Etext of Heroic Legends
by Agnes Grozier Herbertson
Published in London
1908

The Two Brothers 
The Charcoal-Burner 
How my Cid the Campeador won the Favour of his King 
How the Minstrel saved the King 
How Oliver Fought for France and the Faith 
The Sword in the Stone (Legend of King Arthur)
The Keeping of the Passes 
The Knight of the Ill-Shapen Coat 
The Archer of Schwitz 
Beaumains, the Knight of the Kitchen 
With Bow and Arrow 
St. George and the Dragon 
The Quest of Offero 

The Two Brothers

Bellisant, the sister of King Pepin of France, sat in her round room,
broidering.  She had hair that was bright as the sun that stained her
window, and eyes that were clear as pools of dew.  She had a
peaked chin and an air of wonderment.  She held her needle with a
grace that was fair to see.

Bellisant was fairest of all fair maidens, and there was that about
her that won men's hearts, so that they loved her, not counting the
cost of loving.  But her heart was not less pure than her smile was
tender; and when the peasant women chid their daughters, they
would say, "Child, child, be careful --you will never be as good as
the Princess Bellisant".

As Bellisant sat broidering she heard a step upon the stair, and she
knew it was that of King Pepin, her brother, who held her dearest
of all he loved.  Yet would she not look upon him as he entered,
for she knew that he came to speak of a suitor, who should take
her from him; and Bellisant had had suitors beyond her reckoning,
and liked them ill.

"What sewest thou, my sister?" asked the King, with gentleness.

Bellisant replied, "It is a robe for a child who hath lost her mother,
and I have sewn into every stitch a sweet thought for her.  But tell
me, brother, what tidings are these I read upon thy face?"

King Pepin replied, "I bring tidings of Alexander, Emperor of
Greece; for thy fair fame hath reached him.  He seeks thy hand in
marriage, and even now he waits below to look upon thy face."

Bellisant blushed rose-red.  Then she said, "I will see no more
suitors."

But the King made answer, coaxing her, yet with something of
sternness mingling the sadness of his tone, "He is a mighty
monarch, and it is well that thou shouldest see him."

Therefore Bellisant left her broideries, that the Emperor of Greece
should look upon her face.  And she tripped down the long stair
and met him.  Now she would have given him but a glance and
then have withdrawn herself--such was the intention that moved
her--but as she gave the glance her heart leapt up and went with it;
and she knew that she loved Alexander and would wed none other. 
As for him, he loved her with a love as fond.

Thus it came about that fair Bellisant was wedded to Alexander,
Emperor of Greece, and went away with him; and all France was
in tears.

But Bellisant was happy, so that her fairness increased day by day;
and many folk travelled from far countries just to look upon her
face.  And her heart was full of love for all people, and of
thoughtfulness for the poor; so that she feared no evil from any.

But Alexander had a friend and minister, a priest whom he loved,
but one who was of little credit to his order, being full of evil
thoughts and crafts.  This man would have had the Empress
Bellisant love him with a greater love than she bore her husband;
and since she would not, he made himself her enemy.  So he set
himself to think upon her helplessness, and in what fashion he
could work her undoing, and afterwards made a plot against her.

Now the Emperor loved and trusted this man, and when the false
priest came before him, wringing his hands and with tears heavy
upon his cheeks, he begged of him that he would relate that which
caused his distress.

But the priest replied, his tears again overflowing, and with every
manifestation of distress: "How can I bring myself to relate this
thing and be the means of bringing grief upon the man I love and
honour above all men?"

Then the Emperor, perceiving that he himself must be the object of
the priest's solicitude, turned pale with anxiety, not knowing what
should come upon him.  "Nay, dear friend, tell thy tale, and tell it
quickly," cried he, "for thou fillest my breast with fears that are
worse than knowledge!"

Thereupon the false friend fell upon his knees, and related to the
Emperor how he had learnt of the wickedness of the Empress
Bellisant, that her virtue was no real virtue, and that her fair face
hid a heart that was blacker than night, and how she had plotted
most grievously against the Emperor, and had never loved him. 
And these things he declared had been told to him in confession,
so that he might not reveal the names of those who were partners
in the Empress's crime.

When Alexander heard of these things, he was filled with grief and
anger so great that he threw himself upon the ground and would
see no one.  And the priest slipt away, well satisfied that his evil
work was accomplished; for it did not occur to the Emperor to
doubt his friend.

When the Emperor had recovered from his grief, he raised himself;
and since his sorrow was dim and his anger exceedingly great
against Bellisant, he gave orders that she should instantly be put to
death.

"For I will not ", said he, "that others should look upon her beauty
and be deceived."  And he hid his face in his hands, remembering
that virtuous Bellisant whom he had loved.

Then came Bellisant before the Emperor, stupefied with
amazement at this evil thing which had come upon her, and
knowing not how to defend herself from so cruel a charge.  Pale
were her cheeks as a lily, and heavy her eyes were with sorrow,
and, dropping her little chin within her hands, she looked woefully
at Alexander, declaring her innocence of any crime against him.

But he, turning away, crushed his hands upon his ears, crying, "I
will not listen to thy false words, false Bellisant, lest I be again
undone.  Neither will I behold thy beauty, lest I should be again
deceived and think thee pure!"

And with that he left her.  Yet because, despite himself, her sweet
voice lingered in his ears, and because there were many who wept
for the fate of the Empress Bellisant--for she was already greatly
beloved of the people--the Emperor commanded that she should
not be executed, but should be exiled and forbidden the country
under pain of death.

And he ordered that none should accompany Bellisant when she
went forth save only her squire Blandiman, whom she had brought
with her from her brother's court.

Therefore the Empress and Blandiman went into exile. And
Blandiman said:

"Let us seek the court of King Pepin, that he may espouse thy
cause and, having pity upon thy wrongs, may avenge thee; or may
give thee succour till thine enemy hath betrayed himself."

Therefore they journeyed toward France.

And having reached, at length, that forest which is called the
Forest of Orleans, Blandiman left his mistress and went in search
of food.

And while he was absent Bellisant's two children were born, and
they were both sons.

Now Bellisant sat gazing upon them, and weeping; for she
reflected how her sons would never behold their father, or that fair
realm which should have been their home.  And as she wept, a
she-bear approached the tree beneath which the Empress reclined,
and, seizing one of the babes in her mouth, padded swiftly away.

At this calamity the Empress was as one distraught, and with her
hair wild about her, and her tears falling, she pursued the animal,
breaking her way through the tangles of the forest with bleeding
hands.  From her mouth issued cries of distress, but, alas! there
was none near to hear; and ere she could free herself from the
thorns that caught at her, the bear had plunged into new
thicknesses and disappeared.

Thereupon Bellisant fell to the ground in a swoon, and she lay
there, with hands outstretched, like one dead.

At that moment King Pepin came riding through the forest, for he
had been out hunting.  He saw nothing of the Empress as she lay
deathlike among the bushes, but rode past, his eyes upon the
ground, his face misshapen with anger and shame.

When he came to that tree where the Empress had been resting, he
perceived upon the ground beneath it a new-born infant whom no
one guarded.

The King bade his courtiers bring the child to him, and when he
had looked upon it he felt something--he knew not what--stir in his
heart so that he had almost swooned for love of the child.  And
when he had recovered himself, he said to his gentlemen, turning
away his face so that his weakness might be hidden, "Let us take
this child with us whither we go, for he moves me strangely to
love.  And he shall be brought up in gentleness, and shall be as
mine own son."

Now the courtiers murmured, but they did as he had said.

King Pepin passed on his way, bearing the boy with him; and a
little while afterwards Blandiman returned, bringing with him food
and divers things which he had purchased.

But when he reached the tree where he had left Bellisant, there
was no one by it.  And near the tree the bushes were much broken. 
Then Blandiman went through the forest, crying the Empress's
name in fear.

And when he had called several times, he heard a feeble cry, and
discovered Betlisant, who had only now recovered from her
swoon.

Then she lifted a stricken face and wept grievously.  "Alas,
Blandiman," cried she, "in one hour have joy and sorrow come
upon me!  For thou hadst left me but a little time, when my two
sons were born, and hardly had this sweet joy been mine, when a
great bear issued from the forest and carried one of them away. 
And the babe is even now devoured, since I could follow but a
little way."  And Bellisant bowed her head upon her knees.  But
Blandiman questioned her, fear stinging his heart. "Where,
Madam, is the other babe, since thou hadst two sons ?"

Bellisant replied, "In my haste to follow this cruel beast, I left him
beneath the tree where I had rested".

"Alas, Madam," cried Blandiman, scarce able to restrain his tears,
"Heaven hath seen fit to afflictúthee cruelly!  For I sought but a
moment ago that tree, which I had marked well, and there was no
living thing by it.  Some other beast of the forest hath visited it in
thine absence, and hath borne away the second babe!"

Bellisant sat still, stupefied with sorrow.  After a time she said, "I
will go to my brother, for he hath ever loved me and will regard
my grief."

Blandiman hung his head and was silent.  When the Empress lifted
her great eyes to look at him, marvelling that he did not answer, he
said, "As I passed through the forest I came upon King Pepin, who
was a-hunting.  On beholding me, he was seized with a great fury
so that he lost power of speech.  And when his voice returned to
him, he told me how the Emperor had dealt all too tenderly by
thee, and how he--the King--had dealt more had he been in the
Emperor's place. For, King Pepin believes in thy guilt!"

Then rose the Empress to her feet, and with a sigh that almost
broke her breast, she said, "I will seek some quiet place in the
forest, that I may die there; for now my life is finished, and I am
tired of the world with its sorrows and deceits."

But Blandiman said, "Nay, Madam, that were a pitiful thing to do,
and an insult to Heaven who, one day, will prove thine innocence. 
Let us seek, instead, another country, and wait there with patience
for a while."

And, having so decided, they left that realm, and, after passing
through many vicissitudes, arrived at the castle of the giant
Ferragus, which was in Portugal.  And he, being a man of a great
heart, though a pagan, had pity on those poor fugitives, and gave
them hospitality for many years.

Of these things King Pepin knew nothing, for he had blotted out of
his heart fair Bellisant, who had used to sit broidering in her round
room, making garments for the poor.  But he loved Valentine--for
so he had named the child he found --and had great delight in him
as he grew from a child to be a youth.

And Valentine was a youth of a high courage, and one having a
great skill in all manly exercises.  Besides this, he was so good to
look upon that there was scarce a maid who did not turn her head
as he passed by.

King Pepin had two half-sons, Haufry and Henry, whom he loved
little.  For these were clumsy men, loutish and slow, and were
devoid of any generous thoughts.  Little grace had they in aught
that was manly, for their habit was to go about, as burrowing
creatures, seeking to betray some secret, or ferret out some action
done amiss.

These men harboured a great jealousy of Valentine, envying him
his skill, his fine presence, and the King's affection--which they
coveted only on account of the honours he might bestow.  They
would have done away with him in some dastardly fashion, had
not they feared the King's enquiries and his wrath.  As they might
not work this evil, they ever sought other means of bringing him to
his death.

Therefore Haufry and Henry stood in the King's presence when a
messenger arrived from a neighbouring king, besmirched, torn,
and short of breath, craving the aid of one who would help regain a
castle which had been taken by the heathen.  "The post is one of
great danger," cried the messenger. "Lend us, O King, a knight of a
brave presence and a lion-like heart."

