was slain on my account." iii. "most disloyal was this knight, and foully was he fain to avenge him when he slew a holy man, a hermit that never wished him ill on account of me and of none other. right glad shall i be and i may find the knight, and so, methinketh, will he be of me, for me he hateth as much as i do him, as i have been told, and lord god grant, howsoever he may take it, that i may find him betimes." "sir," saith the damsel, "so outrageous a knight is he that no knight is there in the world so good but he thinketh himself of more worth than he, and sith that he hateth you with a will, and he knew that you were here, you and another, or you the third, he would come now at once, were he in place and free." "damsel," saith perceval, "god give him mischief of his coming, come whensoever he may!" "sir," saith she, "the deep forest there, where the red knight leadeth the lion, is towards the castle of aristor, and, or ever you come by adventure into the forest, you may well hear some tidings of him!" branch xxxii. incipit. here beginneth the last branch of the graal in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost. title i. the story saith that perceval went his way through the forest. he saw pass before him two squires, and each carried a wild deer trussed behind him that had been taken by hounds. perceval cometh to them a great pace and maketh them abide. "lords," saith he, "whither will you carry this venison?" "sir," say the squires, "to the castle of ariste, whereof aristor is lord." "is there great throng of knights at the castle?" saith perceval. "sir," say the squires, "not a single one is there, but within four days will be a thousand there, for messire is about to marry, whereof is great preparation toward. he is going to take the daughter of the widow lady, whom he carried off by force before her castle of camelot, and hath set her in the house of one of his vavasours until such time as he shall espouse her. but we are right sorrowful, for she is of most noble lineage and of great beauty and of the most worth in the world. so is it great dole that he shall have her, for he will cut her head off on the day of the new year, sith that such is his custom." "and one might carry her off," saith perceval, "would he not do well therein?" "yea, sir!" say the squires, "our lord god would be well pleased thereof, for such cruelty is the greatest that ever any knight may have. moreover, he is much blamed of a good hermit that he hath slain, and every day desireth he to meet the brother of the damsel he is about to take, that is one of the best knights in the world. and he saith that he would slay him more gladly than ever another knight on live." "and where is your lord?" saith perceval, "can you give me witting?" "yea, sir," say the squires, "we parted from him but now in this forest, where he held melly with a knight that seemeth us to be right worshipful and valiant, and saith that he hath for name the knight hardy. and for that he told aristor that he was a knight of perceval's and of his fellowship, he ran upon him, and then commanded us to come on, and said that he should vanquish him incontinent. we could still hear just now the blows of the swords yonder where we were in the forest, and aristor is of so cruel conditions that no knight may pass through this forest, but he is minded to slay him." ii. when perceval heard these tidings, he departed from the squires, and so soon as they were out of sight he goeth as great pace thither as they had come thence. he had ridden half a league welsh when he heard the buffets they were dealing one another on the helm with their swords, and right well pleased was he for that the knight hardy held so long time melly with aristor in whom is there so much cruelty and felony. but perceval knew not to what mischief the knight hardy had been wounded through the body of a spear, so that the blood rayed out on all sides; and aristor had not remained whole, for he was wounded in two places. so soon as perceval espied them, he smiteth his horse of his spurs, lance in rest, and smiteth aristor right through the breast with such force that he maketh him lose his stirrups and lie down backwards over the hinder bow of the saddle. after that saith he: "i am come to my sister's wedding, of right ought it not to be made without me." iii. aristor, that was full hardy, set himself again betwixt the bows of the saddle in great wrath when he seeth perceval, and cometh towards him like as if he were wood mad, sword in hand, and dealeth him such a buffet on the helm as that it is all dinted in thereby. the knight hardy draweth back when he seeth perceval, for he is wounded to the death through the body. he had held the stout so long time that he could abide no more. but or ever he departed, he had wounded aristor in two places right grievously. perceval felt the blow that was heavy, and that his helmet was dinted in. he cometh back to aristor and smiteth him so passing strongly that he thrusteth the spear right through his body and overthroweth him and his horse all of a heap. then he alighteth over him and taketh off the coif of his habergeon and unlaceth his ventail. "what have you in mind to do?" said aristor. "i will cut off your head," said perceval, "and present it to my sister whom you have failed." "do not so!" saith aristor, "but let me live, and i will forgo my hatred." "your hatred might i well abide henceforward, meseemeth," saith perceval, "but one may not abide you any longer, for well have you deserved this, and god willeth not to bear with you." he smiteth off his head incontinent and hangeth it at his saddle-bow, and cometh to the knight hardy, and asketh him how it is with him. "sir," saith he, "i am very nigh my death, but i comfort me much of this that i see you tofore i die." perceval is remounted on his horse, then taketh his spear and leaveth the body of the knight in the midst of the launde, and so departeth forthwith and leadeth the knight hardy to a hermitage that was hard by there, and lifteth him down of his horse as speedily as he may. after that, he disarmed him and made him confess to the hermit, and when he was shriven of his sins and repentant, and his soul had departed, he made him be enshrouded of the damsel that followed him, and bestowed his arms and his horse on the hermit for his soul, and the horse of aristor likewise. iv. when mass had been sung for the knight that was dead, and the body buried, perceval departed. "sir," saith the damsel that followed him, "even now have you much to do. of this cruel knight and felonous you have avenged this country. now, god grant you find betimes the red knight that slew your uncle's son. i doubt not but that you will conquer him, but great misgiving have i of the lion, for it is the cruellest beast that saw i ever, and he so loveth his lord and his horse as never no beast loved another so much, and he helpeth his lord right hardily to defend him." v. perceval goeth toward the great deep forest without tarrying, and the damsel after. but, or ever he came thither, he met a knight that was wounded right sore, both he and his horse. "ha, sir," saith he to perceval, "enter not into this forest, whence i have scarce escaped with much pains. for therein is a knight that had much trouble of rescuing me from his lion; and no less am i in dread to pass on forward, for there is a knight that is called aristor, that without occasion runneth upon the knights that pass through the forest." "of him," saith the damsel, "need you have no fear, for you may see his head hanging at the knight's saddle-bow." vi. "certes," saith the knight, "never yet was i so glad of any tidings i have heard, and well know i that he that slew him is not lacking of great hardiment." the knight departeth from perceval, but the lion had wounded his horse so passing sore in the quarters that scarce could he go. "sir knight," saith perceval, "go to the hermit in the deep forest, and say i bade him give you the destrier i left with him, for well i see that you have sore need thereof, and you may repay him in some other manner, for rather would he have something else than the horse." the knight goeth him much thanks of this that he saith. he cometh to the hermit the best he may, and telleth him according as he had been charged, and the hermit biddeth him take which destrier he will for the love of the knight that had slain the evil-doer, that did so many evil deeds in this forest. "and i will lend you them both twain if you will." "sir," saith the knight, "i ask but for one of them." he taketh aristor's horse, that seemed him the better, and straightway mounteth thereon, and abandoneth his own, that might go no further. he taketh leave of the hermit, and telleth him he will right well repay him, but better had it befallen him and he had not taken the horse, for thereof was he slain without reason thereafter. a knight that was of the household of aristor overtook him at the corner of the forest, and knew his lord's horse and had heard tell that aristor was dead, wherefore he went into the forest to bury him. he smote the knight through the body with his spear and so slew him, then took the horse and went away forthwith. but, had perceval known thereof, he would have been little glad, for that he asked the knight to go for the horse, but he did it only for the best, and for that he rode in great misease. vii. perceval goeth toward the deep forest, that is full broad and long and evil seeming, and when he was entered in he had scarce ridden a space when he espied the lion that lay in the midst of a launde under a tree and was waiting for his master, that was gone afar into the forest, and the lion well knew that just there was the way whereby knights had to pass, and therefore had abided there. the damsel draweth her back for fear, and perceval goeth toward the lion that had espied him already, and came toward him, eyes on fire and jaws yawning wide. perceval aimeth his spear and thinketh to smite him in his open mouth, but the lion swerved aside and he caught him in the fore-leg and so dealt him a great wound, but the lion seizeth the horse with his claws on the croup, and rendeth the skin and the flesh above the tail. the horse, that feeleth himself wounded, catcheth him with his two hinder feet or ever he could get away, so passing strongly that he breaketh the master-teeth in his jaw. the lion gave out a roar so loud that all the forest resounded thereof. the red knight heareth his lion roar, and so cometh thither a great gallop, but, or ever he was come thither, perceval had slain the lion. when the knight saw his lion dead, right sorry was he thereof. "by my head," saith he to perceval, "when you slew my lion you did it as a traitor!" "and you," saith perceval, "adjudged your own death when you slew my uncle's son, whose head this damsel beareth." perceval cometh against him without more words, and the knight in like manner with a great rushing, and breaketh his spear upon his shield. perceval smiteth him with such force that he thrusteth his spear right through his body and beareth him to the ground dead beside his horse. perceval alighteth of his own when he hath slain the knight, and then mounteth him on the red knight's horse for that his own might carry him no longer. viii. "sir," saith the damsel, "my castle is in the midst of this forest, that the red knight reft away from me long ago. i pray you now come with me thither that i may be assured thereof in such sort as that i may have it again wholly." "damsel," saith perceval, "this have i no right to deny you." they ride amidst the forest so long as that they come to the castle where the damsel ought to be. it stood in the fairest place of all the forest, and was enclosed of high walls battlemented, and within were fair-windowed halls. the tidings were come to the castle that their lord was dead. perceval and the damsel entered in. he made the damsel be assured of them that were therein, and made them yield up her castle that they well knew was hers of right inheritance. the damsel made the head be buried that she had carried so long, and bade that every day should mass be done within for the soul of him. when perceval had sojourned therein as long as pleased him, he departed thence. the damsel thanked him much of the bounty he had done her as concerning the castle that she had again by him, for never again should it be reconquered of another, as well she knew. ix. josephus telleth us in the scripture he recordeth for us, whereof this history was drawn out of latin into romance, that none need be in doubt that these adventures befell at that time in great britain and in all the other kingdoms, and plenty enow more befell than i record, but these were the most certain. the history saith that perceval is come into a hold, there where his sister was in the house of a vavasour that was a right worshipful man. each day the damsel made great dole of the knight that was to take her, for the day was already drawing somewhat nigh, and she knew not that he was dead. full often lamented she the widow lady her mother, that in like sort made great dole for her daughter. the vavasour comforted the damsel right sweetly and longed for her brother perceval, but little thought he that he was so near him. and perceval is come to the hold all armed, and alighteth at the mounting-stage before the hall. the vavasour cometh to meet him, and marvelleth much who he is, for the more part believed that he was one of aristor's knights. "sir," saith the vavasour, "welcome may you be!" "good adventure may you have, sir!" saith perceval. he holdeth aristor's head in his hand by the hair, whereof the vavasour marvelled much that he should carry a knight's head in such-wise. perceval cometh to the master-chamber of the hall, where his sister was, that bewailed her right sore. x. "damsel," saith he to his sister, "weep not, for your wedding hath failed. you may know it well by this token!" he throweth the head of aristor before her on the ground, then saith unto her: "behold here the head of him that was to take you!" the damsel heareth perceval her brother that was armed, and thereby she knoweth him again. she leapeth