Then cried Haufry and Henry, dropping their eyes to hide their
hate, and making a pretence of love, "Send Valentine for who is
like to him in battle?  He is the bravest of all brave knights.  Send
Valentine!"

And Valentine, bending the knee, prayed, "King Pepin, bid me go."

And the King bidding him, he went with his men; and there were
few who thought to see him again.

Then were Haufry and Henry at a loss to know how to dissemble
their joy, for they waited to hear tidings of Valentine's death.

But he returned, laden with costly spoil, and with many honours
upon him; and King Pepin fell upon his neck and embraced him,
doing him further honour.

Then Haufry and Henry turned their faces to the wall, for they
were dark with hatred, and, try as they would, they could not find
words to utter in praise of Valentine.

After many months had passed by, an enemy came upon King
Pepin, one who was cruel and treacherous, creeping into the
country at an unsuspected spot, and bearing poisoned weapons. 
When the King gained tidings of this he was troubled, not knowing
whom to send to defend him from such a foe. For that knight must
have coolness, and wisdom, and much knowledge of strategy, and
it might be that he would never return from the quest.

Then spake Haufry and Henry, avoiding the eyes of the King,
"Send Valentine, for is not he a knight of marvellous wisdom and a
rapid wit?  Hast not thou vaunted many a time to us his sagacity,
saying that thou hadst never known the like?  Send Valentine, that
he may rid thee of thy foe."

But the King was loth, loving not the thought of sending him.

But Valentine bent the knee, with cheeks aglow and eyes afire. 
And he prayed, "King Pepin, let me acknowledge the debt I owe
thee; let me rid thee of thine enemy."

And when the King had bidden him, all reluctantly, for he was
heart-sore to utter the words, Valentine made his preparations in
secret and set forth.

For many days the King waited, mourning secretly, and seeing no
brightness in the sunlight; but at last Valentine returned, weary and
wounded, yet triumphant.  For the King's foe was crushed, and
would trouble him no more.

Then King Pepin lavished new honours upon Valentine, and loved
him with an increased love; and Haufry and Henry withdrew
themselves and went to lonely places, where they talked of
Valentine as they were moved by their hate.

Now King Pepin swore that Valentine should go on no more
hazardous adventures till a long time had passed; but the knight
had been but a short space at court when a most woeful message
came from the peasant people near the Forest of Orleans, begging
King Pepin to send a valiant knight to deliver them from the
ravages of a fearsome man-monster who dwelt in the forest.

"He is the most fearsbme monster that hath ever been seen," said
they, "and of a most terrible strength.  It is said that he was
nourished by a shebear and reared among her cubs; and, indeed, it
is a likely story.  For though his form be human, he hath a covering
of hair upon his body; neither doth he utter sounds which can be
understood by men, but strange groans and noises.  And his
strength is beyond that of any beast of the forest.  He hath killed all
who have come into conflict with him; therefore, O King, it were
well that thou shouldst send the bravest knight of thy court to rid
us of this wild man."

When King Pepin received this message, he was filled with
uneasiness, and would in no wise consider who was his most
valiant knight, for that he knew in his heart.  And he looked about
him for another knight whom he might send upon this quest.

But Haufry and Henry, who were secretly filled with joy at the
message, spake in the King's ear, yet loudly, so that all men might
hear, "Who is this knight most valorous, but Valentine?  Hast not
thou loaded him with honours and with riches beyond all other
knights?  Send him, therefore, to those poor people, that he may
rid-them of their enemy."

Then spake the King, with anger hot in his breast, "Well I know
why ye so advise me!  Have not ye long envied Valentine and
nourished hatred against him?  It is your evil malice that now
speaks, since ye would compass his death, if ye could."

But Haufry and Henry replied, smiling falsely, "Send Valentine. 
Otherwise, is not his honour assailed, since thou wilt have it that
he is no longer thy bravest knight?"

King Pepin replied, trembling, "Valentine is not yet recovered
from his wounds."

But Valentine, kneeling before the king, prayed, "Bid me, King
Pepin, go upon this errand, for my wounds trouble me no more,
and I would fain aid these poor people.  Moreover, there is a voice
within me that bids me go."

And the King having bidden him as he desired, he set out.

It was evening when he reached the Forest of Orleans.  Therefore
he tied his horse to a tree, and having climbed into the branches
above, slept there the night through.

And in the morning he was awakened by a furious noise, which
shook the tree in which he rested, and was unlike any he had ever
heard.

Valentine looked through the leaves of the tree, and he beheld a
creature in the form of a huge man, but covered with hair as a
beast is covered, who was clawing at Valentine's horse and
uttering the fearful sounds that had awakened him.

As Valentine watched the scene, the horse, affrighted, kicked out
at this creature, so that he was wounded.  Whereupon he flew at
the animal as if to tear it to pieces, uttering a most fearful cry of
rage.
    "Nay, hold!" cried Valentine.  "Hath not King Pepin sent me
here to fight with thee, as man with man?  I pray thee do no more
mischief to my horse, since in one moment I shall descend to try
thy skill."

Whereupon he climbed nimbly down the tree and swung to the
ground.

And the wild man had no sooner beheld him upright upon his feet
than he flew at him, howling, and felled him to the ground--for his
onslaught was in force like none Valentine had known.

But the knight speedily recovered himself, since he could move
with a greater ease than the wild man, and, gripping hard at his
sword, he rushed upon his enemy, dealing him vigorous thrusts,
which the other easily beat aside by his huge strength.

They had contested in this way for some time when Valentine,
finding that his strength was as nothing beside that of the wild
man, nerved himself for a great blow, to be nicely delivered; but
even as he made it, the wild man seized his arm in a grip of iron
and threw him violently upon the ground.

Having done this, the wild man appeared strangely discomfited
and disinclined to follow up his advantage, and he stood gazing at
the knight the while he raised himself from the ground. 
Whereupon Valentine, giddy from his fall, and full of anger
against the wild man, again rushed at him, repeating the stroke he
had attempted; and since the other was ill-expecting the thrust, it
chanced that he turned it aside carelessly, so that the sword's point
pricked his flesh.

At that he gave a bellow of rage, and, running to the tree in which
the knight had rested, plucked it up by the roots with one pull, and
came rushing towards the knight, brandishing it in his hand.

But as he came upon Valentine, the desire to injure the knight
again left him, whereupon he let the tree fall from his hand, and
stood waiting.

And Valentine, thinking the creature to be aweary, proposed that
they should rest for a while before continuing the fight. Thus they
rested, side by side, beneath the trees; and as he observed the wild
man, Valentine was shaken by a strange sweetness, and found that
the desire to fight with him was gone, and he was filled with a love
which he did not understand.

"Wild man," said he, speaking gently, because of the love that was
within him, "I have no longer desire to fight with thee. Wilt not
thou quit this wild life and return with me whence I came?  For I
could love thee well, and I would have thee for my brother, and
teach thee to be as other men."

To this the wild man assented, and, rising, he followed Valentine
where he went.

And Valentine returned to King Pepin, scatheless, and bearing the
wild man in his train; and he received new honours from the King.

Then Haufry and Henry were affrighted, for they thought, "He
bears a charmed life, and none may hurt him."

Now the wild man was baptised, and he was named Orson,
because he had been found in a wood, and he became as other
men, but ever with a strength beyond the strength of man.

Valentine and Orson went upon many adventures, some grave,
some of a lighter humour, faring forth together, for the love
between them was wondrous strong.

And they discovered their mother, the ill-used Bellisant, and they
restored her to the Emperor her husband.

For--as wickedness is ever its own undoing--the false priest one
day betrayed his falseness; and the Emperor knew Bellisant to be
as innocent as she was unfortunate and as pure in heart as she was
fair to see.

The Charcoal- Burner

All the afternoon the storm had been lowering; just before evening
it broke.  The lightning flashed in a yellow zigzag--a forked fang
thrust out of the sky; after it followed the thunder, rolling up
behind the forest like mountains falling one against another.  The
noise was enough to deafen one, the darkness made one think one's
self blind.  When the lightning came, it only showed the forest
trees shaking their boughs with fright, or revealed a glimpse of the
undergrowth that crackled as the boughs shook.

The storm was at its worst in an hour; after that the rain fell like
great drops spilt from a caldron in the sky.  The darkness was still
so great that one would have said the rain-drops were black as they
fell with a splash upon the forest trees and onward to the ground. 
They made a brisk patter as they dropt, and ere the thunder had
ceased the forest ways were gurgling with water, and every hollow
was a pool.

The sky was still dark, with the end of the storm and with evening,
when the charcoal-burner came winding through the forest, leading
his mare.  The panniers on the mare's back were empty, for she had
been to town; but the man's pockets were by no means full.  When
you sell your wares to poor folk you get, more often than not, a
poor price for them.

Ralph's collar was turned up, the hand that was not upon the mare's
bridle was plunged deep into his pocket; and the water ran from
his head and down his coat in great streams. His beard was in a
tangle, his cap was over his eyes; he trudged on with never a
glance round.  Not a sound came from his lips as his feet plunged,
squelch! squelch! into the soft ground.

The charcoal-burner was trudging along in this sober fashion when
from the trees at his left hand emerged a horseman. The stranger
was clad in what had been goodly garments, but these were so
drenched and spoiled by the storm, and torn by battling with the
trees, that they were now but a mass of rags and tatters.  His steed's
eye was rolling as if the animal had been affrighted, and both horse
and rider were flecked with mud from head to foot.

Ralph, the charcoal-burner, would have passed this sight by with a
fine indifference, and as if he saw such every day, had not the
horseman hailed him eagerly, reining in his steed, and crying: 
"Hey there, friend, tell me in which direction does Paris lie?"

The charcoal-burner did not stop his mare, but plodded on as he
replied, in a rough tone:  "If you will turn your horse round, and go
back the way you have come, you may chance upon the road to
Paris."

"Is there no path, then, through the forest " cried the stranger.

"There is no path that can be seen", said Ralph, "in a storm like
this."  He took another step ahead, and the water flew out in sprays
under his heavy feet.

As the stranger's horse stood still, and the charcoal-burner was
moving on, the two men would soon have parted company, had not
the new-comer suddenly dashed the drops from his forehead and
urged his unwilling steed after the peasant.

"Tell me, good friend," said he in an earnest tone, "am I likely to
reach Paris to-night?  That I should do so is a matter of much
moment."

"If your will and your horse's be good enough," said Ralph bluntly,
"you may reach the city -- who knows?  True, the way is long, the
sky is dark, and there is no path through the forest; but these things
are your affair, not mine."

So speaking, he moved on.

The horseman considered.  "Tell me," he said at last, "is there any
place of shelter where I may pass the night, that when the storm is
over I may pursue my way?"

"I know of no shelter," said the charcoal-burner, "save that of my
hut, which lies in the centre of the forest, a good five miles hence. 
Its shelter is for any man: take it, or leave it, as you will."

"Gladly will I take it, friend," said the stranger.  He pushed back
his drooping shoulders, and began to utter his thanks.

But the charcoal-burner interrupted him curtly.  "Nay, keep your
thanks," said he.  "I am a poor man, but I will accept nothing that I
have not earned."

 With that, on he went through the forest; and it may be that the
way to his hut was written in his brain, for as he went he looked
neither to right nor to left, but, as often as not, upon the ground.

The stranger rode slowly at his side, and when the water splashed
on him in greater floods from the drenched branches of the trees,
he shook his shoulders impatiently, and exclaimed; but Ralph the
charcoal-burner, though the water fell light or heavy, uttered never
a sound.