up and maketh him the greatest joy that ever damsel made to knight. she knoweth not what to do. so joyful is she, that all have pity on her that see her of her weeping for the joy that she maketh of her brother. the story saith that they sojourned therewithin and that the vavasour showed them much honour. the damsel made cast the knight's head into a river that ran round about the hold. the vavasour was right glad of his death for the great felony that he had in him, and for that needs must the damsel die in less than a year and she had espoused him. xi. when perceval had been therein as long as it pleased him, he thanked the vavasour much of the honour he had done him and his sister, and departed, he and his sister along with him on the mule whereon she had been brought thither. perceval rode so long on his journeys that he is come to camelot and findeth his mother in great dole for her daughter that should be queen, for she thought surely that never should she see her more. full sorrowful was she moreover of her brother, the king hermit that had been killed in such-wise. perceval cometh to the chamber where his mother was lying and might not stint of making dole. he taketh his sister by the hand and cometh before her. so soon as she knoweth him she beginneth to weep for joy, and kisseth them one after the other. "fair son," saith she, "blessed be the hour that you were born for by you all my great joy cometh back to me! now well may i depart, for i have lived long enow." "lady," saith he, "your life ought to be an offence to none, for to none hath it ever done ill, but, please god, you shall not end in this place, but rather you shall end in the castle that was your cousin's german, king fisherman, there where is the most holy graal and the sacred hallows are." "fair son," saith she, "you say well, and there would i fain be." "lady," saith he, "god will provide counsel and means whereby you shall be there; and my sister, and she be minded to marry, will we set in good place, where she may live worshipfully." "certes, fair brother," saith she, "none shall i never marry, save god alone." "fair son," saith the widow lady, "the damsel of the car goeth to seek you, and i shall end not until such time as she hath round you." "lady," saith he, "in some place will she have tidings of me and i of her." "fair son," saith the lady, "the damsel is here within that the felonous knight wounded through the arm, that carried of your sister, but she is healed." "lady," saith he, "i am well avenged." he telleth her all the adventures until the time when he reconquered the castle that was his uncle's. he sojourned long time with his mother in the castle, and saw that the land was all assured and peaceable. he departed thence and took his leave, for he had not yet achieved all that he had to do. his mother remained long time, and his sister, at camelot, and led a good life and a holy. the lady made make a chapel right rich about the sepulchre that lay between the forest and camelot, and had it adorned of rich vestments, and stablished a chaplain that should sing mass there every day. sithence then hath the place been so builded up as that there is an abbey there and folk of religion, and many bear witness that there it is still, right fair. perceval was departed from camelot and entered into the great forest, and so rode of a long while until he had left his mother's castle far behind, and came toward evening to the hold of a knight that was at the head of the forest. he harboured him therein, and the knight showed him much honour and made him be unarmed, and brought him a robe to do on. perceval seeth that the knight is a right simple man, and that he sigheth from time to time. xii. "sir," saith he, "meseemeth you are not over joyous." "certes, sir," saith the knight, "i have no right to be, for a certain man slew mine own brother towards the deep forest not long since, and no right have i to be glad, for a worshipful man was he and a loyal." "fair sir," saith perceval, "know you who slew him?" "fair sir, it was one of aristor's knights, for that he was sitting upon a horse that had been aristor's, and whereon another knight had slain him, and a hermit had lent him to my brother for that the red knight's lion had maimed his own." perceval was little glad of these tidings, for that he had sent him that had been slain on account of the horse. "sir," saith perceval, "your brother had not deserved his death, methinketh, for it was not he that slew the knight." "no, sir, i know it all of a truth, but another, that slew the red knight of the deep forest." perceval was silent thereupon. he lay the night at the hostel and was harboured right well, and on the morrow departed when he had taken leave. he wandered until he came to a hermitage there where he heard mass. after the service, the hermit came unto him and said: "sir," saith he, "in this forest are knights all armed that are keeping watch for the knight that slew aristor and the red knight and his lion as well. wherefore they meet no knight in this forest but they are minded to slay him for the knight that slew these twain." "sir," saith perceval, "god keep me from meeting such folk as would do me evil." xiii. with that he departed from the hermitage and took leave of the hermit, and rideth until that he is come into the forest and espieth the knight that sitteth on aristor's horse for that he hath slain the other knight. a second knight was with him. they abide when they see perceval. "by my head," saith one of them, "this same shield bare he that slew aristor, as it was told us, and, like enough, it may be he." they come toward him, full career. perceval seeth them coming, and forgetteth not his spurs, but rather cometh against them the speediest he may. the two knights smote him upon the shield and brake their spears. perceval overtaketh him that sitteth on aristor's horse and thrusteth an ell's length of his spear through his body and so overthroweth him dead. xiv. after that, he cometh to the other knight, that fain would have fled, and smiteth off the shoulder close to his side, and he fell dead by the side of the other. he taketh both twain of their destriers, and knotteth the reins together and driveth them before him as far as the house of the hermit, that had issued forth of his hermitage. he delivered unto him the horse of aristor and the other of the knight that he had sent thither. "sir," saith perceval, "well i know that and you shall see any knight that hath need of it and shall ask you, you will lend him one of these horses, for great courtesy is it to aid a worshipful man when one seeth him in misfortune." "sir," saith the hermit, "but now since, were here three knights. so soon as they knew that the two were dead whose horses you had delivered unto me, they departed, fleeing the speediest they might. i praised them much of their going, and told them they did well not to die on such occasion, for that the souls of knights that die under arms are nigher to hell than to paradise." xv. perceval, that never was without sore toil and travail so long as he lived, departed from the hermitage and went with great diligence right through the midst of the forest, and met a knight that came a great gallop over against him. he knew perceval by the shield that he bare. "sir," saith he, "i come from the castle of the black hermit, there where you will find the damsel of the car as soon as you arrive, wherefore she sendeth you word by me that you speed your way and go to her to ask for the chess-board that was taken away from before messire gawain, or otherwise never again will you enter into the castle you have won. sir," saith he, "haste, moreover, on account of a thing most pitiful that i heard in this forest. i heard how a knight was leading a damsel against her will, beating her with a great scourge. i passed by the launde on the one side and he on the other, so that i espied him through the underwood that was between us; but it seemed me that the damsel was bemoaning her for the son of the widow lady that had given her back her castle, and the knight said that for love of him he would put her into the serpent's pit. an old knight and a priest went after the knight to pray him have mercy on the damsel, but so cruel is he, that so far from doing so, he rather waxed sore wroth for that they prayed it of him, and made cheer and semblant as though he would have slain them." the knight departed from perceval and taketh leave and perceval goeth along the way that the knight had come, thinking that he would go after the damsel for he supposeth certainly that it is she to whom he gave back her castle, and would fain know what knight it is that entreateth her in such fashion. he hath ridden until he is come into the deepest of the forest and the thickest. he bideth awhile and listeneth and heareth the voice of the damsel, that was in a great valley where the serpent's pit was, wherein the knight was minded to set her. she cried right loud for mercy, and wept, and the knight gave her great strokes of the scourge to make her be still. perceval had no will to tarry longer, but rather cometh thither as fast as he may. xvi. so soon as the damsel seeth perceval, she knoweth him again. she claspeth her two hands together and saith, "ha, sir, for god's sake have mercy! already have you given me back the castle whereof this knight would reave me." the horse whereon perceval sat, the knight knew him. "sir," saith he, "this horse was the horse of messire the red knight of the deep forest! now at last know i that it was you that slew him!" "it may well be," saith perceval, "and if that i slew him, good right had i to do so, for he had cut off the head of a son of mine uncle, the which head this damsel carried of a long time." "by my head," saith the knight, "sith that you slew him, you are my mortal enemy!" so he draweth off in the midst of the launde and perceval likewise, and then they come together as fast as their horses may carry them, and either giveth other great buffets in the midst of their breast with their spears the most they may. perceval smiteth the knight so passing hard that he overthroweth him to the ground right over the croup of his horse, and in the fall that he made, he to-brake him the master-bone of his leg so that he might not move. and perceval alighteth to the ground and cometh where the knight lay. and he crieth him mercy that he slay him not. and perceval telleth him he need not fear death, nor that he is minded to slay him in such plight as he is, but that like as he was fain to make the damsel do he will make him do. he maketh alight the other old knight and the priest, then maketh the knight be carried to the pit of the serpent and the worms, whereof was great store. the pit was dark and deep. when that the knight was therein he might not live long for the worms that were there. the damsel thanked perceval much of this goodness and of the other that he had done her. she departeth and returneth again to her castle, and was assured therein on all sides, nor never thereafter had she dread of no knight, for the cruel justice that perceval had done on this one. xvii. the son of the widow lady of his good knighthood knoweth not how to live without travail. he well knoweth that when he hath been at the black hermit's castle, he will in some measure have achieved his task. but many another thing behoveth him to do tofore, and little toil he thinketh it, whereof shall god be well pleased. he hath ridden so far one day and another, that he came into a land where he met knights stout and strong there where god was neither believed in nor loved, but where rather they adored false images and false lord-gods and devils that made themselves manifest. he met a knight at the entrance of a forest. "ha, sir!" saith he to perceval, "return you back! no need is there for you to go further, for the folk of this island are not well-believers in god. i may not pass through the land but by truce only. the queen of this land was sister of the king of oriande, that lancelot killed in the battle and all his folk, and seized his land, wherein all the folk were misbelievers. now throughout all the land they believe in the saviour of the world. thereof is she passing sorrowful, and hateth all them that believe in the new law, insomuch as that she would not look upon any that believed, and prayed to her gods that never might she see none until such time as the new law should be overthrown; and god, that hath power to do this, blinded her forthwith. now she supposeth that the false gods wherein she believeth have done this, and saith that when the new law shall fall, she will have her sight again by the renewal of these gods, and by their virtue, nor, until this hour, hath she no desire to see. and i tell you this," saith the knight, "because i would not that you should go thither as yet, for that i misdoubt of your being troubled thereby." "sir, gramercy," saith perceval, "but no knighthood is there so fair as that which is undertaken to set forward the law of god, and for him ought one to make better endeavour than for all other. in like manner as he put his body in pain and travail for us, so ought each to put his own for him." he departeth from the knight, and was right joyous of this that he heard him say that lancelot had won a kingdom wherein he had done away the false law. but and he knew the tidings that the king had put him in prison, he would not have been glad at all, for lancelot was of his lineage and was therefore good knight, and for this he loved him right well. xviii. perceval rideth until nightfall, and findeth a great castle fortified with a great drawbridge, and there were tall ancient towers within. he espied at the door a squire that had the weight of a chain on his neck, and at the other end the chain was fixed to a great bulk of iron. the chain was as long as the length of the bridge. then cometh he over against perceval when he seeth him coming. "sir," saith he, "meseemeth you believe in god?" "fair friend, so do i, the best i may." "sir, for god's sake, enter not this castle!" "wherefore, fair friend?" saith perceval. "sir," saith he, "i will tell you. i am christian, even as are you, and i am thrall within there and guard this gate, as you see. but it is the most cruel castle that i know, and it is called the raving castle. there be three knights within there, full young and comely, but so soon as they see a knight of the new law, forthwith are they out of their senses, and all raving mad, so that nought may endure between them. moreover, there is within one of the fairest damsels that saw i ever. she guardeth the knights so soon as they begin to rave, and so much they dread her that they durst not disobey her commandment in aught that she willeth, for many folk would they evilly entreat were it not for her. and for that i am their thrall they put up with me, and i have no fear of them, but many is the christian knight that hath come in hither that never hath issued hence." "fair sweet friend," saith perceval, "i will enter in thither and i may, for i should not know this day how to go elsewhither, and true it is that greater power hath god than the devil." he entereth into the castle and alighteth in the midst of the courtyard. xix. the damsel was at the windows of the hall, that was of passing great beauty. she cometh down as soon as she may, and seeth perceval come in and the cross on his shield, and knoweth well thereby that he is christian. "ha, sir, for god's sake," saith she, "come not up above, for there be three of the comeliest knights that ever were seen that are playing at tables and at dice in a chamber, and they are brothers-german. they will all go out of their senses so soon as they shall see you!" xx. "damsel," saith perceval, "please god, so shall they not, and such a miracle is good to see, for it is only right that all they who will not believe in god should be raving mad when they see the things that come of him." perceval goeth up into the hall, all armed, for all that the damsel saith. she followeth him as fast as she may. the three knights espied perceval all armed and the cross on his shield, and forthwith leapt up and were beside themselves. they rolled their eyes and tore themselves and roared like devils. there were axes and swords in the hall that they go to lay hold on, and they are fain to leap upon perceval, but no power have they to do so, for such was the will of god. when they saw that they might not come a-nigh him, they ran either on other and so slew themselves between them, nor would they stint their fighting together for the damsel. perceval beheld the miracle of these folks that were thus killed, and the damsel that made right great dole thereof. "ha, damsel," saith he, "weep not, but repent you of this false belief, for they that are unwilling to believe in god shall die like mad folks and devils!" perceval made the squires that were there within bear the bodies out of the hall, and made them be cast into a running water, and straightway slew all the other, for that they were not minded to believe. the castle was all emptied of the misbelieving folk save only the damsel and those that waited upon her, and the christian thrall that guarded the gate. perceval set him forth of the chain, then led him up into the hall and made him disarm him. he found sundry right rich robes. the damsel, that was of right great beauty, looked at him and saw that he was a full comely knight, and well pleased she was with him. she honoured him in right great sort, but she might not forget the three knights that were her brothers, and made sore dole for them. xxi. "damsel," saith perceval, "nought availeth it to make this dole, but take comfort on some other manner." perceval looked at the hall from one end to the other and saw that it was right rich, and the damsel, in whom was full great beauty, stinted of making dole to look at perceval. she seeth that he is comely knight and gentle and tall and well furnished of good conditions, wherefore he pleaseth her much, and forthwith beginneth she to love him, and saith to herself that, so he would leave his god for the god in whom she believed, right glad would she be thereof, and would make him lord of her castle, for it seemed her that better might she not bestow it, and sith that her brothers are dead, there may be no bringing of them back, and therefore better would it be to forget her dole. but little knew she perceval's thought, for had she known that which he thinketh, she would have imagined not this; for, and had she been christian he might not have been drawn to love her in such sort as she thinketh, sith that josephus telleth us that never did he lose his virginity for woman, but rather died virgin and chaste and clean of his body. in this mind was she still, nor never might she refrain her heart from him. thinketh she rather that, and he knew she was minded to love him, right joyous would he be thereof, for that she is of so passing beauty. perceval asketh the damsel what she hath in her thought? "sir," saith she, "nought think i but only good and you will." "damsel," saith perceval, "never, please god, shall there be hindrance of me but that you renounce this evil law and believe in the good." "sir," saith she, "do you renounce yours for love of me, and i will do your commandment and your will." xxii. "damsel," saith perceval, "nought availeth to tell me this. were you man like as you are woman, your end would have come with the others. but, please god, your tribulation shall tend itself to good." "sir," saith she, "so you are willing to promise me that you will love me like as knight ought to love damsel, i am well inclined to believe in your god." "damsel, i promise you as i am a christian that so you are willing to receive baptism, i will love you as he that firmly believeth in god ought to love damsel." "sir," saith she, "i ask no more of you." she biddeth send for a holy man, a hermit that was in the forest appurtenant, and right gladly came he when he heard the tidings. they held her up and baptized her, both her and her damsels with her. perceval held her at the font. josephus witnesseth us in this history that she had for name celestre. and great joy made she of her baptism, and her affections turned she unto good. the hermit remained there with her, and taught her to understand the firm believe, and did the service of our lord. the damsel was of right good life and right holy, and ended thereafter in many good works. xxiii. perceval departed from the castle, and gave thanks to our lord and praise, that he hath allowed him to conquer a castle so cruel and to attorn it to the law. he went his way a great pace, all armed, until he came into a country wherein was great grief being made, and the more part said that he was come that should destroy their law, for that already had he won their strongest castle. he is come towards an ancient castle that was at the head of a forest. he looketh and seeth at the entrance of the gateway a full great throng of folk. he seeth a squire come forth thence, and asketh him unto whom belongeth the castle. "sir," saith he, "it is queen jandree's, that hath made her be brought before her gate with the folk you see yonder, for she hath heard tell how the knights of the raving castle are dead, and another knight that hath conquered the castle hath made the damsel be baptized, wherefore much she marvelleth how this may be. she is in much dread of losing her land, for her brother madeglant of oriande is dead, so that she may no longer look to none for succour, and she hath been told how the knight that conquered the raving castle is the best knight of the world, and that none may endure against him. for this doubtance and fear of him she is minded to go to one of her own castles that is somewhat stronger." perceval departeth from the squire and rideth until they that were at the entrance of the gateway espied him. they saw the red cross that he bare on his shield, and said to the queen, "lady, a christian knight is coming into this castle." "take heed," saith she, "that it be not he that is about to overthrow our law!" perceval cometh thither and alighteth, and cometh before the queen all armed. the queen asketh what he seeketh. xxiv. "lady," saith he, "nought seek i save good only to yourself so you hinder it not." "you come," saith she, "from the raving castle, there where three brothers are slain, whereof is great loss." "lady," saith he, "at that castle was i, and now fain would i that your own were at the will of jesus christ, in like manner as is that." "by my head," saith she, "and your lord hath so great power as is said, so will it be." "lady, his virtue and his puissance are far greater than they say." "that would i fain know," saith she, "presently, and i am fain to pray you that you depart not from me until that it hath been proven." perceval granteth it gladly. she returned into her castle and perceval with her. when he was alighted he went up into the hall. they that were within marvelled them much that she should thus give consent, for never, sithence that she had been blind, might she allow no knight of the new law to be so nigh her, and made slay all them that came into her power, nor might she never see clear so long as she had one of them before her. now is her disposition altered in such sort as that she would fain she might see clear him that hath come in, for she hath been told that he is the comeliest knight of the world and well seemeth to be as good as they witness of him. xxv. perceval remained there gladly for that he saw the lady's cruelty was somewhat slackened, and it seemed him that it would be great joy and she were willing to turn to god, and they that are within there, for well he knoweth that so she should hold to the new law, all they of the land would be of the same mind. when perceval had lain the night at the castle, the lady on the morrow sent for all the more powerful of her land, and came forth of her chamber into the hall where perceval was, seeing as clear as ever she had seen aforetime. "lords," saith she, "hearken ye all, for now will i tell you the truth like as it hath befallen me. i was lying in my bed last night, and well know ye that i saw not a whit, and made my orisons to our gods that they would restore me my sight. it seemed me they made answer that they had no power so to do, but that i should make be slain the knight that was arrived here, and that and i did not, sore wroth would they be with me. and when i had heard their voices say that nought might they avail me as for that i had prayed of them, i remembered me of the lord in whom they that hold the new law believe. and i prayed him right sweetly that, and so it were that he had such virtue and such puissance as many said, he would make me see clear, so as that i might believe in him. at that hour i fell on sleep, and meseemed that i saw one of the fairest ladies in the world, and she was delivered of a child therewithin, and he had about him a great brightness of light like it were the sun shone at right noonday." xxvi. "when the child was born, so passing fair was he and so passing gentle and of so sweet semblant that the looks of him pleased me well; and meseemed that at his deliverance there was a company of folk the fairest that were seen ever, and they were like as it had been birds and made full great joy. and methought that an ancient man that was with her, told me that my lady had lost no whit of her maidenhood for the child. well pleased was i the while this thing lasted me. it seemed me that i saw it like as i do you. thereafter, methought i saw a man bound to a stake, in whom was great sweetness and humility, and an evil folk beat him with scourges and rods right cruelly, so that the blood ran down thereof. they would have no mercy on him. of this might i not hold myself but that i wept for pity of him. therewithal i awoke and marvelled much whence it should come and what it might be. but in anyway it pleased me much that i had seen it. it seemed me after this, that i saw the same man that had been bound to the stake set upon a cross, and nailed thereon right grievously and smitten in the side with a spear, whereof had i such great pity that needs must i weep of the sore pain that i saw him suffer. i saw the lady at the feet of the cross, and knew her again that i had seen delivered of the child, but none might set in writing the great dole that she made. on the other side of the cross was a man that seemed not joyful, but he recomforted the lady the fairest he might. and another folk were there that collected his blood in a most holy vessel that one of them held for it." xxvii. "afterward, methought i saw him taken down of hanging on the cross, and set in a sepulchre of stone. thereof had i great pity for, so long as meseemed i saw him thus never might i withhold me from weeping. and so soon as the pity came into my heart, and the tears into my eyes, i had my sight even as you see. in such a lord as this ought one to believe, for he suffered death when he might lightly have avoided it had he so willed, but he did it to save his people. in this lord i will that ye all believe, and so renounce our false gods, for they be devils and therefore may not aid us nor avail us. and he that will not believe, him will i make be slain or die a shameful death." the lady made her be held up and baptized, and all them that would not do the same she made be destroyed and banished. this history telleth us that her name was salubre. she was good lady and well believed in god, and so holy life led she thereafter that in a hermitage she died. perceval departed from the castle right joyous in his heart of the lady and her people that believed in the new law. branch xxxiii. title i. afterward, this title telleth us that meliot of logres was departed from castle perilous sound and whole, by virtue of the sword that lancelot had brought him, and of the cloth that he took in the chapel perilous. but sore sorrowful was he of the tidings he had heard that messire gawain was in prison and he knew not where, but he had been borne on hand that two knights that were kinsmen of them of the raving castle that had slain one another, had shut him in prison on account of perceval that had won the castle. now, saith meliot of logres, never shall he have ease again until he knoweth