Thus he went on, in sombre silence; and still the rain fell.

"I can see the glimmer of a light before us," said the stranger at
last.

"It is the bright eye of my hut," said the charcoal-burner
ruminatingly, "looking out to welcome us."

Having said this, he gave a great shout, tilting his chin toward the
house.  "Hasten, good wife," cried he, "and open the door; and I
pray of you heap a great fire, and make a good supper; for here am
I, and a guest with me, wet, and cold, and hungry, and less alive
than dead!"

Hardly was this speech from his lips when the door of the hut flew
open; and the stranger could see, as he alighted from his horse, the
bright light of the kitchen beyond.

He would have hung back, the while the charcoal-burner entered;
but the latter with a great blow sent him reeling into the house.  "I
should be a pretty host," cried he, "to let my guest enter at my
back!"

And, closing the door, he went whistling to the stable.  When the
two men had washed, and had donned the dry garments the
charcoal-burner's wife had provided, they returned to the kitchen,
to find a fire blazing there that crackled with a thousand sparks,
and a supper on the table that sent steam up to the rafters.

"Come now, neighbour," said the charcoal-burner in a kindly tone,
"here is a sight to make us forget the storm without! Take the hand
of my good dame there, and lead her to the table; for I would fain
begin."

At this speech the good woman blushed, and the stranger hung
back, as if loth to take so much upon himself.

"Heavens!" cried the charcoal-burner; "think you that we have no
manners, we forest people?"  He faced the stranger with a flaming
face.  "This is the second time you have accused me of lack of
courtesy to a guest!"  With this speech he fetched the other a blow
that all but sent him upon the stone floor.  "Now will you take your
place beside my good wife, as I have bidden you?" cried he.

When the stranger had recovered his balance, and had rallied from
the force of the blow, there was a colour in his cheeks; and for a
second's space his eye~sflashed in the firelight.  But his anger
quickly died in amusement; and throwing his head back he began
to laugh.  Ralph hardly knew what to make of this laughter, light
and delicate as it was, and unlike his own; but having decided that
it was goodnatured enough, he made no more ado.  As for the
stranger, when he had finished his merriment, he led the good
dame to the board with as fine a grace as if she had been the
Empress herself.

They made a quaint company: the good wife and the stranger on
one side of the board, and on the other side Ralph the
charcoal-burner, with his beard all a-tangle, and his legs stretched
out far from his chair.  The firelight fell upon their faces; and they
could hear the rain falling with dull splashes upon the cottage roof.

"Eat, man, eat!" cried Ralph, as he heaped the stranger's plate with
smoking viands.  "May it never be said that the charcoal-burner
ill-fed a friend!  Saw you ever finer fare than this?  Do not the
Emperor's keepers complain, wife, that I help myself to the finest
of his herds?  But if I know Charlemagne, I say that he would not
begrudge Ralph the charcoal-burner the wherewithal to keep
himself alive, and to give comfort to a friend.  Think you,
comrade, the Emperor would have so mean a heart?"

"That I am sure he would not," said the stranger heartily.  "If he
were here to-night, be assured, he would say the same."

Having made this speech, the stranger laughed again, having,
seemingly, much merriment in him; and Ralph the charcoal-burner
laughed with him, albeit he knew not at what jest.

The while the rain beat down, and the fire blazed, the
charcoal-burner pushed back his chair, and told many a tale of how
he had outwitted the Emperor's foresters, and had supplied his own
table; and his laughter at these good tales was like the wind that
blows in the sunlight, having an edge to it, and yet an honest
warmth.  But the laughter of the stranger held still more mirth, for
it endured till the tears ran down his cheeks with enjoyment of the
jest.

Afterwards, when the night was older, the stranger told a tale.  It
was of the Emperor's court, and contained many a good jest,
whereat Ralph laughed mightily.  Yet in the midst of his laughter it
occurred to him to look more closely at his guest; and he noted
that, although he was a fine figure of a man, and stalwart, yet there
was that about him which spoke of gentler ways than those of the
forest.

"Since you know so much of the Court, you have perhaps been
there, neighbour?" said he.  The stranger looked toward the blaze
of the fire. "Ay," said he, "I have been there."

"Then you have seen the good Emperor Charlemagne, and his
Twelve Famous Peers?" asked the charcoal-burner, and his eyes lit
with a great light.

"Ay, I have seen them, and that many a time," said the stranger,
without looking away from the blaze.

"If I might but see him--this great Charlemagne!" cried the
charcoal-burner, his eye flaming.  "Have not we heard, wife, of his
famous deeds, of his wars with the heathen in the cause of the
Cross?"  The good wife nodded; and the stranger drew his glance
from the fire to fix it upon the charcoal-burner's face.

"Hearken, friend," said he; "the Emperor is now at Paris with his
Empress.  As you may know, he sojourns there with his Court, to
keep Yule in the fair city.  What hinders you that you come not to
Paris and catch a glimpse of him of whom you speak?"

But the charcoal-burner's head fell upon his breast.  "Nay, I am
Ralph the charcoal-burner," said he roughly.  "My place is not at
Paris, nor near the Emperor.  I must go about my business, for I
have my coal to sell."

"Listen, my friend," said the stranger quietly.  "I know the Court
well, for my home is there.  I am a gentleman of the Empress, a
poor gentleman, Wymond by name; yet I have some influence, and
I promise you that if you will bring your coal to Court, you shall
have a good sale for it.  There will be rare feasting at the Court this
Yuletide, and I warrant you, you will sell all the coal you have for
sale --and mayhap see the Emperor into the bargain!"

At this speech the charcoal-burner slapped his great hand upon his
knees.  "Now there you have a good reason why I should journey
to Court!" cried he.  "And since you promise me a good price for
my coal, you may expect to see me there."

"One good turn deserves another," said the stranger.  "Do not
forget, when you reach the Palace, to ask for Wymond. For the
sake of this good dinner of yours, I shall see to it that you sell your
coal at a good price."

A moment later he yawned, and as the charcoal-burner yawned
immediately after, they went, all three, to bed.

The best bedroom was given to the stranger; and in the small
chamber below slept the charcoal-burner and his wife.

In the morning the good woman was early up, and about household
affairs.  A short time after, the charcoal-burner was awakened by a
voice at his bed-side; and, opening his sleepy eyes, beheld the
stranger, already attired in his own garments, which the woman
had dried.

"Friend," said he, "my way lies toward Paris, and I must be early
upon it.  Let me therefore bid you farewell, and pay to your good
lady the fee for my stay."

Ralph thrust a great fist into his eyes, and rubbed them hard.  Then
he stared, and his face glowed like a poppy-bed. Pushing the
bed-clothes from his neck, he half rose, with a roar of rage like
that of a wild beast.  "May your horse fall into a hole, and you after
him!" he sputtered.  "Is not this the third time that you have
insulted my hospitality?  Ralph the charcoal-burner is indeed a
poor man, but not yet so poor that he must wring from a guest the
price of his board!"

And he dashed his hands upon the blankets.

The stranger had prudently retired to a distance, for he had no
desire to feel again the charcoal-burner's blows on his back.

"Well, well," said he soothingly, "we will say no more about the
matter, since it appears to you in so ill a light. Nevertheless,
because we are comrades, and you have done me a good turn, you
will find your way to Court.  Come, friend, you will let me do you
a good office in my turn."

"Oh! as to that--it is another affair," muttered Ralph, still
grumbling.  "My coal is good--I know of none better--and deserves
a better price than I get for it.  It may be that to-morrow morning
shall see me on my way to Court."

"Good ! I shall look for you then," said the other.  "You have but to
ask for Wymond, a gentleman of the Empress."

Without further waste of words he departed, mounting his horse
and riding away.  The charcoal-burner lay for a moment listening. 
It seemed to him that he heard the sound of laughter mingling with
the noise of the horse's hoofs, and with it dying away in the
distance.

"A folly of the ears!" muttered Ralph, and turnlng over, he fell
asleep.

The following morning saw a great figure early on the road to
Paris.  That was Ralph the charcoal-burner, leading his mare with
its panniers full of coal.  He wore the rough garb he ever wore "of
an everyday", and his thick boots clattered on the hard ground. 
The morning air was cold, and caught his ears and tweaked his
nose, and filled his eyes with water.

The charcoal-burner hardly noticed these things.  His thoughts held
him: they were of his Emperor Charlemagne, and the good price he
was to get for his coal.

Having reached the city, he was about to enter it, when he was
stopped by a gay knight, finely accoutred, who appeared to keep
watch upon the road.

"Halt, sir!" said he. "You may go no farther without my escort; for
know that the great Charlemagne desires to see all men who enter
the city by this road to-day.  Therefore, with your will, or without
your will, you must turn aside, and come with me now."

Of this story the charcoal-burner believed nothing.  "It is a likely
thing, is it not," said he "that the Emperor should desire to see the
charcoal-burner!  Nay, stand aside, and let me go on my way."

"Your way is with me," said the knight, "for I am bidden to bring
to the Emperor all who travel to-day upon this road."

At this speech Ralph lost patience.  "A plague upon you " cried he. 
"Is not my way already to the Palace, where I go, not to see the
Emperor indeed, but to sell my coal!  Cease this silly jesting, then,
and let me pass on."

And he would have passed straightway, without more ado, had not
the other moved forward, and barred the way.

"Now if you will not let me pass," cried the charcoal-burner, the
blood rushing to his face, "I swear that with my two fists I will
fight my way!  An honest man am I, and plain-spoken; and I am in
no mood for such fooling!"

"Gently, friend, gently," said the knight.  "Truly you are in a great
hurry about this business of yours!"  For a moment he sat
pondering, then he edged his horse warily aside.  "Pass on, then, if
you will," said he curtly.  "Since your way lies to the Palace, there
seems scant sense in taking you thither.  I shall keep my post, and
wait for the next man that travels this way."

"Heaven save his silly head from believing your story!" said Ralph
in his beard.  He hunched his great shoulders, and went on his way.

Enquiring of many whom he met, he found his way to the Palace,
where, coming upon a knot of gossiping lackeys, he demanded
admittance.

"There lives one Wymond here," said he, "a gentleman of the
Empress; pray tell him that I have come, as he bade me, and that I
have brought my coal."

At this speech the idle fellows stared at him as if all their senses
lay in their organs of sight.  "Hear you that?" cried one. "He has
come to Court, as he was bidden, and he has brought his coal!" 
And they went, with one accord, into a fit of laughter, placing
thick hands upon their sides, and waggling their heads to and fro.

The charcoal-burner had much ado to restrain his anger, which
burnt like a fire in his breast at this treatment.  Yet he remembered
Wymond's face and pleasant smile; and he was loth to return with
his coal unsold.  So he sought another entrance to the Palace,
which, being closed, he seized the knocker and belaboured the
door with all his might.

In answer to this summons came a saucy-faced page, clad in
feathers as fine as any peacock.

When he saw who the intruder was, he poked out a face that
grimaced from ear to ear.  "Know you my Wymond, a gentleman
of the Empress?" mocked he, ere Ralph could open his mouth. 
"Nay, we know him not. Have you brought his coal?"

"Heavens, here are fine manners, and a grace of which I knew
nothing!" cried the countryman, and he would have nipped the boy
by the ear had not the youngster flown off with as fine a flight as if
he had had wings in his heels.