where messire gawain is. he rideth amidst a forest, and prayeth god grant him betimes to hear witting of messire gawain. the forest was strange and gloomy. he rode until nightfall but might not find neither hold nor hermitage. he looketh right amidst the forest before him and seeth a damsel sitting that bemoaneth herself full sore. the moon was dark and the place right foul of seeming and the forest gloomy of shadow. "ha, damsel, and what do you here at this hour?" "sir," saith she, "i may not amend it, the more is my sorrow. for the place is more perilous than you think. look," saith she, "up above, and you will see the occasion wherefore i am here." meliot looketh and seeth two knights all armed hanging up above the damsel's head. thereof much marvelleth he. "ha, damsel," saith he, "who slew these knights so foully?" "sir," saith she, "the knight of the galley that singeth in the sea." "and wherefore hath he hanged them in such wise?" "for this," saith she, "that they believed in god and his sweet mother. and so behoveth me to watch them here for forty days, that none take them down of hanging, for and they were taken hence he would lose his castle, he saith, and would cut off my head." "by my head," saith meliot, "such watch is foul shame to damsel, and no longer shall you remain here." "ha, sir," saith the damsel, "then shall i be a dead woman, for he is of so great cruelty that none scarce might protect me against him." ii. "damsel," saith meliot, "foul shame would it be and i left here these knights in such wise for the reproach of other knights." meliot made them graves with his sword, and so buried them the best he might. "sir," saith the damsel, "and you take not thought to protect me, the knight will slay me. to-morrow, when he findeth not the knights, he will search all the forest to look for me." meliot and the damsel together go their way through the forest until they come to a chapel where was wont to be a hermit that the knight of the galley had destroyed. he helpeth down the damsel of his horse, and afterward they entered into the chapel, where was a great brightness of light, and a damsel was there that kept watch over a dead knight. meliot marvelleth him much. "damsel," said meliot, "when was this knight killed?" "sir, yesterday the knight of the galley slew him on the seashore, wherefore behoveth me thus keep watch, and in the morning will he come hither or ever he go to the castle where messire gawain hath to-morrow to fight with a lion, all unarmed, and my lady, that is mistress both of me and of this damsel you have brought hither, will likewise be brought to-morrow to the place where the lion is to slay messire gawain, and she in like sort will be afterward delivered to the lion and she renounce not the new law wherein the knight that came from raving castle, whereof she is lady, hath made her believe; and we ourselves shall be in like manner devoured along with her. but this damsel would still have taken respite of my death and she had still kept guard over the knights that were so foully hanged above her. natheless, sith that you have taken them down from where they were hanging, you have done a right good deed, whatsoever betide, for the lord of the red tower will give his castle to the knight for this." meliot is right joyous of the tidings that he hath heard of messire gawain that he is still on live, for well knoweth he, sith that the knight of the galley will come by the chapel there, that he will come thither or ever messire gawain doth battle with the lion. "sir," saith the damsel of the chapel, "for god's sake, take this damsel to a place of safety, for the knight will be so wood mad of wrath and despite so soon as he cometh hither, that he will be fain to smite off her head forthwith, and of yourself also have i great fear." iii. "damsel," saith meliot, "the knight is but a man like as am i." "yea, sir, but stronger is he and more cruel than seem you to be." meliot was in the chapel the night until the morrow, and heard the knight coming like a tempest, and he brought with him the lady of the castle and reviled her from time to time, and meliot seeth him come, and a dwarf that followeth after him a great pace. he crieth out to him: "sir, behold there the disloyal knight through whom you have lost your castle. now haste! avenge yourself of him! after that will we go to the death of messire gawain?" meliot, so soon as he espieth him, mounteth and maketh his arms ready. "is it you," saith the knight of the galley, "that hath trespassed on my demesne and taken down my knights?" "by my head, yours were they not! rather were they the knights of god, and foul outrage have you done herein when you slew them so shamefully." he goeth toward the knight without more words, and smiteth him so passing strong amidst the breast that he pierceth the habergeon and thrusteth all the iron of his spear into his body and afterward draweth it back to him with a great wrench. and the knight smiteth him so hard on his shield that he maketh an ell's length pass beyond, for right wroth was he that he was wounded. the dwarf crieth to him, "away, then! the knight endureth against you that have slain so many of them!" the knight of the galley waxeth wood wrath. he taketh his career, and cometh as fast as his horse may carry him, and smiteth meliot so strongly that he breaketh his spear in such sort that he maketh both him and his horse stagger. but meliot catcheth him better, for he thrusteth the spear right through his body and hurleth against him at the by-passing with such stoutness and force that he maketh him fall dead to the ground from his horse. the dwarf thought to escape, but meliot smote off his head, whereof the damsels gave him great thanks, for many a mischief had he wrought them. iv. meliot buried the knight that he found in the chapel dead, then told the damsels that he might abide no longer, but would go succour messire gawain and he might. the damsels were horsed to their will, for one had the horse of the knight that was slain and the other the horse of the dwarf. the other damsel was come upon a mule, and they said that they would go back, for the country was made all safe by the death of the knight. they thanked meliot much, for they say truly that he hath rescued them from death. meliot departeth from the damsels and goeth right amidst the forest as he that would most fain hear tidings of messire gawain. when he had ridden of a long space, he met a knight that was coming all armed at great pace. "sir knight," saith he to meliot, "can you tell me tidings of the knight of the galley?" "what have you to do therein?" saith meliot. "sir, the lord of the red tower hath made bring messire gawain into a launde of this forest, and there, all unarmed, must he do battle with a lion. so my lord is waiting for the knight of the galley, that is to bring two damsels thither that the lion will devour when he shall have slain messire gawain." "will the battle be presently?" saith meliot. "yea, sir," saith the knight, "soon enough betimes, for messire gawain hath already been led thither and there bound to a stake until such time as the lion shall be come. then will he be unbound, but even then two knights all armed will keep watch on him. but tell me tidings of the knight of the galley, and you have seen him?" "go forward," saith he, "and you will hear tidings of him." meliot departeth thereupon, a great gallop, and cometh nigh the launde whereunto messire gawain had been brought. he espied the two knights that kept guard over him, and if that messire gawain were in fear, little marvel was it, for he thought that his end had come. meliot espied him bound to an iron staple with cords about the body on all sides so that he might not move. meliot hath great pity thereof in his heart, and saith to himself that he will die there sooner than messire gawain shall die. he clappeth spurs to his horse when he cometh nigh the knights, and overtaketh one of them with such a rush that he thrusteth his spear right through his body, and beareth him down dead. the other was fain to go to the castle for succour when he saw his fellow dead. meliot slew him forthwith. he cometh to messire gawain, and so unbindeth him and cutteth the cords wherewith he is bound. "sir," saith he, "i am meliot of logres, your knight." v. when messire gawain felt himself unbound, no need to ask whether he had joy thereof. the tidings were come to the red court that queen jandree was christened and baptized, and that the knight was come that had such force and puissance in him that none might endure against him for the god in whom he believed, and they knew likewise that the knight of the galley was dead, and messire gawain unbound and the knights that guarded him slain. they say that there may they not abide, so they depart from the castle and say that they will cross the sea to protect their bodies, for that there they may have no safety. vi. when meliot had delivered messire gawain he made him be armed with the arms, such as they were, of one of the knights he had slain. messire gawain mounted on a horse such as pleased him, and right great joy had he at heart. they marvel much how it is that they of the castle have not come after them, but they know not their thought nor how they are scared. "meliot," saith messire gawain, "you have delivered me from death this time and one other, nor never had i acquaintance with any knight that hath done so much for me in so short a time as have you." they departed the speediest they might and rode nigh enow to the castle, but they heard none moving within nor any noise, nor saw they none issue forth, and much marvelled they that none should come after them. they rode until they came to the head of the forest and caught sight of the sea that was nigh enough before them, and saw that there was a great clashing of arms at the brink of the sea. a single knight was doing battle with all them that would fain have entered into a ship, and held stour so stiffly against them that he toppled the more part into the sea. they went thither as fast as they might, and when they drew nigh to the ship they knew that it was perceval by his arms and his shield. or ever they reached it, the ship was put off into the midst of the sea, wherein he was launched of his own great hardiment, and they went on fighting against him within the ship. "meliot," saith messire gawain, "see you, there is perceval the good knight, and now may we say of a truth that he is in sore peril of death; for that ship, save god bethink him thereof, shall arrive in such manner and in such a place as that never more shall we have no witting of him, and, so he perish for ever, no knight on live may have power to set forward the law of our lord." vii. messire gawain seeth the ship going further away, and perceval that defendeth himself therein against them that set upon him. right heavy is he that he came not sooner, or ever the ship had put off from the land. he turneth back, he and meliot together, and right sorrowful was messire gawain of perceval, for they knew not in what land he might arrive, and, might he have followed, right gladly would he have gone after him to aid him. they have ridden until they meet a knight. messire gawain asketh him whence he cometh, and he saith from king arthur's court. "what tidings can you tell us thereof?" saith messire gawain. "sir, bad enough!" saith he. "king arthur hath neglected all his knights for briant of the isles, and hath put one of his best knights in prison." "what is his name?" saith messire gawain. "sir, he is called lancelot of the lake. he had reconquered all the islands that had been reft of king arthur, and slain king madeglant, and conquered the land of oriande that he turned to the belief of the saviour of the world, and, so soon as he had conquered his enemies, king arthur sent for him forthwith and straightway put him in his prison by the counsel of briant of the isles. but king arthur will have a surfeit of friends betimes; for king claudas hath assembled his folk in great plenty to reconquer the kingdom of oriande and come back upon king arthur by the counsel of briant of the isles that betrayeth the king, for he hath made him his seneschal and commander of all his land." "sir knight," saith messire gawain, "needs must the king miscarry that setteth aside the counsel of his good knights for the leasings of a traitor." thereupon the knight departed from messire gawain. right heavy is he of this that he hath said, that the king hath put lancelot in prison. never tofore did he aught whereby he wrought so much to blame. branch xxxiv. title i. hereupon the story is silent of messire gawain and meliot and speaketh of king claudas that hath assembled a great folk by the counsel of briant of the isles to come into the land of king arthur, for he knoweth that it is disgarnished of the good knights that wont there to be, and he knoweth all the secret plottings of the court and what power king arthur hath withal. he draweth toward his land the nighest he may, and hath won back the kingdom of oriande all at his will. but they of albanie still hold against him and challenge the land the best they may. tidings thereof come to the court of king arthur, and they of the country sent him word that so he send them not succour betimes they will yield up the land to king claudas, and oftentimes they long after lancelot, and say that so they had a defender like him, the islands would be all at peace. the king sent briant of the isles thither many times, that ever incontinent returned thence discomfit, but never sent he thither him that should have power to protect the land against king claudas. king arthur was sore troubled, for no witting had he of messire gawain nor messire ywain nor of others whereby his court had use of right to be feared and dreaded and of high renown throughout all other kingdoms. the king was one day in the hall at cardoil, right heavy; and he was at one of the windows, and remembered him of the queen and of his good knights that he wont to see oftener at court, whereof the more part were dead, and of the adventures that wont to befall therein whereof they saw none no longer. lucan the butler