Behind him he left the door gaping wide.  "Come now, have a
brave heart!" said the charcoal-burner to himself.  "Be assured that
Wymond knows nothing of this welcome, and is waiting to help
you gain a fine price for your coal!"

With that he put up his mare, and, stepping through the door,
began to search for his friend.

At first the charcoal-burner moved boldly enough, for the rooms
through which he passed were simple; and his thoughts were of
Wymond and the coal he wished to sell.  But as he pursued his
way, through corridors in which quaintly-cut windows blinked and
glittered, across halls hung with priceless tapestry, and over
carpets that were softer than the deep new moss on the
forest-edges, his courage began to fail.  Ralph the charcoal-burner
had doubts about his errand, and began to wish himself travelling
with his mare through the forest under the leafstript trees.

At many a door he met knight and page; and of these he asked
bluntly: "Tell me, where is my friend Wymond, he who bade me
bring hither my coal?"

But his only replies were boisterous laughter, for through the
Palace had run the jest of the countryman who had brought his
coal to sell at Court.

Ralph's ears tingled, and his fists ached for a fight.  Yet he
restrained himself.  "Let me, first of all, find Wymond," thought
he.  For a doubt of Wymond's good-will did not come to him.

But it seemed as if the search would never end.  The day was well
advanced when Ralph entered the largest room he had yet seen, a
room of rich tints, in which he saw the sun setting in the forest
behind autumn leaves.

The charcoal-burner paused, his brown beard shaking; so much
beauty filling his soul with fear.  "Ah, Wymond!" he cried, "why
did you bring me here, to make Ralph the charcoal-burner for the
first time feel afraid?"

His chin sank upon his breast, and he stood there sombre and still.

At that moment there rang in his ear a sound that lit his eye, and
sent fear speeding from his heart.  "That was certainly Wymond's
voice!" shouted the charcoal-burner.  With three great strides he
flashed across the room, and drew aside the curtains that hid the
apartment beyond.

"How now!" cried the knight who was stationed there, and had
almost been pitched upon his face.  "Good neighbour, you cannot
enter. Know you not that the Emperor is at table? Here--man
--fellow--sir-- "

But the charcoal-borner brushed off his grasp as if it had been the
touch of a fly; and in a trice he was in the room.  "Let me tell you,
that I heard Wymond!" cried he; "and have not I been seeking him
the whole day long?"

Upright he stood in the middle of the room, a tall strong figure in
rude garments and doltish shoes.  "Why, Wymond, where are
you?" he cried anxiously, and upon him every eye turned as he
looked down the glittering table with his keen country gaze.

"Alas," cried he, "Wymond cannot be here! He was but a shabby
fellow; and you, I perceive, are fine gentlemen, every one!"

At this speech there was such a clatter of laughter that the
countryman's head fell into a maze; and he knew not where to turn
his glance.  So he stood, looking up the table, then down, here,
there, everywhere.

"Come, out, silly foot !" cried the doorkeeper; but Ralph, with his
senses so caught and dazzled, heard not a word.

Then the man would have seized him, but the charcoal-burner,
with a cry, sprang aside.  "Why, there you are, Wymond!" he cried. 
"I have been seeking for you everywhere; but they told me there
was none at Court bearing your name.  Queer manners have I met
with, too; but let us say no more of that.  I have brought my coal,
as I promised you--I have put the mare up not far hence,--and when
you have finished eating, we will settle upon a price!"

"Heavens !" cried the doorkeeper.

The laughter suddenly ceased as it had been the dropping of the
wind after a storm.  All eyes were turned upon the Emperor, for it
was to him the charcoal-burner had appealed, and he had called
him Wymond and his friend.

"Who is this mad fellow?" whispered the knights.  They watched
him under narrowed lids, and held their breath.

So great a silence held the room that the charcoal-burner turned
pale.  He now perceived that the guest of two nights ago had not
been attired in such magnificence as was Wymond now.  Why,
Wymond--was not his dress the finest of all? Did not he sit
highest?  Was not the finest air--that of command--his?  Did not all
eyes turn to him where he sat?

Ralph shivered with cold.  "Alack," thought he, "what have I done? 
Your hospitality has done you an ill turn, Ralph, and you are likely
to pay for it with your life!"  So saying he looked across the great
room, and would have met the glance of the Emperor straightly, as
a brave man should, had not Charlemagne looked away.

He was telling his gentlemen the story of his adventure.  The
charcoal-burner listened to the tale with a head so stiffly held
upright that you might have thought it had already parted company
with his body, and had been merely stuck upon it. It was a tale well
told, that of the hospitality of Ralph the charcoal-burner; and the
knights had laughter out of it.

But there was one person who found no humour in the story, and
that was Ralph himself.  That was odd, for he was a fellow not
without merriment, was Ralph the charcoal-burner.

When the tale was finished, the eyes of the Emperor turned to the
man who stood statue-like in the middle of the room. They held an
odd expression, one not easy to read.

"Come, neighbour," said he, "tell me what reward shall be given to
the charcoal-burner for his hospitality?"

For a moment Ralph did not answer.  Yet he gripped hard at his
courage, and his head did not droop as he faced the Emperor and
his riddle, and felt upon him the eyes of every gentleman in the
room.

There was not one of them would have stood in the shoes of the
charcoal-burner; and he read the feeling that showed in their gaze.

His answer came boldly, for there is a courage of the forest and of
forest ways that can never be cast down.

"Sire," said he, "I asked for no reward, and Wymond promised
none.  This pledge only he gave to me--that he would help me sell
my coal."

There are some that say his voice shook at the words.  That may or
may not be.

"A wise reminder, gentlemen !" cried Charlemagne.  He began to
laugh, a rich glad sound, as if in remembrance of a joke that had
pleased him well.  Then he leant across the table, a light shining in
his bright eyes as they fell upon the silent man.  "Wymond
promised that you should sell your coal," said he, "and by my royal
word it shall be sold.  This is what Charlemagne promises--that
Ralph the charcoal-burner shall be a good knight of his, and shall
plant his valiant blows upon the foes of France.  Gentlemen,
France has need of honest men -- see you aught amiss in this?"
While the room turned round about the charcoal-burner's head, he
heard the cheer that made their one reply.

How my Cid the Campeador1 won the Favour of his King 
[ l  My Lord the Champion, or Challenger.]

Don Alfonso, the second son of Don Fernando, King of Castile,
Leon, Galicia, and of lands in Portugal, came to Zamora to hold
counsel with his sister Urraca, who possessed that city.  With him
he brought twelve knights of Toledo, stalwart and brave to see;
and Don Alfonso was as brave as any.  And if he held himself with
a proud air--well, I warrant his errand pleased him.  For after years
of banishment a man may be forgiven a grace or two on returning
to his own.

Don Fernando at his death had broken up that Kingdom of Spain
which was being welded together, and had better have remained
welded.  For the King loved his second son Alfonso with a greater
love than he bore to Don Sancho, who was his eldest son and
should have been his heir.  Therefore Don Fernando so disposed
matters at his death:--

To Don Sancho, the Kingdom of Castile.

To Don Alfonso, the Kingdom of Leon.

To Don Garcia, the Kingdom of Galicia and the lands in Portugal.

To his daughter Urraca, the city of Zamora.

To his daughter Elvira, the city of Toro.

And he bound them with an oath that they should not despoil one
another.

But Don Sancho, aggrieved at being cheated of his full heritage,
contrived to possess himself of his brothers' kingdoms,
imprisoning Don Garcia, and sending Don Alfonso into exile; and,
stretching rapacious hands, he would have wrested Zamora from
his sister Urraca, but ere he had gained the city he was lured away
by a traitor's strategy, and a spearthrust found his breast.

Then came Don Alfonso from Toledo--whose king had harboured
him--with his eye afire, and his steps timing to some inner music
of his brain, and with twelve brave knights to give him dignity. 
And when he had spoken with his sister Urraca, who bore him
great love, Urraca called together a council, that Don Alfonso
might declare his claims.

Whereafter, when many beards had wagged, and many wise saws
had had an airing, it was made known to all persons that Don
Alfonso was come from his banishment, and that he laid claim to
the kingdoms of Leon, of Galicia, of Castile, and of the lands in
Portugal.

And men from these kingdoms came pouring into Zamora, some
grave, some gay, some wide-eyed to behold Don Alfonso, others
with pursed lips ripe to pass an opinion upon him.  But whereas
the burghers of Leon were glad to see their king back again, and
the burghers of Galicia and men from Portugal ready to receive
Don Alfonso as their king without question, the men of Castile
would have it that he should first swear to them that he had had no
complicity in the death of Don Sancho.  For there were those who
hinted that Don Alfonso had prompted the assassin's spear with a
gift of gold.

Now the Castilians had had Don Sancho for their lord rightfully, as
he was King, in the first place, of Castile; and, having loved Don
Sancho, they demanded this oath from Don Alfonso, for they
would not own as their new lord one who had dipped his hands in
the blood of the old.

"I will take the oath," said Don Alfonso; and to his twelve knights
he said that he was well-pleased so to prove his innocence.  But
they, reading in the swell of his lip that which was not unfamiliar
to them, whispered among themselves that Don Alfonso was not
so well-pleased at the demand of the Castilians.  For he was a
proud man.

At the church of St. Gadea, which is in Burgos, Don Alfonso
attended to take the oath of his innocence, and with him his twelve
knights.  And a great crowd gathered there to hear him take it.

But when the time came for the oath to be administered, it was
found that no man present was willing to put the oath. For the
nobles reasoned among themselves shrewdly, saying, "When Don
Alfonso has sworn the oath to us, he will be King of Castile, and
Leon, of Galicia, and the lands in Portugal, and one with great
power in his hands.  And how will he glance at that man who put
the oath to him? Will he look warmly at him?  I trow not; for Don
Alfonso is a proud man."

And they would not put the oath to him.

Then arrived my Cid the Campeador, whose name was Ruydiez de
Bivar.  He was of all knights the most valorous and the wisest; and
he had been high in honour with Don Fernando, for whom he had
fought boldly as a youth, and with Don Sancho, whose counsellor
he had been.  When he heard how none would put the oath to Don
Alfonso, he said:

"Fear not, O ye cautious ones, I will put the oath."

And, having gained the attention of Don Alfonso, he said, looking
the King full in the eyes:

"Don Alfonso, I call upon thee to swear, and thy twelve knights
with thee, before these people, that thou hast not had any concern
in the death of thy brother Don Sancho, that thou hast not killed
him with thine own hand, nor yet caused him to be killed."

Don Alfonso replied, and with him his twelve knights, in a bold
voice:

"We swear truly that we had no concern in the death of Don
Sancho."

Then said my Cid, and the glance of his keen eyes was like a
spear-thrust, "Thou hast sworn the oath, Don Alfonso.  If thy word
be a false one, and the blood of Don Sancho indeed be upon thy
soul, then will I call this curse upon thee, that thy death come to
thee also by a traitor's hand."

Don Alfonso dropped his eyes upon the ground and stood dumbly. 
And there were those who said that his face changed colour,
because the words brought before him his brother's terrible end;
but there were others who knew that it was anger against the Cid
that troubled his blood so that it ran to his face.  For Don Alfonso
was a proud man.

My Cid saw that the King changed colour, yet he put the oath a
second time, and again a third. And it may be that he doubted Don
Alfonso because of that change of tint; but of that I can say
nothing, for the Cid was a wise man, and spake not often his
thoughts.

Thereafter Don Alfonso was made King of Galicia, and Castile,
and Leon--which was his own kingdom --and the people rejoiced
greatly.