seeth him right heavy and draweth nigh unto him quietly. ii. "sir," saith he, "meseemeth you are without joy." "lucan," said the king, "joy hath been somewhat far from me sithence that the queen hath been dead, and gawain and the other knights have held aloof from my court so that they deign come hither no longer. moreover, king claudas warreth upon me and conquereth my lands so that no power have i to rescue me for default of my knights." "sir," saith lucan, "herein is there nought whereof you have right to accuse any save yourself alone. for you have done evil unto him that hath served you, and good unto them that are traitors to you. you have one of the best knights in the world and the most loyal in your prison, wherefore all the other hold them aloof from your court. lancelot had served you well by his good will and by his good knighthood, nor never had he done you any disservice whereof you might in justice have done him such shame; nor never will your enemies withhold them from you nor have dread of you save only through him and other your good knights. and know of a truth that lancelot and messire gawain are the best of your court." "lucan," saith king arthur, "so thought i ever again to have affiance in him, i would make him be set forth of my prison, for well i know that i have wrought discourteously toward him; and lancelot is of a great heart, wherefore would he not slacken of his despite for that which hath been done unto him until such time as he should be avenged thereof, for no king is there in the world, how puissant soever he be, against whom he durst not well maintain his right." iii. "sir," saith lucan, "lancelot well knoweth that and you had taken no counsel but your own, he would not have been thus entreated, and i dare well say that never so long as he liveth will he misdo in aught towards you, for he hath in him much valour and loyalty, as many a time have you had good cause to know. wherefore, and you would fain have aid and succour and hold your realm again, behoveth you set him forth of the prison, or otherwise never will you succeed herein, and, if you do not so, you will lose your land by treason." the king held by the counsel of lucan the butler. he made bring lancelot before him into the midst of the hall, that was somewhat made ean of his being in prison, but he bore him as he wont, nor might none look at him to whom he seemed not to be good knight. "lancelot," saith the king, "how is it with you?" "sir," saith he, "it hath been ill with me long time, but, please god, it shall be better hereafter." "lancelot," saith the king, "i repent me of this that i have done to you, and i have bethought me much of the good services i have found in you, wherefore i will do you amends thereof at your will, in such sort as that the love between us shall be whole as it was tofore." iv. "sir," saith lancelot, "your amends love i much, and your love more than of any other; but never, please god, will i misdo you for aught that you may have done to me, for it is well known that i have not been in prison for no treason i have done, nor for no folly, but only for that it was your will. never will it be reproached me as of shame, and, sith that you have done me nought whereof i may have blame nor reproach, my devoir it is to withhold me from hating you; for you are my lord, and if that you do me ill, without flattery of myself the ill you do me is your own; but, please god, whatsoever you have done me, never shall my aid fail you, rather, everywhere will i set my body in adventure for your love, in like sort as i have done many a time." v. in the court of king arthur was right great joy of the most part when they heard that lancelot was set forth of prison, but not a whit rejoiced were briant and his folk. the king commanded that lancelot should be well cared for and made whole again, and that all should be at his commandment. the court was all overjoyed thereof, and they said: now at last might the king make war in good assurance. lancelot was foremost in the king's court and more redoubted than was ever another of the knights. briant of the isles came one day before the king. "sir," saith he, "behold, here is lancelot that wounded me in your service, wherefore i will that he know i am his enemy." "briant," saith lancelot, "and if that you deserved it tofore, well may you be sorry thereof, and sith that you wish to be mine enemy, your friend will i not be. for well may i deem of your love according as i have found it in you." "sir," saith briant to the king, "you are my lord, and i am one you are bound to protect. you know well that so rich am i in lands and so puissant in friends that i may well despise mine enemy, nor will i not remain at your court so long as lancelot is therein. say not that i depart thence with any shame as toward myself. rather thus go i hence as one that will gladly avenge me, so i have place and freedom, and i see plainly and know that you and your court love him far better than you love me, wherefore behoveth me take thought thereof." "briant," saith the king, "remain as yet, and i will make amends for you to lancelot, and i myself will make amends for him to you." vi. "sir," saith briant, "by the faith that i owe to you, none amends will i have of him nor other until such time as i have drawn as much blood of his body as did he of mine, and i will well that he know it." with that briant departeth from the court all wrathful, but if that lancelot had not feared to anger the king, briant would not have ridden a league english or ever he had followed and forced him to fight. briant goeth toward the castle of the hard rock, and saith that better would it have been for the king that lancelot were still in prison, for that such a plea will he move against him and he may bring it to bear, as that he shall lose thereof the best parcel of his land. he is gone into the land of king claudas, and saith that now at last hath he need of his aid, for lancelot is issued forth of the king's prison and is better loved at court than all other, so that the king believeth in no counsel save his only. king claudas sweareth unto him and maketh pledge that never will he fail him, and briant to him again. branch xxxv. title i. herewithal is the story silent of briant and talketh of perceval, that the ship beareth away right swiftly; but so long hath he held battle therein that every one hath he slain of them that were in the ship save only the pilot that steereth her, for him hath he in covenant that he will believe in god and renounce his evil law. perceval is far from land so that he seeth nought but sea only, and the ship speedeth onward, and god guideth him, as one that believeth in him and loveth him and serveth him of a good heart. the ship ran on by night and by day as it pleased god, until that they saw a castle and an island of the sea. he asked his pilot if he knew what castle it was. "certes," saith he, "not i, for so far have we run that i know not neither the sea nor the stars." they come nigh the castle, and saw four that sounded bells at the four corners of the town, right sweetly, and they that sounded them were clad in white garments. they are come thither. ii. so soon as the ship had taken haven under the castle, the sea withdraweth itself back, so that the ship is left on dry land. none were therein save perceval, his horse, and the pilot. they issued forth of the ship and went by the side of the sea toward the castle, and therein were the fairest halls and the fairest mansions that any might see ever. he looketh underneath a tree that was tall and broad and seeth the fairest fountain and the clearest that any may devise, and it was all surrounded of rich pillars, and the gravel thereof seemed to be gold and precious stones. above this fountain were two men sitting, their beards and hair whiter than driven snow, albeit they seemed young of visage. so soon as they saw perceval they dressed them to meet him, and bowed down and worshipped the shield that he bare at his neck, and kissed the cross and then the boss wherein were the hallows. "sir," say they, "marvel not of this that we do, for well knew we the knight that bare this shield tofore you. many a time we saw him or ever god were crucified." perceval marvelleth much of this that they say, for they talk of a time that is long agone. iii. "lords, know ye then how he was named?" say they, "joseph of abarimacie, but no cross was there on the shield before the death of jesus christ. but he had it set thereon after the crucifixion of jesus christ for the sake of the saviour that he loved so well." perceval took off the shield from his neck, and one of the worshipful men setteth upon it as it were a posy of herbs that was blooming with the fairest flowers in the world. perceval looketh beyond the fountain and seeth in a right fair place a round vessel like as it were ivory, and it was so large that there was a knight within, all armed. he looketh thereinto and seeth the knight, and speaketh unto him many times, but never the more willeth the knight to answer him. perceval looketh at him in wonderment, and cometh back to the good men and asketh them who is this knight, and they tell him that he may know not as yet. they lead him to a great hall and bear his shield before him, whereof they make right great joy, and show thereunto great worship. he seeth the hall right rich, for hall so rich and so fair had he seen never. it was hung about with right rich cloths of silk, and in the midst of the hall was imaged the saviour of the world so as he is in his majesty, with the apostles about him, and within were great galleries that were full of folk and seemed to be of great holiness, and so were they, for had they not been good men they might not there have remained. iv. "sir," say the two masters to perceval, "this house that you see here so rich, is the hall royal." "by my faith," saith perceval, "so ought it well to be, for never saw i none so much of worth." he looketh all around, and seeth the richest tables of gold and ivory that he saw ever. one of the masters clappeth his hands thrice, and three and thirty men come into the hall all in a company. they were clad in white garments, and not one of them but had a red cross in the midst of his breast, and they seemed to be all of an age. as soon as they enter into the hall they do worship to god our lord and set out their cups. then went they to wash at a great laver of gold, and then went to sit at the tables. the masters made perceval sit at the most master-table with themselves. they were served thereat right gloriously, and perceval looked about him more gladlier than he ate. v. and while he was thus looking, he seeth a chain of gold come down above him loaded with precious stones, and in the midst thereof was a crown of gold. the chain descended a great length and held on to nought save to the will of our lord only. as soon as the masters saw it descending they opened a great wide pit that was in the midst of the hall, so that one could see the hole all openly. as soon as the entrance of this pit was discovered, there issued thence the greatest cry and most dolorous that any heard ever, and when the worshipful men hear it, they stretched out their hands towards our lord and all began to weep. perceval heareth this dolour, and marvelleth much what it may be. he seeth that the chain of gold descendeth thither and is there stayed until they have well-nigh eaten, and then draweth itself again into the air and so goeth again aloft. but perceval knoweth not what became thereof, and the master covereth the pit again, that was right grisly to see, and pitiful to hear were the voices that issued therefrom. vi. the good men rose from the tables when they had eaten, and gave thanks right sweetly to our lord; and then returned thither whence they had come. "sir," saith the master to perceval, "the chain of gold that you have seen is right precious and the crown of gold likewise. but never may you issue forth from hence save you promise to return so soon as you shall see the ship and the sail crossed of a red cross; otherwise may you not depart hence." "tell me," saith he, "of the chain of gold and the crown, what it may be?" "we will tell you not," saith one of the masters, "save you promise that which i tell you." "certes, sir," saith perceval, "i promise you faithfully, that so soon as i shall have done that i have to do for my lady my mother and one other, that i will return hither, so i be on live and i see your ship so marked as you say." "yea, be you faithful to the end herein, and you shall have the crown of gold upon your head so soon as you return, and so shall you be seated in the throne, and shall be king of an island that is near to this, right plenteous of all things good, for nought is there in the world that is there lacking that is needful for man's body. king hermit was the king thereof that thus hath garnished it, and for that he approved himself so well in this kingdom, and that they who are in the island consented thereto, is he chosen to be king of a greater realm. now they desire that another worshipful man be sent them for king, that shall do for them as much good as did he, but take you good heed, sith that you will be king therein, that the island be well garnished; for, and you garnish it not well, you will be put into the poverty-stricken island, the crying whereof you have but now since heard, and the crown thereof will again be reft from you. for they that have been kings of the plenteous island and have not well approved them, are among the folk that you saw in the poverty-stricken island, lacking in all things good. and so i tell you that king hermit, whom you will succeed, hath sent thither a great part of his folk. there are the heads sealed in silver, and the heads sealed in lead, and the bodies whereunto these heads belonged; i tell you that you must make come thither the head both of the king and of the queen. but of the other i tell you that they are in the poverty-stricken island. but we know not whether they shall ever issue forth thence." vii. "sir," saith perceval, "tell me of the knight that is all armed in the ivory vessel, who he is, and what is the