And my Cid the Campeador considered with a knit brow whether
it were well that he should absent himself from Castile; for he
doubted the King's good-will toward him.  Not that he guessed the
sting at the King's heart regarding the matter of the oath--for he
supposed that Don Alfonso would perceive he but did his duty--but
on other grounds he expected the anger of the King.

For my Cid had been counsellor to Don Sancho, and Don Sancho
had rid Don Alfonso of his kingdom with but scant ceremony. 
True, my Cid had been opposed to Don Sancho in that matter, but
what of it?  His loyalty had not snapt at the thread, and he had
upheld Don Sancho in the matter, as well as in all else, when he
had perceived the King's purpose to be unchanged.

But as my Cid took counsel with himself over the affair, there
came a messenger demanding his presence before Don Alfonso.

Now the King met my Cid with a kindness that had a twist in it; as
if, while he smiled, a sour taste dwelt in his mouth. Nevertheless,
he uttered sweet words, saying, "Now welcome, my Cid
Campeador.  To-day I claim thine allegiance; for as thou hast been
counsellor to Don Fernando my father, and to my brother Don
Sancho, so I would have thee to be my counsellor.  For I look upon
thee as a worthy vassal, a man of much renown, and one of
wisdom."

Then my Cid bowed the knee and swore his allegiance; and he
believed that the twist in the King's humour was from
remembrance of the days of his banishment.

"He shall forget those days, for I will serve him faithfully!" vowed
my Cid.

Yet the King's thoughts were not of his banishment, but of his
oath; and he was torn two ways.  For whereas his pride was
wounded sorely, he could yet perceive the valour of my Cid
Ruydiez, how there was none like to him, and how none other
among his vassals was held in such high esteem.

Therefore he chose to have Ruydiez as his counsellor, and he
would fain have forgotten the matter of his oath.  But there were
those who whispered of it, not wishing him to forget; for many
were jealous of my Cid the Campeador.

But my Cid went his way blithely, having given his allegiance to
the King, and with his mighty deeds he made the country ring. 
Alone he went forth to meet many champions, returning ever,
covered with honours, bringing news of victory with him.

Then the black spot in the heart of Don Alfonso would cease to
burn, and he would meet my Cid with a sparkling eye, showing
him affection, and bestowing upon him towns and castles.

And as Ruydiez went from the King's presence, a noble would
bend to whisper to his fellow: "Sawest thou the face of my Cid,
how it was full of triumph?  'Twas such a look his face bore as he
put the oath to the King."

Then Don Alfonso, hearing the whisper as, indeed, he was meant
to do--felt his cheeks flame, and in his heart anger burnt anew
against the Campeador.

But my Cid suspected nothing of these things, for he was broad
and generous, and not prone to think ill; and he rejoiced in the
affection which the King showed to him, and meditated other
brave deeds.

And the King brooded, being at times full of joy in the valour of
this great vassal, and on other occasions heavy with anger against
him.

Now the kings of Seville and Cordova had not paid to Don
Alfonso the tribute they owed to him as vassals.  Wherefore the
King sent for my Cid, and told him how he must go and demand
the tribute.

Little loth was my Cid!  Having brought together his company, he
set forth, his green pennon flying, his horse prancing, and all the
people shouting to see him go.

And ere a great time was gone by he arrived with his company at
Seville.

Then he found how the King of Seville was sorely beset by the
King of Granada, who was making war against him. And the King
of Granada was aided by many lords of Castile.  And between
them they were crushing the King of Seville as surely as a
pumpkin is crushed between closing walls.

My Cid Ruydiez was wroth, and his eyes blazed with fire.  Having
given his word to the King of Seville that he would help him, he
sent word to the lords of Castile that they should cease their
hostilities, since they were waging war against a vassal of their
King.  But they gave no heed to him at all, and would not desist;
neither would the King of Granada cease his hostilities.

Then my Cid fell upon them with a great fury, and he cut them
down as a reaper cuts ripe corn, and took many prisoners, and
wounded many of the lords.  And his aspect was terrible, so that
many fled before him.

Then, having put the lords to rout, my Cid returned to Castile,
bringing with him the tribute to Don Alfonso, and with the tribute
a valuable gift from the King of Seville.  And the Campeador was
himself laden with gifts, and with much spoil which he had won
from the King of Granada and the rebellious lords of Castile.

"Right bravely hast thou done, my Ruydiez!" cried the King; and
he lavished fresh honours upon my Cid, looking upon him as if he
loved him.  But as the Campeador went from the King's presence
the knights whispered; and again the King was torn between two
emotions, and he strove to forget the matter of the oath.

King Alfonso was angry with the Moors that they remained
heathen, and that they continually molested him and his vassals. 
Therefore he planned a great expedition against them, and when he
had made his preparations he set forth.

But my Cid Campeador, because he had been all ill and was not
yet recovered, could not go.

And while the King was absent, other Moors fell upon Castile,
hoping to plunder; but my Cid, who was almost recovered from his
sickness, called his company together, and fell upon the Moors and
drove them out.  And with his men he followed the Moors,
despoiling them as they went; and he followed them as far as
Toledo, the territory of that king who had harboured Don Alfonso
in his exile.

When news of these events came to Don Alfonso's ears, he was
full of admiration for the courage of my Cid Ruydiez, who, while
still weak, had driven out the Moors.

But the nobles came to him, fawning, and with uplifted hands.

"Behold, my lord," cried they, "how much my Cid Ruydiez takes
upon himself, and how great his craft is!  During thine absence he
bestirs himself to encroach on the territory of the King of Toledo,
with whom he well knows thou hast a treaty of friendliness. 
Doubtless he remembers that thou wilt pass through Toledo on thy
way homeward.  And is not this his hope--that the King of Toledo
will do thee an injury because of the broken treaty?  Thus acts my
Cid, hoping to make thee small in thine own eyes, as he did in the
matter of the oath."

Don Alfonso listened to these evil words, and they moved his
blood like a poison, so that he was for a time as a man demented;
and with all haste he hied him back to Castile.  Now the King of
Toledo offered him no injury because of the Campeador's action,
yet the anger of Don Alfonso remained hot; and meeting my Cid
Ruydiez near Burgos, he told him how he was banished from that
hour, but he said not straightly for what cause, nor would he listen
to my Cid's defence.

"Get thee out of my land without delay," said he; and he turned his
horse and would have ridden away.

But the Campeador replied, with anger, "I may have thirty days'
grace, since that is the right of a noble."

"Nay," said the King hotly, "thou shalt have but nine days' grace."

And, fearing the force of his own anger, he left my Cid.  And he
gave orders that the Campeador should go alone into banishment,
for any person who went with him should lose all he possessed;
neither should any man give him food or drink.

All this my Cid Ruydiez believed the King did out of anger
because he had inadvertently entered the territory of the King of
Toledo; but Don Alfonso knew in his heart that he did it because
of the oath which my Cid had put to him three times, and which he
had not been able to forget.

My Cid Ruydiez rode to his castle at Bivar, and he found that it
had been despoiled of everything, by order of the King. Then he
journeyed to Burgos, and he found that his house there was closed
against him.

Then he called together his friends, and kinsfolk, and vassals, a
great company, and asked who would go into banishment with
him; and they replied that they would all go.  And Martin
Antolinez, a good Burgalese, brought food to them, and wine to
drink, and he cast in his fortunes with those of my Cid.

My Cid marched with his company to the Glera, where they
encamped upon the sands.

Then was my Cid greatly troubled, for he knew not how he should
provide for so great a company till he had gained spoils of war; for
all his possessions had been taken from him.

And after much thought he filled two great iron-bound chests with
sand, and locked each one with three locks. Thereafter he sent a
messenger to the two Jews, Rachel and Vidas, to say that the
Campeador had two great chests of treasure which he would fain
leave with them till his return, if they would lend money upon the
chests.

The Jews, having received this message, came and felt the weight
of the chests; and being filled with joy at the heaviness of them,
they returned to their abode and, setting a carpet upon the floor,
threw into it great handfuls of gold, and silver, and precious
stones, till they had made up a loan for my Cid.  When this was
done, they fetched away the chests; and my Cid bound them with a
promise that they would not open the chests till a year was past,
and then only if he had not repaid the loan with interest, for he had
good hopes of being able to pay it within a year's time.

Now my Cid felt ashamed that he had to resort to this device, but
he saw no other way out of the difficulty.

Being thus provided, my Cid Ruydiez set out with his company
from the lands of Don Alfonso.  And he began to make war upon
the heathen Moors, besieging town and castle; and in all things he
was successful, so that he was greatly feared. And news of his
successes came often to the ears of Don Alfonso, so that he
frowned sometimes, and sometimes smiled, being not ill-pleased,
despite himself, to be the lord of such a vassal.

Then came my Cid Ruydiez upon the city of Alcocer, which was
held by the Moors, and was said to be so strong that it could not be
taken.

"As to that--we shall soon see!" quoth the Campeador, and he laid
siege to the city.  But when he had besieged it for fifteen weeks it
was not yet taken, for the Moors would not surrender.

"Since the city will not fall to us by force, we must needs take it by
strategy," said my Cid.  And having conferred with Alvar Fanez,
his cousin, and with Martin Antolinez, and with many others, he
gathered his company together and withdrew from the city; and in
great haste did my Cid go, leaving some of his tents behind him.

When the Moors beheld this retreat, they shouted in triumph. 
"See," cried they, "my Cid Campeador is forced to withdraw, and
in such haste does he go that he leaves his tents behind him! 
Come, let us follow, and despoil him in his confusion, before he
fall into other hands!"

And with that they sallied forth in great numbers, and followed
fast after the Campeador.

But he, looking back upon them, spurred on his company, with
shout and gesture, that they should move faster still; and they
swept on like a whirlwind, as if in fear.

Then the Moors followed after, faster still, shouting as they went.

Now, when my Cid looked back again and saw that the Moors had
left the city behind them, he wheeled round and, leading his men
to the city gates, cut the Moors off from the city.  And he encircled
them round, and fell upon them suddenly, and with great fury, and
put them utterly to rout.  And he made many prisoners, and gained
much spoil, gold, and silver, and pearls.

Then was my Cid's banner placed upon the highest point of the
city, and he took possession of it.  And such Moors as were in
Alcocer he allowed to remain there, if without treachery they
would serve him.  From the spoil--as much of it as was his
share--he sent a gift to Alfonso, as to his lord.

Now when the heathen Moors perceived this great victory of my
Cid, which crowned many other victories, and that he was always
successful, whether by force or by strategy, they despatched
messengers to the King of Valencia, begging him that he would
send an army to rid them of the Campeador, who, if he were not
interfered with, would seize all their cities before he was done!

The King of Valencia sent two kings who were his vassals, and
with them three thousand horsemen, and they were bidden to seize
my Cid and to bring him to Valencia.

Therefore they laid siege to Alcocer, and every day there came
fresh horsemen, so that my Cid and his company were hemmed in
by an army greater than any they had known.

The Moors besieged my Cid with ardour for many weeks, and with
such closeness that neither food nor water could be brought into
the city.  Thus, after a time, my Cid Ruydiez perceived that for him
and his company to remain longer in the city would be but to die
as rats starved in a hole, for their stores were almost come to an
end.

"My brave men," said he to his followers, "since our food is almost
finished, and the Moors grow greater in number every day, which
seemeth to ye the better--to sally forth and meet the Moors, and so
die like men or, by God's grace, win a marvellous victory; or to
remain here and die a rat's death at the last?"