name of this castle?" "you may not know," saith the master, "until your return. but tell me tidings of the most holy graal, that you reconquered, is it still in the holy chapel that was king fisherman's?" "yea, sir," saith perceval, "and the sword wherewith s. john was beheaded, and other hallows in great plenty." "i saw the graal," saith the master, "or ever joseph, that was uncle to king fisherman, collected therein the blood or jesus christ. know that well am i acquainted with all your lineage, and of what folk you were born. for your good knighthood and for your good cleanness and for your good valour came you in hither, for such was our lord's will, and take heed that you be ready when place shall be, and time shall come, and you shall see the ship apparelled." "sir," saith perceval, "most willingly shall i return, nor never would i have sought to depart but for my lady my mother, and for my sister, for never have i seen no place that so much hath pleased me." he was right well harboured the night within, and in the morning, or ever he departed, heard a holy mass in a holy chapel the fairest that he had seen ever. the master cometh to him after the mass and bringeth him a shield as white as snow. afterwards, he saith, "you will leave me your shield within for token of your coming and will bear this." "sir," saith perceval, "i will do your pleasure." he hath taken leave, and so departeth from the rich mansion, and findeth the ship all apparelled, and heareth sound the bells at his forth-going the same as at his coming. he entereth into the ship and the sail is set. he leaveth the land far behind, and the pilot steereth the ship and our lord god guideth and leadeth him. the ship runneth a great speed, for far enough had she to run, but god made her speed as he would, for he knew the passing great goodness and worth of the knight that was within. viii. god hath guided and led the ship by day and by night until that she arrived at an island where was a castle right ancient, but it seemed not to be over-rich, rather it showed as had it been of great lordship in days of yore. they cast anchor, and perceval is come toward the castle and entereth in all armed. he seeth the castle large, and the dwelling chambers fallen down and the house-place roofless, and he seeth a lady sitting before the steps of an old hall. she rose up as soon as she saw him, but she was right poorly clad. it seemed well by her body and her cheer and her bearing that she was a gentlewoman, and he seeth that two damsels come with her that are young of age and are as poorly clad as is the lady. "sir," saith she to perceval, "welcome may you be. no knight have i seen enter this castle of a long time." "lady," saith perceval, "god grant you joy and honour!" "sir," saith she, "need have we thereof, for none scarce have i had this long while past." she leadeth him into a great ancient hall that was right poorly garnished. "sir," saith she, "here will you harbour you the night, and you would take in good part that we may do and you knew the plight of this castle." she maketh him be unarmed of a servant that was there within, and the damsels come before him and serve him right sweetly. the lady bringeth him a mantle to do on. "sir," saith she, "within are no better garments wherewith to show you honour than this." perceval looketh on the damsels and hath great pity of them, for so well shapen were they of limb and body as that nature might not have better fashioned them, and all the beauty that may be in woman's body was in them, and all the sweetness and simpleness. ix. "lady," saith perceval, "is this castle, then, not yours?" "sir," saith she, "so much is all that remaineth unto me of all my land, and you see there my daughters of whom is it right sore pity, for nought have they but what you see, albeit gentlewomen are they and of high lineage, but their kinsfolk are too far away, and a knight that is right cruel hath reft us of our land sithence that my lord was dead, and holdeth a son of mine in his prison, whereof i am right sorrowful, for he is one of the comeliest knights in the world. he had not been knight more than four years when he took him, and now may i aid neither myself nor other, but i have heard tell that there is a knight in the land of wales that was the son of alain li gros of the valleys of camelot, and he is the best knight in the world, and this alain was brother of calobrutus, whose wife was i, and of whom i had my son and these two daughters. this know i well, that and the good knight that is so near akin to them were by any adventure to come into this island, i should have my son again, and my daughters that are disherited would have their lands again freely, and so should i be brought out of sore pain and poverty. i am of another lineage that is full far away, for king ban of benoic that is dead was mine uncle, but he hath a son that is a right good knight as i have been told, so that and one of these two should come nigh me in any of these islands right joyous should i be thereof." x. perceval heareth that the two damsels are his uncle's daughters, and hath great pity thereof. "lady," saith he, "how is he named that is in prison?" "sir," saith she, "galobruns, and he that holdeth him in prison is named gohaz of the castle of the whale." "is his castle near this, lady?" saith he. "sir, there is but an arm of the sea to cross, and in all these islands of the sea is there none that hath any puissance but he only, and so assured is he that no dread hath he of any. for none that is in this land durst offend against him. sir, one thing hath he bid me do, whereof i am sore grieved, that and i send him not one of my daughters, he hath sworn his oath that he will reave me of my castle." "lady," saith perceval, "an oath is not always kept. to the two damsels, please god, shall he do no shame, and right heavy am i of that he hath done already, for they were daughters of mine uncle. alain li gros was my father and galobrutus my uncle, and many another good man that now is dead." xi. when the damsels heard this, they kneeled down before him, and began to weep for joy and kiss his hands, and pray him for god's sake have mercy on them and on their brother. and he saith that he will not depart from their land until he hath done all he may. he remaineth the night in the castle and his mariner likewise. the lady made great joy of perceval, and did him all the honour she might. when the morrow came they showed him the land of the king that had reft them of their land, but the lady could not tell him where her son was in prison. he departeth and cometh back to his ship when he hath taken leave of the lady and the damsels, and right glad was he to know that the damsels were so nigh to him of kin. so he prayeth god grant him that he may be able to give them back their land and bring them out of the poverty wherein they are. he roweth until that he is come under a rock, wherein was a cave at top round and narrow and secure like as it were a little house. perceval looketh on that side, and seeth a man sitting within. he maketh the ship draw nigh the rock, then looketh and seeth the cutting of a way that went upwards through the rock. he is come forth of the ship and goeth up the little path until he cometh into the little house. he findeth within one of the comeliest knights in the world. he had a ring at his feet and a collar on his neck with a chain whereof the other end was fixed by a staple into a great ledge of the rock. he rose up over against perceval as soon as he saw him. "sir knight," saith perceval, "you are well made fast." "sir, that irketh me," saith the knight, "better should i like myself elsewhere than here." "you would be right," saith perceval, "for you are in right evil plight in the midst of this sea. have you aught within to eat or to drink?" "sir," saith he, "the daughter of the sick knight that dwelleth in the island hard by, sendeth me every day in a boat as much meat as i may eat, for she hath great pity of me. the king that hath imprisoned me here hath reft her castles like as he hath those of my lady my mother." "may none remove you hence?" "sir, in no wise, save he that set me here, for he keepeth with him the key of the lock, and he told me when he departed hence that never more should i issue forth." "by my head," saith perceval, "but you shall! and you were the son of galobrutus, you were the son of mine uncle," saith perceval, "and i of yours, so that it would be a reproach to me for evermore and i left you in this prison." xii. when galobruns heareth that he is his uncle's son, great joy hath he thereof. he would have fallen at his feet, but perceval would not, and said to him, "now be well assured, for i will seek your deliverance." he cometh down from the rock, and so entereth the ship and roweth of a long space. he looketh before him and seeth a right rich island and a right plenteous, and on the other side he seeth in a little islet a knight that is mounted up in a tall tree that was right broad with many boughs. there was a damsel with him, that had climbed up also for dread of a serpent, great and evil-favoured that had issued from a hole in a mountain. the damsel seeth perceval's ship coming, and crieth out to him. "ha, sir," saith she, "come to help this king that is up above, and me that am a damsel!" "whereof are you afeard, damsel?" saith perceval. "of a great serpent, sir," saith she, "that hath made us climb up, whereof ought i not to be sorry, for this king hath carried me off from my father's house, and would have done me shame of my body and this serpent had not run upon him." "and what is the king's name, damsel?" saith perceval. "sir, he is called gohaz of the castle of the whale. this great land is his own that is so plenteous, and other lands enow that he hath reft of my father and of other." the king had great shame of this that the damsel told him, and made answer never a word. perceval understandeth that it was he that held his cousin in prison, and is issued from the ship forthwith, sword drawn. the serpent seeth him, and cometh toward him, jaws yawning, and casteth forth fire and flame in great plenty. perceval thrusteth his sword right through the gullet. "now may you come down," saith he to the king. "sir," saith he, "the key of a chain wherewith a certain knight is bound hath fallen, and the serpent seized it." perceval rendeth open the throat and findeth the key forthwith, all red-hot with the fire of the serpent. the king cometh down, that hath no dread of aught, but cometh, rather, as he ought, to thank perceval of the goodness he had done him, and perceval seizeth him between his arms and beareth him away to the ship. xiii. "sir knight," saith gohaz, "take heed what you do, for i am king of this land." "therefore," saith perceval, "i do it. for, had it been another i should do it not." "ha, sir," saith the damsel, "leave me not here to get forth as i may, but help me until that i shall be in the house of my father, the sick knight, that is sore grieved on my account." perceval understandeth that it is the damsel of whom galobruns spake such praise. he goeth to bring her down from the tree, then bringeth her into the ship, and so goeth back toward the rock where his cousin was. "sir knight," saith gohaz, "where will you put me?" "i will put you," saith he, "as an enemy, there, where you have put the son of mine uncle in prison; so shall i avenge me of you, and he also at his will." when the king heard this, he was glad thereof not a whit, and the damsel was loath not a whit, whom he had thus disherited. they row until they come to the rock. perceval issueth forth of the ship, and bringeth gohaz up maugre his head. galobruns seeth him coming and maketh great joy thereof, and perceval saith to him: "behold here your mortal enemy! now do your will of him!" he taketh the key and so looseth him of the irons wherein he was imprisoned. xiv. "galobruns," saith perceval, "now may you do your pleasure of your enemy?" "sir," saith he, "right gladly!" he maketh fast the irons on his feet that he had upon his own, and afterward setteth the collar on his neck. "now let him be here," saith he, "in such sort and in such prison as he put me; for well i know that he will be succoured of none." after that, he flingeth the key into the sea as far as he might, and so seemed it to galobruns that he well avenged himself in such wise, and better than if he had killed him. perceval alloweth him everything therein at his will. they enter into the ship and leave gohaz all sorrowing on the rock, that never thereafter ate nor drank. and perceval bringeth his cousin and the damsel, and they row until that they come into their land, and perceval maketh send for all the folk of king gohaz and maketh all the more powerful do sure homage to galobruns and his sisters in such sort that the land was all at their will. he sojourned there so long as it pleased him, and then departed and took leave of the damsel and galobruns, that thanked him much for the lands that he had again through him. xv. perceval hath rowed until that he is come nigh a castle that was burning fiercely with a great flame, and seeth a hermitage upon the sea hard by. he seeth the hermit at the door of the chapel, and asketh him what the castle is that hath caught fire thus. "sir," saith the hermit, "i will tell you. joseus, the son of king pelles, slew his mother there. never sithence hath the castle stinted of burning, and i tell you that of this castle and one other will be kindled the fire that shall burn up the world and put it to an end." perceval marvelleth much, and knew well that it was the castle of king hermit his uncle. he departeth thence in great haste, and passeth three kingdoms and saileth by the wastes and deserts on one side and the other of the sea, for the ship ran somewhat a-nigh the land. he looketh and seeth on an island twelve hermits sitting on the seashore. the sea was calm and untroubled, and he made cast the anchor so as to keep the ship steady. then he saluteth the hermits, and they all bow down to him in answer. he asketh them where have they their repair, and they tell him that they have not far away twelve chapels