They replied, every one, "We will go out to meet the Moors."

Thereafter my Cid the Campeador gave orders that the Moors
within the city should not be allowed to know of this decision. 
And on the morrow at sunrise, with their shields placed over their
hearts and their lances lowered, my Cid and his men sallied out to
meet the Moors.

And as they were few in number in comparison with the Moors
and their action was therefore unexpected, it chanced that they
killed many Moors, striking lustily with their lances, ere it was
known that my Cid had left the city.

On they went, my Cid with his green pennon flying and his face
aflame with the greatness of his ardour, and his men behind him in
a long trail.  Mighty thrusts they dealt, so that the Moors doubted if
they fought with men, and the strength that they had seemed a
strength not of earth.

"On, on, my brave knights!" cried the Campeador, urging his steed. 
"God is surely with us against the heathen. Remember the Cross!
Remember Spain!"  And with his company he swept through the
Moors as it were a sword of fire cutting men down as it swept on.

With what vigour my Cid fought!  And how those men fought who
were with him!  I warrant the Moors were affrighted at the sight of
them.  They fell like blades of mown grass, and where they fell
they lay.

Now when the day was over, the victory was to my Cid the
Campeador, and it was a most marvellous victory.  Of the Moors
there remained none of great authority, and those who were slain
were as the sands of the sea.

My Cid had wounded both kings and taken them prisoner; and he
had other prisoners beyond his counting, and great spoil beyond
any that had been seen, gold and silver, and jewels of a great value,
and horses richly caparisoned, and swords of much beauty, finely
made.

From his share of the spoil, which was a fifth part, my Cid Ruydiez
sent to his King fifty fine horses bearing swords. These Don
Alfonso accepted with gladness, since they had been taken from
the Moors, and his heart was full of joyfulness at this great victory
which had fallen to my Cid, and which brought him much renown
as the lord of so great a vassal.  He would have pardoned my Cid
straightway, had not he been ashamed to do so; but, failing this, he
pardoned all who had accompanied him in his banishment,
restoring his possessions to each man.

My Cid the Campeador remained at Alcocer for a time with his
company; and afterwards he journeyed to Zaragoza in search of
further adventure, and the Moors of Alcocer wept to see him go.

In Zaragoza my Cid Ruydiez did other valiant deeds, and he was
still there when a message came from the King bidding him return
to Castile.

For Don Alfonso was in a difficulty in which only my Cid Ruydiez
could be of service to him, and he longed for his return.

But my Cid sent back this message to the King, remembering his
banishment:--" These are the conditions which the Campeador
makes ere he return to Castile :--That no noble shall be banished
without having had a chance to defend himself; and that every
banished noble shall have the thirty days' grace which is his right."

Don Alfonso having agreed to these conditions, my Cid returned
with his company to Castile; and there was rejoicing in the streets,
for the people loved him.

And Don Alfonso forgot the oath which my Cid had put to him,
and the anger he had borne my Cid, and he ordered that every
town, city, and castle, which was won by the Campeador, should
be to him and his heirs for ever.

Now these are but a few of the valorous deeds of my Cid Ruydiez,
the Campeador; for if I were to relate the whole of them, this
volume would contain naught else.

How the Minstrel Saved the King

There were once two strolling players who travelled much about
the fair realm of England, playing at castle, and farmhouse, and at
many a wayside inn.  One carried a guitar, which he twanged with
a careless hand, waking quaint songs of a wondrous sweetness, and
often strange marches in which could be heard the ring of horses'
hoofs; the other--of a stronger and fiercer type than his
fellow--sang, with a voice of stirring tones, of warlike deeds.

Many a heart waked to that sweet music, many a pulse bounded to
the tune of the song; and many a maid and man questioned who
were these strolling musicians, whose eyes were ever drooped as
they played and sang, as if only the music held their hearts. 
Suddenly they came, and suddenly they went; and they wore masks
upon their faces, and showed great love for each other.  And there
you have the beginning, and the end, and the middle of what folk
knew.

Never a farmer who loudly applauded the couple, nor a good dame
who proffered her fare with a joke, guessed that the singer was that
reckless prince Richard, and the player his friend Blondel, his
boon companion whom he dearly loved.

Prince Richard was wild and of a reckless valour which allowed
him to think little of the safety of his head.  His finger was ready
for any pie that was like to burn it, and his sword the first to leap
out in any brawl.  Did any fair lady seek redress? my Prince was
ready, nay, eager, to espouse her cause, careless of the cost.  Was
any mischief brewing? there went Richard, his sword ready to leap
into his hand.

These diversions kept the Prince well occupied, for betwixt his
chivalry and his love of partisanship, he was seldom out of a
pother.  When occasions of quiet did occur, he was off with that
loved companion Blondel, his wild spirit finding in the gentle art
of music a strange delight.

Richard could weave a song as readily as he could wield a sword,
and he turned many a neat verse to Blondel's music.

"'Tis thy quaint melodies that ripen my brain," quoth he to Blondel.

But Blondel smiled, and, stroking a string so that it sang, he said,
"There is no fruit on a barren tree to ripen; but where there be
fruit, the sun will ripen it."  And he played a melody so sweet that
tears gushed to the wild Prince's eyes as he heard.

Richard and Blondel had gone upon many a journey together, and
shared many a homely lodging, when a shaft fell upon their
friendship, not severing it, but pinning it to quieter ways.  For
Richard became King.

Now he swore to Blondel that all should be as it had been; but
Blondel replied:

"Nay, were I to desire that, I should be a false friend to thee. 
When thou art king, thou art king.  If on any day there be an hour
when no claim calls upon thy kingship, then remember Blondel. 
For friendship hangs not upon a string of words."

And he withdrew himself, and would not have it that Richard
should seek him often as in olden days.

Then Richard loved him the better, and the friendship was not
broken, but rather waxed stronger; for the King perceived the truth
of the minstrel's words, and he reflected that Blondel had ever
been a wise companion, and had often guided his steps safely
where alone he had fared but ill.

Now if a hot-blooded prince be made king, his impetuosity may be
tempered, but his spirit remains unchanged; and Richard had not
long been head of the realm when he felt within him that fever of
action which had sent him brawl-seeking in other days.

But, having much good in him, in spite of all his faults, he began
to consider how he might bestir himself to do some deed that was
noble and worthy a king.  And having thought of many schemes,
and discarded them, he decided to go on a Crusade.  For the Sacred
Tomb of our Lord was still in the hands of the Saracens, to the
grief of Christian men, and the shame of the Faith.

Richard was determined to rescue it, and right well did the scheme
commend itself to him, so that he was at once on fire to set about
his preparations.   And since he was not the first to institute a
Crusade, he would not allow himself to think of those other
monarchs who had sought to redeem the Tomb of our Lord from
the Saracens and had failed.


Philip, King of France, decided that he would join with Richard in
this attempt; and together they made many preparations, being
resolved that this Crusade should be the bravest of any, and, by
God's grace, the most successful. Therefore they took more
soldiers than had ever been taken, and these were better equipped,
and were of a very valorous intention. And by these means, and by
making a sudden terrible onslaught, Richard hoped to overthrow
the Saracens, and rescue the Sacred Tomb.
    And when all was ready he set forth with his men, and at a place
they had agreed upon he met Philip; and they went upon their
quest.

But to Blondel it fell that he should remain behind, for he had no
place in the expedition; and he set himself to guard and watch over
the interests of his King.  For while Richard was absent there were
plots and jealousies in England, and also in Normandy where
Richard had his dukedom; and there were many who hoped to
work their own advantage from the absence of the King.  These
things Blondel perceived, and he was saddened by them.  Then he
yearned for the King's quick return.

But Richard came not quickly back, for he had taken a dangerous
quest upon him, and was, besides, overtaken by many misfortunes
by land and by sea.  He made but ill journeys; and as for Philip of
France, he was not the true companion to Richard that Blondel had
been, and for that matter, the King liked him not as well.

Nor were the Saracens as easily overthrown as Richard had
imagined, for they were good fighters, and had a knowledge of
strategy.  Those things Richard won from them they gained
speedily back, so that they were not often at a disadvantage.  As
for the French and English soldiers, there was a great jealousy
between them; and Richard repented him many a time that he had
joined with Philip in this expedition; for he saw that there had
been little wisdom in the plan.  And he believed he had done better
with his own soldiers, and had gained a better victory over the
heathen.

Now the Sacred Tomb was not yet won when Richard was
summoned back to England that he might look after his crown,
which he was in danger of losing.  Therefore in great sorrow he
withdrew himself, leaving his mission unfulfilled.

And having, gone a part of the way home by water--which was the
longer journey--he decided to forsake his ship and finish the
journey by land.  For it seemed to him a good plan to arrive early
in England, and so discover his enemies ere they dreamt of his
coming.

And doubtless this had been a plan not so ill, had not the King's
way lain through the territory of the Archduke Leopold of Austria,
one of Richard's bitterest enemies, and of the King of Germany,
with whom he had a quarrel.

Of these things Richard took little heed, though he knew well that
his enemies sought him, and would treat him harshly for the sake
of their quarrels.  Had Blondel been by his side, he had not taken a
step so rash; but without that boon companion his inclination led
him, and he set out joyfully upon his adventure.

Now he gave out that he was a merchant passing on a pilgrimage
through these lands; and there his discretion ended. For never a
merchant pilgrim travelled attended as Richard was by his
gentlemen.  Nevertheless he went gaily.  But he had gone but a
part of his way when he received warning that the Archduke
Leopold had heard that he fared across country and was not
travelling by sea.

Said Richard to his gentlemen: "See ye, sirs, we must be cautious. 
I will press onward therefore with this page, and ye shall travel by
other ways.  For I have a grievous quarrel with the Archduke, and
he is hot against me; and it were an ill thing that I should suffer
capture ere I reach my realm."  And with the little page he rode on.

But having so advised himself, Richard had done with discretion,
and he gave no more heed to danger.  Thus it happened that, ere he
had gone a great way farther, the Archduke heard of him; for he
was told of a merchant pilgrim whose page bought bread with gold
pieces, and wore lace of a costly price; and well Leopold imagined
who that pilgrim might be!  Therefore he seized Richard, and, very
joyful to have so easily possessed himself of an enemy so
dangerous, he clapped him into a dungeon, and fastened a dozen
stout bolts behind him.

But after he had been imprisoned for a time, it came to the ears of
Henry of Germany how the Archduke had seized Richard, and had
made him his prisoner.  Therefore the King met the Archduke, and
having shown to him how unseemly this thing was that he, who
was only an Archduke, should have for prisoner the King of
England, he bought Richard from him for a large sum of money,
and bore him away.

And that the English King should be the better hidden, Henry
conveyed him to a dark and desolate castle which stands alone
upon a rock, and which has beside it the ruins of its fellows; for
there were once three castles there.  In that castle had been done
many deeds of which men spake with changing face and pallid lip.

Now Blondel awaited Richard's coming.  And when the ships were
upon their way, he said, "In a little time he will be here," And
when the ships arrived in England, he cried, "The King is come."

But Richard was not in any of the ships.  And Blondel learned how
the King had set out upon that other journey by land, which is the
shorter journey; and how he ought to have reached England a long
time before this day.

Then he waited.  And when he had waited a long time, and heard
the people murmur how the King was surely dead, and when he
had marked the murmur grow into open talk, and the talk into
conviction, and still the King came not; then Blondel lifted his
guitar, and set out to seek for him.  And with him he took a few
knights who were faithful and who did not believe in the death of
the King.

Then they sought those places which Richard had passed through
in his journey; and where they stopped a night, there they made
sweet music that men should not discover their errand.  And as if
the story were but a tale that tickled the fancy, they asked
questions about the English King who had passed alone through
that country, and wondered aloud what had befallen him, and if he
had met his death.

And some folk there were who whispered in reply, with an eye
upon the door, lest a listener should be hiding: "We remember one
of so high a courage that it may be it was he of whom ye speak. 
But he tarried but a little while to buy food from us, and we know
not whence he came nor whither he fared.  These are dangerous
days, and we are a simple folk and know naught of wandering
kings.  Yet we remember him that he rode with a high courage,
and looked fearlessly upon every man."

And others said: "As we sat at our doors at nightfall, we saw one
pass through the woods on foot, yet without weariness.  And there
was a little page with him.  And as the man went by, he piped a
song that was as sweet and careless as a bird's.  And mayhap he
was not of earth, but a wraith of the dead King."

But there were others again, who said roughly: '" We are a folk of
bended backs, for we toil till we are weary.  What do we know of
the strangers that pass by ?"

And Blondel replied to these, "He was a King." But they answered,
"One looks as high to see a King as to see any other stranger; and
one sees only a man when all is done."

And of Richard, Blondel could learn no more than this--the
meandering speech of country folk.

Then he began to quest.ion within himself whether the King were
really dead, and his quest without an end to it; and his heart
became heavy.  And the knights that were with him saw the
shadow on his face, that it was like the shadow of night. For his
soul was sad nigh to tears.

Nevertheless, because his love would not allow him to weary of
his quest, and because he had vowed that he would discover the
fate of the King, he still went searching; and after a while, when he
had passed through the neighbourhood of the Danube, and was
searching that of the Rhine, he came into a wild and dark valley
over which brooded a great shadow of silence.

Upon one side of the valley were great rocky hills, and on one of
these stood a sombre castle, black and grim, and of an aspect most
terrible.  And beside it, on either side, were the ruins of two other
castles of a like sternness.  They lay there like huge animals of
some other age that had fallen dead.  Against the sky they lay in
the shape of monstrous beasts.

Said the knights among themselves: "When the minstrel feels upon
him the gloom of this valley, he will be like to die of sadness; for
the silence upon it is that of darkness, of despair, and of death."

But when Blondel paused to look up at that desolate castle, a great
quiet fell upon his soul, as if his search were near an end; and his
face became illuminated.

Then said he to his followers: "It is evening, but not yet the time of
darkness.  Hide ye in yon thicket the while I climb to the castle; for
if the spirit speak aright which is within me, I shall find there
tidings of him we seek."

And they obeyed him, wondering greatly at the light upon his face.

"There hath never been a greater love," said one, "than the love
Blondel bears to the King."

And another said, "Pray God we may find King Richard, for I
would like all to see that light put out which shone on the
minstrel's face."

But of these words Blondel knew nothing; and when he had
climbed a great part of the valley-side he came upon a young
damsel who was stepping down from the place where she had been
tending her sheep, and so glad with youth was the smile upon her
lips that the gloom could not touch it.

Then Blondel questioned her about the castle, if it had a history,
and what that history might be, and if any prisoners were kept
there.

"Alas I sir," said she, "the history of the castle is one of crime and
bloodshed, and I have liked little to hear it, and have remembered
no more than I was made to remember.  Yet this I can tell thee: it
is of so great a strength it hath never been taken; and there are
many soldiers there even to this day."

Now the minstrel would have questioned her further about these
things, but the maid had fear and would make no answer. 
Whereupon he brought forth his guitar and would have sung a song
to her so to reward her courtesy; but he had voiced no more than a
few notes when the damsel cried, "Why, if it be not that song again
which I have heard the poor knight in the north tower sing!  I have
listened many a time as I tended my sheep, for it is a wayward
strain and comes close to the heart.  Ay, and the poor knight hath a
sweeter voice than thou, Sir Minstrel, though he singeth in a cage."

Having uttered these words, the damsel was filled with confusion
that she had so spoken to a stranger; and with a fleet foot she
passed from the minstrel and pursued her way.

But Blondel was filled with a gladness so great that it was close to
tears, and when he had climbed to the castle, he found his way to
that north tower of which the damsel had spoken.  And when he
had found it, he leant there, and, plucking out a note from his
guitar, he sang that song which the damsel had known, a song
sweet with youth and dreams.

Now the verses were those which Richard had written when the
music of Blondel had stirred his heart in the days gone by.  And
when the first verse was finished, a voice within the tower took up
the second, and sang it quaintly.  And it was the voice of Richard.

"Art thou there, my faithful Blondel?" cried he.  Blondel replied
with a great joyfulness: "It is I, sire, for I have sought thee, and
have now found thee.  And in the thicket in the valley hide valiant
men who will contrive for thee a way of escape; for they have
sought with me, and that with fearless hearts."

Now after much glad discourse, those true friends had again to
part.  Blondel hastened to make search for the castellan, who
proved to be of a good temper and overjoyed to greet him, since
the castle was lonely and attracted few players of a light wit such
as he imagined Blondel to be.

When the minstrel had told those knights who were with him on
his quest of the imprisonment of the King, they began to recount
among themselves the divers fashions in which brave men had
escaped from the hands of their enemies, that they might contrive
a like escape for the King.

But by every wind their thoughts took they came back to that spot
from which they set out; for there were two difficulties that beset
them.  The first was, that they themselves were few in number; and
the second was--and it was equally potent that the castle had never
been taken by force.

There remained to them only strategy, for by no other means might
the King escape.

Therefore Blondel climbed to the castle day by day; and while he
stood in the great hall and played, or sang beside the blaze of the
kitchen coals, he let his eyes roam round the assembled roisterers,
seeking a face that would fit into his scheme. But the soldiers were
loutish fellows, rough and rude, and of a dull wit, their only virtue
that pride which they took in the castle they defended; and the
minstrel's eye ever returned to the floor beside his feet, not having
found that which it sought.

Yet one day as the minstrel's eyes swept round the hall in a sombre
glance they fell upon that which roused a new fire in them, and
made his song more hotly tender; for a little maid walked between
the men, serving them, and she was slim and fair, and sweet to see. 
And as the minstrel sang, she looked away.

On the morrow she was again serving, and again the minstrel
marked her; and he saw that her eyes were blue, and her smile so
quaintly tender that he smiled himself to see it, and her mouth of
so gracious a curve that it could surely fashion but gentle words.

And afterwards she was away for a time, so that the minstrel saw
not her face, and he learnt that she was the jailer's daughter, and
that she was well beloved.

At last, as the minstrel sang one eve in the kitchen where the
dancing flames made merry in the half-dark, he saw the jailer's
daughter enter and place her stool beside the fire.  And there she
sat with her head upon her hand, dreaming; and she was right fair
to see.

Then awoke Blondel's heart, and he sang a new glad song, for he
knew that he loved the maiden; and he saw in his love a way of
escape for his King, whom this new love but fixed the stronger in
his heart.

Now the jailer loved Blondel but little, for he was a stranger, and a
mysterious fellow withal, and he would have had none of him as a
husband for his daughter.  Therefore the little maid counselled
silence for a time, when the minstrel spake of that love which was
in his heart.  But when he spake of the prisoned King, fear fell
upon her. "My father is a harsh man, and a cruel," said she, "yet
will he never betray his trust.  He will not release the King."  And
she wept.

Now Blondel thought of many plans by which the King might be
rescued; and in each one the maiden perceived that the life of the
minstrel must be given for the life of the King.  Then she clasped
her hands hard, and pondered; and when she had thought well, she
cried again with anguish, "My father will never let him go."

Thus the days passed.  But at last a morn came when the jailer's
daughter sought the minstrel secretly.

"To-morrow," said she, "my father goes to the town to report
himself.  Now it is a mad thing that I purpose, yet will I gain the
key of the King's chamber, and release him unto thee.  Do thou and
thy followers do the rest."  With that she turned away.

But when she had gone a little way, she returned and said: "It is
very easy to see that when thou goest with thy King I must go with
thee; for there will be no place for me in the castle when I have
done this thing."  And she went away, torn betwixt grief and joy,
for she loved her father, despite his cruelty; but her love for
Blondel went as far beyond that love as the sky is beyond the sea.

When the day came for the jailer to be absent, Blondel stole to the
castle in secrecy.  And the soldiers knew not that he was there, for
the jailer's daughter gave him shelter, and they were about their
business.

Then took the jailer's daughter the key of the King's chamber in her
hand, and when a given time was come, she went her way to the
north tower, being met by no one; and she undid the door of that
chamber in which the King was prisoner, and in a sweet voice she
said to him, "Come gently, sire, for the way from the castle is a
treacherous way and full of dangers."  And she led him safely to
the place in which she had hidden Blondel.

Now Blondel had brought for the King a shield and helmet, and a
sword of quaint device.  When Richard had put these as he would
have them, Blondel said, "Now, my King, the hour is come."

And with that they issued from the castle, and fell upon the
sentries, and overthrew them.  And they crossed the courtyard with
a great haste, and threw open the gates.

No sooner were the gates open than Blondel's knights rode in, one
after another, with a most amazing swiftness.  And they fell with a
great fury upon those soldiers that showed themselves; for their
purpose was that for a time no alarm should be given.  And being
brave men, and of a great skill in warfare, they had no difficulty in
overcoming these men; and they disposed of them every one.

When these things were thus well accomplished, Richard mounted
the horse which had been brought for him, one of a fleet race, and
used to the mountain side.  And when Blondel had likewise
mounted, and that brave maiden who had done him such good
service, they urged their horses to a great speed, and went all of
them upon their way.

Thereafter followed many adventures, and the surmounting of
dangers in which all showed a good courage; till at last they were
able to leave that country, and to reach the fair realm of England
toward which stretched their desires.

Now Richard became a King of much valour and generosity.  And
he bare great love to Blondel, and to Matilda, Blondel's wife. 
Many gifts he gave to them, of beauty, and great worth; but of all
the gifts he gave them they valued most his love.

How Oliver Fought for France and the Faith

The French camp lay as still as a hive of drowsy bees.  Scarce a
sound of life issued from it.  Above it the sky stretched in great
blue vastnesses; beneath the sky the calm air hardly moved. 
Everywhere a deep stillness prevailed.  Perhaps the stillness was
the one sign of the great battle and victory of a few days since.  It
told of weary warriors within the tents; it told also of brave knights
grievously wounded; it told of the peace that treads close upon the
heels of victory.

But that peace was rudely broken.  Suddenly upon the air came a
heavy sound as of the thunder of horses' hoofs.  It came nearer and
nearer, a dull clamp-clamp upon the ground.  The sunlight caught
a moving glitter, and wrapped it round with radiance.  As that
radiance drew nearer the French camp, it grew greater, larger, an
increasing flash of brightness, and as it grew there grew with it the
loudness of that heavy clamping sound. Then there came into
view, breaking the peace of the place, a horseman in armour, a
horseman so immense that he seemed to fill the horizon and
dominate the plain.

He rode upon a horse as great as he, and as he swept his furious
way towards the French hosts, his steed's hoofs fell again and again
upon the ground with a thunderous noise.  He flashed across the
plain like a lightning of sunlight, drawing rein at last before the
royal tent of Charlemagne.