and twelve houses that surround a grave-yard wherein lie twelve dead knights that we keep watch over. they were all brothers-german, and right worshipful men, and none thereof lived more than twelve years knight save one only, and none of them was there but won much land and broad kingdoms from the misbelievers, and they all died in arms; and the name of the eldest was alain li gros, and he came into this country from the valleys of camelot to avenge his brother alibans of the waste city that the giant king had slain, and he took vengeance on him thereof, but he died thereafter of a wound that the giant had given him. "sir," saith one of the hermits, "i was at his death, but nought was there he so longed after as a son of his, and he said that his name was perceval. he was the last of the brothers that died." xvi. when perceval heard this he had pity thereof, and issued forth of the ship and came to land, and his mariner with him. he prayed the hermits that they would lead him to the graveyard where the knights lay, and gladly did they so. perceval is come thither and seeth the coffins right rich and fair, and the chapels full fairly dight, and every coffin lay over against the altar in each chapel. "lords, which coffin is that of the lord of camelot?" "this, the highest," say the hermits, "and the most rich, for that he was eldest of all the brethren." perceval kneeleth down before it, then embraceth the coffin and prayeth right sweetly for the soul of his father, and in like manner he went to all the other coffins. he harboured the night with the hermits, and told them that alain li gros was his father and all the other his uncles. right joyous were the hermits for that he was come thither, and the morrow, or ever he departed, he heard mass in the chapel of his father and in the others where he might. he entered into the ship and sped full swift, and so far hath the ship run that he draweth nigh the islands of great britain. he arriveth at the head of a forest under the red tower whereof he had slain the lord, there where meliot delivered messire gawain. he is issued forth of the ship and leadeth forth his horse and is armed, and commendeth the pilot to god. he mounteth on his destrier, all armed, and goeth amidst the land that was well-nigh void of people, for he himself had slain the greater part thereof, albeit he knew it not. he rideth so long, right amidst the country, that he cometh toward evensong to a hold that was in a great forest, and he bethought him that he would go into the hermitage, and he cometh straight into the hold, and seeth a knight lying in the entrance of the gate on a straw mattress, and a damsel sate at the bed's head, of passing great beauty, and held his head on her lap. xvii. the knight reviled her from time to time, and said that he would make cut of her head and he had not that he desired to have, for that he was sick. perceval looked at the lady that held him and served him full sweetly, and deemed her to be a good lady and a loyal. the sick knight called to perceval. "sir," saith he, "are you come in hither to harbour?" "sir," saith perceval, "so please you, i will harbour here." "then blame me not," saith the knight, "of that you shall see me do unto my wife." "sir," saith perceval, "sith that she is yours, you have a right to do your pleasure, but in all things ought one to be heedful on one's way." the knight made him be carried back into the dwelling, for that he had been in the air as long as pleased him, and commanded his wife that she do much honour to the knight that is come to lodge within. "but take heed," saith he, "that you be not seen at the table, but eat, as you are wont, at the squire's table, for, until such time as i have the golden cup i desire, i will not forego my despite against you." xviii. perceval unarmed him. the lady had brought him a surcoat of scarlet for him to do on, and he asked her wherefore her lord reviled her and rebuked her in such sort, and she told him all the story how lancelot had married her to him, and how her lord ever sithence had dishonoured her. "sir," saith she, "now hath he fallen into misease, sithence then, and he hath a brother as sick as he is, and therefore hath gohaz of the castle of the whale reft him of his land, whereof is he right sorry, and my lord hath never been heal since that he heard thereof. and well you know that such folk wax wroth of a little, and are overjoyed when they have a little thing that pleaseth them, for they live always in desire of somewhat. my lord hath heard tell of a cup of gold that a damsel beareth, that is right rich and of greater worth than aught he hath seen this long time, and a knight goeth with the damsel that beareth the cup, and saith that none may have it save he be the best knight in the world. my lord hath told me many times, sithence he heard tidings thereof, that never shall the despite he hath toward me be forgone, until that he shall have the cup. but he is so angry withal with his brother that hath lost his land, that i aby it right dear, for i do all his will and yet may i have no fair treatment of him. howbeit, for no ill that he may do, nor no churlishness that he may say, will i be against him in nought that he hath set his mind on. for i would have him, and i had him, blessed be lancelot through whom it was so. as much as i loved him in health, so much love i him in his sickness, and more yet, for i desire to deserve that god shall bring him to a better mind." xix. "lady," saith perceval, "great praise ought you to have of this that you say; but you may well tell him of a truth that the sick king his brother hath all his land freely and his daughter, for i was at the reconquering thereof, and know the knight well that gave it back unto him. but of the golden cup can i give you no witting." "sir," saith she, "the damsel is to bear it to an assembly of knights that is to be held hard by this, under the white tower. there hath she to give it to the best knight, and him that shall do best at the assembly, and the knight that followeth the damsel is bound to carry it whither he that shall win it may command, and if he would fain it should be given to another rather than to himself." "lady," saith perceval, "well meseemeth that he who shall win the cup by prize of arms will be right courteous and he send it to you, and god grant that he that hath it may do you such bounty as you desire." "sir," saith she, "methinketh well, so lancelot were there, either he or messire gawain, that, and they won it, so they remembered them of me, and knew how needful it were to me, they would promise me the cup." "lady," saith perceval, "by one of these twain ought you well to have it, for greater prize now long since have they won." she goeth to her lord and saith to him: "sir," saith she, "now may you be more joyous than is your wont, for that your brother hath his land again all quit. for the knight that is within was at the reconquering." the sick knight heard her and had great joy thereof. "go!" saith he to his wife, "and do great honour to the knight, but take heed you sit not otherwise than you are wont." "sir," saith she, "i will not." xx. the damsel maketh perceval sit at meat. when he had washen, he thought that the lady should have come to sit beside him, but she would not disobey her lord's commandment. when perceval was set at the table and he had been served of the first meats, thereupon the lady went to sit with the squires. perceval was much shamed that she should sit below, but he was not minded to speak, for she had told him somewhat of her lord's manner. howbeit, he lay the night in the hold, and, on the morrow when he had taken leave, he departed, and bethought him in his courage that the knight would do good chivalry and great aims that should do this sick knight his desire as concerning the cup, in such sort as that his wife should be freed of the annoy that she is in, for that all knights that knew thereof ought to have pity of her. perceval goeth his way as he that hath great desire to accomplish that he hath to do, and to see the token of his going again to the castle where the chain of gold appeared to him, for never yet saw he dwelling that pleased him so much. he hath ridden so far that he is come into the joyless forest of the black hermit, that is so loathly and horrible that no leaves nor greenery are there by winter nor by summer, nor was song of bird never heard therein, but all the land is gruesome and burnt, and wide are the cracks therein. he hath scarce gone thereinto or ever he hath overtaken the damsel of the car, that made full great joy of him. "sir," saith she, "bald was i the first time i saw you; now may you see that i have my hair." "certes, yea!" saith perceval, "and, as methinketh, hair passing beautiful." "sir," saith she, "i was wont to carry my arm at my neck in a scarf of gold and silk, for that i thought the service i did you in the hostel of king fisherman your uncle had been ill bestowed; but now well i see that it was not; wherefore now carry i the one arm in the same manner as the other; and the damsel that wont to go a-foot now goeth a-horseback; and blessed be you that have so approved you in goodness by the good manner of your heart, and by your likeness to the first of your lineage, whom you resemble in all good conditions. sir," saith she, "i durst not come nigh the castle, for there be archers there that shoot so sore that none may endure their strokes, and hereof will they stint not, they say, until such time as you be come thither. but well know i wherefore they will cease then, for they will come to shut you up within to slay and to destroy. natheless all they that are within will have no power, nor will they do you evil, save only the lord of the castle; but he will do battle against you right gladly." xxi. perceval goeth toward the castle of the black hermit, and the damsel of the car after. the archers draw and shoot stoutly. perceval goeth forward a great gallop, but they know him not on account of the white shield. they think rather that it is one of the other knights, and they lodge many arrows in his shield. he came nigh a drawbridge over a moat right broad and foul and horrible, and the bridge was lowered so soon as he came, and all the archers left of shooting. then knew they well that it was perceval who came. the door was opened to receive him, for they of the gate and they of the castle within thought to have power to slay him. but so soon as they saw him, they lost their will thereof and were all amared and without strength, and said that they would set this business on their lord that was strong enough and puissant enough to slay one man. perceval entered all armed into a great hall, and found it filled all around with a great throng of folk that was right foul to look on. he that was called the black hermit was full tall and seemed to be of noble lordship, and he was in the midst of the hall, all armed. "sir," say his men, "and you have not defence of yourself, never no counsel nor aid may you have of us!" xxii. "we are yours to guard, to protect, and oftentimes have we defended you; now defend us in this sore need." the black hermit sate upon a tall black horse, and was right richly armed. so soon as perceval espieth him, he cometh with such a rush against him that he maketh all the hall resound, and the black hermit cometh in like sort. they mell together with such force that the black hermit breaketh his spear upon perceval, but perceval smiteth him so passing stoutly on the left side upon the shield, that he beareth him to the ground beside his horse, so that in the fall he made he to-frushed two of the great ribs in the overturn. and when they that were therein saw him fall, they opened the trap-door of a great pit that was in the midst of the hall. so soon as they had opened it, the foulest stench that any smelt ever issued thereout. they take their lord and cast him into this abysm and this filth. after that, they come to perceval, and so yield the castle and put them at his mercy in everything. thereupon, behold you, the damsel of the car that cometh. they deliver up to her the heads sealed in gold, both the head of the king and of the queen, and she departeth forthwith, for well knoweth she that perceval will achieve that he hath to do without her. she departeth from the castle and goeth the speediest she may toward the valleys of camelot. and all they of the castle that had been the black hermit's are obedient to perceval to do his will, and they have him in covenant that never more shall knights be harassed there in such sort as they had been theretofore, but rather that they should receive gladly any knights that should pass that way, like as in other places. perceval departed from the castle rejoicing for that he had drawn them to the believe of our lord, and every day was his service done therein in holy wise, like as it is done in other places. xxiii. hereof ought the good knight to be loved that by the goodness of his heart and the loyalty of his knighthood hath achieved all the emprises he undertook, without reproach and without blame. perceval hath ridden until he hath overtaken the damsel that carried the rich cup of gold and the knight that was along with her. perceval saluteth him, and the knight maketh answer, may he be blessed of god and of his sweet mother. "fair sir," saith perceval, "is this damsel of your company?" saith the knight, "rather am i of hers. but we are going to an assembly of knights that is to be under the white tower to the intent to prove which knight is most worth, and to him that shall have the prize of the assembly shall be delivered this golden cup." "by my head," saith perceval, "that will be fair to see!" he departeth from the knight and the damsel, and goeth his way a great pace amidst the meadows under the white tower, whither the knights were coming from all parts, and many of them were already armed to issue forth. so soon as it was known that the damsel with the cup was come thither, the fellowships assembled on all sides, and great was the clashing of arms. perceval hurleth into the assembly in such sort that many a knight he smiteth down and overthroweth at his coming, and he giveth so many blows and so many receiveth that all they that behold marvel much how he may abide. the assembly lasted until evensong, and when it came to an end the damsel came to the knights and prayed and required that they would declare to her by right judgment of arms which had done the best. the more part said that he of the white shield had surpassed them all in arms, and all agreed thereto. the damsel was right glad, for well she knew that they spake truth. she cometh to perceval; "sir," saith she, "i present you this cup of gold for your good chivalry, and therefore is it meet and right you should know whence the cup cometh. the elder damsel of the tent where the evil custom was wont to be, sent it to messire gawain, and messire gawain made much joy thereof. and it came to pass on such wise that brundans, the son of the sister of briant of the isles, slew meliot of logres, the most courteous knight and the most valiant that was in the realm of logres, and thereof was messire gawain so sorrowful that he knew not how to contain himself. for meliot had twice rescued him from death, and king arthur once. he was liegeman of messire gawain. wherefore he prayeth and beseecheth you on his behalf that you receive not the cup save you undertake to avenge him. for he was loved of all the court, albeit he had haunted it but little. brundans slew him in treason when meliot was unawares of him." "damsel," saith perceval, "were there no cup at all, yet natheless should i be fain to do the will of messire gawain, for never might i love the man that had deserved his hatred." he taketh the cup in his hand. "damsel," saith he, "i thank you much hereof, and god grant i may reward you for the same." "sir," saith she, "brundans is a right proud knight, and beareth a shield party of vert and argent. he is minded never to change his cognisance, for that his father bore the same." perceval called the knight that was of the damsel's company. "i beseech you," saith he, "of guerdon and of service, that you bear this cup for me to the hold of the sick knight, and tell his wife that the knight of the white shield that was harboured there within hath sent it her by you." "sir," saith the knight, "this will i do gladly to fulfil your will." he taketh the cup to furnish out the conditions of the message, and so departeth forthwith. xxiv. perceval lay the night in the castle of the white tower, and departed thence on the morrow as he that would fain do somewhat whereof he might deserve well of messire gawain. many a time had he heard tell of meliot of logres and of his chivalry and of his great valour. he was entered into a forest, and had heard mass of a hermit, from whom he had departed. he came to the castle perilous that was hard by there where meliot lay sick, lay wounded, when lancelot brought him the sword and the cloth wherewith he touched his wounds. he entered into the castle and alighted. the damsel of the castle, that made great dole, came to meet perceval. "damsel," saith he, "wherefore are you so sorrowful?" "sir," saith she, "for a knight that i tended and healed herewithin, whom brundans hath killed in treason, and god thereof grant us vengeance yet, for so courteous knight saw i never." while she was speaking in this manner, forthwith behold you a damsel that cometh. "ha, sir," saith she to perceval, "mount you again and come to aid us, for none other knight find i in this land nor in this forest but only you all alone!" "what need have you of my aid?" saith perceval. "a knight is carrying off my lady by force, that was going to the court of king arthur." "who is your lady?" saith perceval. "sir, she is the younger damsel of the tent where messire gawain overthrew the evil customs. for god's sake, hasten you, for he revileth her sore for her love of the king and of messire gawain." perceval remounteth forthwith and issueth forth of the castle on the spur. the damsel bringeth him on as fast as the knight can go. they had not ridden far before they came a-nigh, and perceval heard the damsel crying aloud for mercy, and the knight said that mercy upon her he would not have, and so smote her on the head and neck with the fiat of his sword. xxv. perceval espied the knight and saw that the cognisance of his shield was such as that which had been set forth to him. "sir," saith he, "too churlishly are you entreating this damsel! what wrong hath she done you?" "what is it to you of me and of her?" "i say it" saith perceval, "for that no knight ought to do churlishly to damsel." "he will not stint for you yet!" saith brundans. he raiseth his sword and dealeth the damsel a buffet with the fiat so passing heavy that it maketh her stoop withal so that the blood rayeth out at mouth and nose. "by my head," saith perceval, "on this buffet i defy thee, for the death of meliot and for the shame you have done this damsel." "neither you nor none other may brag that you have heart to attack me, but you shall aby it right dear!" "that shall you see presently," saith perceval and so draweth back the better to let drive at him, and moveth towards him as fast as his horse may run, and smiteth him so passing sore that he pierceth his shield and bursteth his habergeon and then thrusteth his spear into his body with such force that he overthroweth him all in a heap, him and his horse, in such sort that he breaketh both legs in the fall. then he alighteth over him, lowereth his coif, unlaceth the ventail, and smiteth off his head. "damsel," saith he, "take it, i present it to you. and, sith that you are going to king arthur's court, i pray and beseech you that you carry it thither and so salute him first for me, and tell messire gawain and lancelot that this is the last present i look ever to make them, for i think never to see them more. howbeit, wheresoever i may be, i shall be their well-wisher, nor may i never withdraw me of my love, and i would fain i might make them the same present of the heads of all their enemies, but that i may do nought against god's will." the damsel giveth him thanks for that he hath delivered her from the hands of the knight, and saith that she shall praise him much thereof to the king and messire gawain. she goeth her way and carrieth off the head, and perceval biddeth her to god. he returned back to castle perilous, and the damsel made great joy thereof when she understood that he had slain brundans. perceval lay there that night, and departed on the morrow after that he had heard mass. when he came forth of the castle he met the knight by whom he had sent the cup to the sick knight's wife. perceval asketh how it is with him. "sir," saith he, "i have carried out your message right well, for never was a thing received with such good will. the sick knight hath forgone his grudge against his wife. she eateth at his table, and the household do her commandment." "this liketh me right well," saith perceval, "and i thank you of doing this errand." "sir," saith the knight, "no thing is there i would not do for you, for that you made my brother knight hardy there where you first saw him knight coward." "sir," saith perceval, "good knight was your brother and a right good end he made, but a little it forthinketh me that he might have still been living had he abided in his cowardize." "sir," saith he, "better is he dead, sith that he died with honour, than that he should live with shame. yet glad was i not of his death, for a hardy knight he was, and yet more would have been, had he lived longer." xxvi. perceval departeth from the knight and commendeth him to god. he hath wandered so far one day and another that he is returned to his own most holy castle, and findeth therein his mother and his sister that the damsel of the car had brought thither. the widow lady had made bear thither the body that lay in the coffin before the castle of camelot in the rich chapel that she had builded there. his sister brought the cerecloth that she took in the waste chapel, and presented there where the graal was. perceval made bring the coffin of the other knight that was at the entrance of his castle within the chapel likewise, and place it beside the coffin of his uncle, nor never thereafter might it be removed. josephus telleth us that perceval was in this castle long time, nor never once moved therefrom in quest of no adventure; rather was his courage so attorned to the saviour of the world and his sweet mother, that he and his sister and the damsel that was therein led a holy life and a religious. therein abode they even as it pleased god, until that his mother passed away and his sister and all they that were therein save he alone. the hermits that were nigh the castle buried them and sang their masses, and came every day and took counsel of him for the holiness they saw him do and the good life that he led there. so one day whilst he was in the holy chapel where the hallows were, forthwith, behold you, a voice that cometh down therein: "perceval," saith the voice, "not long shall you abide herein; wherefore it is god's will that you dispart the hallows amongst the hermits of the forest, there where these bodies shall be served and worshipped, and the most holy graal shall appear herein no more, but within a brief space shall you know well the place where it shall be." when the voice departed, all the coffins that were therein crashed so passing loud that it seemed the master-hall had fallen. he crosseth and blesseth him and commendeth him to god. on a day the hermits came to him. he disparted the holy relics among them, and they builded above them holy churches and houses of religion that are seen in the lands and in the islands. joseus the son of king hermit, remained therein with perceval, for he well knew that he would be departing thence betimes. xxvii. perceval heard one day a bell sound loud and high without the manor toward the sea. he came to the windows of the hall and saw the ship come with the white sail and the red cross thereon, and within were the fairest folk that ever he might behold, and they were all robed in such manner as though they should sing mass. when the ship was anchored under the hall they went to pray in the most holy chapel. they brought the richest vessels of gold and silver that any might ever see, like as it were coffins, and set therein one of the three bodies of knights that had been brought into the chapel, and the body of king fisherman, and of the mother of perceval. but no savour in the world smelleth so sweet. perceval took leave of joseus and commended him to the saviour of the world, and took leave of the household, from whom he departed in like manner. the worshipful men that were in the ship signed them of the cross and blessed them likewise. the ship wherein perceval was drew far away, and a voice that issued from the manor as she departed commended them to god and to his sweet mother. josephus recordeth us that perceval departed in such wise, nor never thereafter did no earthly man know what became of him, nor doth the history speak of him more. but the history telleth us that joseus abode in the castle that had been king fisherman's, and shut himself up therein so that none might enter, and lived upon that the lord god might send him. he dwelt there long time after that perceval had departed, and ended therein. after his end, the dwelling began to fall. natheless never was the chapel wasted nor decayed, but was as whole thereafter as tofore and is so still. the place was far from folk, and the place seemed withal to be somewhat different. when it was fallen into decay, many folk of the lands and islands that were nighest thereunto marvel them what may be in this manor. they dare a many that they should go see what was therein, and sundry folk went thither from all the lands, but none durst never enter there again save two welsh knights that had heard tell of it. full comely knights they were, young and joyous hearted. so either pledged him to other that they would go thither by way of gay adventure; but therein remained they of a long space after, and when again they came forth they led the life of hermits, and clad them in hair shirts, and went by the forest and so ate nought save roots only, and led a right hard life; yet ever they made as though they were glad, and if that any should ask whereof they rejoiced in such wise, "go," said they to them that asked, "thither where we have been, and you shall know the wherefore." in such sort made they answer to the folk. these two knights died in this holy life, nor were none other tidings never brought thence by them. they of that land called them saints. xxviii. here endeth the story of the most holy graal. josephus, by whom it is placed on record, giveth the benison of our lord to all that hear and honour it. the latin from whence this history was drawn into romance was taken in the isle of avalon, in a holy house of religion that standeth at the head of the moors adventurous, there where king arthur and queen guenievre lie, according to the witness of the good men religious that are therein, that have the whole history thereof, true from the beginning even to the end. after this same history beginneth the story how briant of the isles renounced king arthur on account of lancelot whom he loved not, and how he assured king claudas that reft king ban of benoic of his land. this story telleth how he conquered him and by what means, and how galobrus of the red launde came to king arthur's court to help lancelot, for that he was of his lineage. this story is right long and right adventurous and weighty, but the book will now forthwith be silent thereof until another time. the author's conclusion for the lord of neele made the lord of cambrein this book be written, that never tofore was treated in romance but one single time besides this; and the book that was made tofore this is so ancient that only with great pains may one make out the letter. and let messire johan de neele well understand that he ought to hold this story dear, nor ought he tell nought thereof to ill-understanding folk, for a good thing that is squandered upon bad folk is never remembered by them for good. explicit the romance of perceval the nephew of king fisherman. 