There he halted and upraised his voice, which was like the roar of
some angry creature other than man.

"Behold, great Charlemagne," said he, "I have sought thy camp,
and would honour thy knights by doing battle with them.  Send out
Roland or Oliver, or another of like prowess, that by showing him
his littleness I may take pleasure in mine own strength.  Nay, send
out Roland and Oliver, and another with them; send out seven
knights if thou wilt.  Have not I in my time slain kings, and is not
my strength equal to that of ten men?"

This furious roar came to the ears of Charlemagne, and he halted
in his speech to his knights.

"Tell me," said he to one of the dukes, "who is this champion
whose mouth is so full of words?"

The duke replied: "He is Fierabras the giant, son of Balan, an
admiral of the Moors. By repute I know him well, and it is true
that in his time he hath slain many valiant men and overcome
kings.  Moreover, he hath done many evil deeds among Christians,
and it is he who hath in his possession the sacred tomb of our
Lord."

The Emperor's brow grew dark as he heard these words in the
silence that followed after the great shout of Fierabras. And as he
meditated upon the misdeeds of this heathen who had so misused
his strength and valour, he saw not the angry and downcast looks
of his young knights, as they communicated with one another by
hurried signs.

"My brave knights," said Charlemagne, lifting his glance from the
ground, "which from among ye shall do battle with this braggart,
for the defence of our faith, and the fair fame of France?"

After this question there came a murmur, as or men who would
fain speak yet would not suffer themselves; but after the murmur
there came a silence, and the knights answered not a word.

Then cast the Emperor the lightning of his glance upon the
company, but not yet with anger in it, for he was all amazed, and
did not understand.

Now the glance of the Emperor rested last upon Roland, who was
his own nephew.  He was also one of the Twelve Peers of France,
who were for their valour known of all men.  And Roland, feeling
the sting of the Emperor's wonder, found his voice, uttering bitter
words.

"Sire," said he, "cast thine ear back to listen to thine own words,
and so find understanding of to-day's lack of speech. After that
fight in which we, thy knights, fought valiantly, bringing to thee
victory--and to Oliver, mine own friend, many wounds so that he is
like to die--didst not thou, letting loose thy tongue in unwise
speech, make little honour of our valour? For it is said that thy
praise ran lightly, since thou didst declare that we, thy knights, had
indeed fought bravely, but that our deeds were as shadows
compared with what thine old knights had done in our place."

At these words Charlemagne's eyes shot wrath, and his face was as
the sun when it sets in anger.  For, indeed, he remembered the
foolishness with which he had chidden, yet had the speech been
uttered when the Emperor was weary and ill-advised, having in the
glamour of his victory partaken of too much wine.

Now in his anger, and lacking the wit to excuse himself, he uttered
bitter words, and Roland replied as bitterly, the while the knights
held their glances from the Emperor, and the older men grew
grave.

"Good Uncle," said Roland, "it were a vain thing for one of us to
offer to do battle with the giant.  Of all these old knights of thine
whose praise slipt so glibly from thy tongue, surely one remaineth! 
Bid him that he do battle with Fierabras."

Then indeed bitterness rose to the Emperor's lips and would have
overflowed, had not the roar of the giant again burst forth,
swallowing all lesser sounds.

"Haste thee, Charlemagne," cried he, "and send forth one who shall
do battle for thee!  While I wait for him, I will refresh myself with
sleep beneath yonder tree; let thy knight hail himself thither ere
too long a time be past.  But I swear to thee that, if thou send no
one, then shall I come with my hosts, and when I have swung thy
head in my hands, I will seize thy peers and degrade them, and I
will wipe thine army out of this land."

When he had spoken these words, the giant wheeled about, and
rode furiously to a tree that grew upon the plain. Having reached it,
he stripped himself of his armour, and lay down as if he would
sleep.

Then Charlemagne, pale with his great anger and the insults that
the giant had offered him, broke into speech against Roland, and
the quarrel between them waxed great, so that many were afraid. 
For Roland had ever been the favoured knight of the Emperor, as
he had ever been the most valiant.  Yet to-day the knight was bitter
with remembrance of the Emperor's words and the wounds of
Oliver; and Charlemagne was in great anger, so that he hardly
knew what words he spake.

Fierabras the giant slept, but his challenge had carried far, reaching
the ears of Oliver, Roland's friend, as he lay ill of his wounds.

Therefore Oliver called his squire, who was named Garin, and
bade him that he should discover the meaning of the hubbub.

Garin was gone a long time.  When he returned he related to
Oliver, turning, shamed, his face toward the side of the tent, how
Fierabras the heathen champion had offered battle; and with his
head hanging he told how no knight would offer himself to fight
with him, and of the great quarrel between Roland and
Charlemagne.

Then was Oliver silent for a space, for he knew that his wounds
ached in the body of Roland, making sorer the recollection of the
Emperor's careless words.

And as Garin still waited, his breast full of shame, there came the
voice of Oliver, bidding him that he should bring him his armour
and set it upon him.

Garin brought the armour, and when Oliver had bathed his wounds
and bound them, and had made himself ready, Garin would have
put the armour upon him; but as Oliver stood up to receive it, his
wounds gushed out afresh so that he was stained everywhere with
his own blood.

"Sir Oliver," said Garin, trembling, "if thou goest forth, it is to thy
death."

But Oliver replied, "If it be so, it be so--but I do not believe I go to
my death."

Then having bound himself afresh, and his armour being upon
him, Oliver mounted his horse, and bearing spear and sword--that
good sword which he named Hautclere--he made his way to the
tent of the Emperor.

When he had found it, he came before Charlemagne, who sat
silent, and with glowing eyes bent upon the ground; and
Charlemagne at first believed him to be a vision.  Then perceiving
that this was indeed his knight Oliver, he cried: "Sir Oliver, Sir
Oliver, get thee back to thy bed!  What folly is this that thou so
deftest thy wounds?  Wouldst thou call Death ere he have thought
of thee?"

Oliver replied, heeding not the throbbing of his wounds: "Sire, I
have found thee that I may crave of thee a favour.  And since for
many a year I have fought, asking nothing, I beg of thee to grant
this, my request."

Now Charlemagne believed that Oliver had a fever upon him, so
that he understood not his own words.  Therefore he answered him
with tenderness: "My good Oliver, thy favour is granted thee.  Ask
what thou wilt; there is naught among my possessions I would
refuse to so well-beloved a knight.  But haste thee back to thy bed,
that thy wounds may be quiet and grow whole."

Oliver replied in a voice that rang clear as a silver trumpet: "My
request has nothing to do with great possessions.  It is, sire, that I
be allowed to do battle with this heathen.  When I have done this
thing I will take heed of my wounds."

Then the Emperor slid his head upon his hands, and was troubled;
for he had granted Oliver his request, not knowing the purport of
it, and might not take back his royal word; yet he was assured that
Oliver had no strength with which to fight Fierabras, and that he
would speedily die through the severity of his wounds.

"Nay, Oliver," said he, "rest thee, and grow whole. A wounded
knight cannot fight the giant."

But Oliver replied firmly: "It is my request, which has been
granted to me.  Therefore, sire, let me go."

And while the knights about the Emperor grew pale with many
emotions, looking one upon another with grief in their glances,
Oliver took from Charlemagne his glove that he might bear it with
him to the fight.

Bearing the glove, Oliver turned gladly, and lifting up his head he
cried before he went, "If I owe aught to any man, it shall be paid to
him; and if I have sinned against any man, I pray him to forgive
me my sins before I go."

Whereupon all bent their heads with sorrow, so greatly was Oliver
beloved; and Roland turned pale as ashes, for that Oliver should
fight, thus wounded, was to him worse than the thought of death.

But Oliver went forth with gladness, and when he had found
Fierabras, he cried to him, "Awake, Fierabras, the great
Charlemagne hath sped me forth to do battle with thee."

And at the cry the giant bestirred himself--though whether he had
been asleep in reality is another matter; and when he perceived
Oliver, he rose to his feet.

Then said Oliver, "This is the message of that great and Christian
Emperor who hath sent me: ' Thou shalt forsake thine idols, and
worship the one true God '"

But Fierabras replied, "I will not."

Then spake Oliver, "Wilt thou then leave this land, that we may
make it Christian; and cease from thy persecutions?"

Then replied Fierabras, rearing his head and speaking proudly: "I
am Fierabras, a heathen prince, and of great power. In my
possession I hold the Tomb which is sacred to thee, and I have
done evil to many Christians.  These messages which thou bearest
to me are but idle words, which I heed as lightly as I heed the wind
that blows; for I hold in contempt thy country and thy faith."

Then was Oliver shaken with anger so that his wounds bled; and in
a voice that was quiet because of his anger he answered, "Since
thou hast spurned the alternative offered to thee, haste thee,
heathen, and fight with me, for I am eager to begin."

"Help me, then," said Fierabras, "to put on mine armour, for it is of
great weight."  And Oliver helped him, fearing nothing; neither did
the giant do him any ill.

Then, when his armour was upon him, Fierabras spake, saying,
"Tell me thy name, Sir Knight, that I may know whom it is I
vanquish."

"My name," said Oliver, "is Garin, and I am a poor and humble
knight, whom few men honour."  And he cast his eyes upon the
ground, feeling giddy with his wounds.

But Fierabras cried with a roar: "Where then are Roland and
Oliver, and these mighty peers of whom ye brag so finely? Where
are all these, that they have not come to do me battle?"

Then replied Oliver: "The Emperor holds thee and thy boasting too
lightly to send these knights."

At these words so great an anger came upon the giant that he had
shouted in a frenzy, had not his glance fallen upon the face of
Oliver, which was so pale that it was as the face of the dead.

"Nay, Sir Garin," said he with more gentleness, "it were impossible
that thou shouldest fight with me, for I can see that thou art
wounded near to death."

"Come, cease thy talk," said Oliver impatiently. "Since thou wilt
give no heed to the Emperor's message, I would put an end to
thee."

"My strength is as the strength of ten men," said Fierabras; "how
can I fight with one who is wounded?  Nay, Sir Knight, thy. blood
stains thee as thou speakest; I pray thee, desist, and I will entreat
thine Emperor that he send another knight."

"I will desist only when my life leaves me," cried Oliver.  "As for
thy vaunted strength, Fierabras, know that my God will give me
strength beyond any that thou hast ever known, strength as much
greater than thine as the sea is greater than the river."  And he
would parley no longer.

Therefore they betook them to a fair place on the plain in which to
do battle, and from the French hosts came out many to watch the
fight.
Fierabras, when he had made him ready, prayed to his idols, and
having prayed he said to Oliver, "By that Cross and Tomb which
thou holdest sacred, I ask of thee thy true name."

And Oliver replied, "I am Oliver, the friend of Roland, and one of
the Twelve Peers of France."

"Now, it was plain to me," cried the giant, "that thou wert no
knight of humble name and mean repute."

And with these words they flew together; and with such swiftness
and force that their forms appeared but as quickly moving flashes
of sunlight, and their spears in a trice were broken in twain.

Fierabras had three famous swords, which he named Pleasaunce,
Baptism, and Grabon. From these he chose Pleasaunce, that he
might give to that sword the joy of overcoming so brave a knight.

And, having gripped the sword, he flew again upon Oliver as if he
would have cut him in pieces.  But Oliver answered the thrust with
one mightier and better placed, thus breaking off a part of the
giant's helmet, which fell to the ground.

Said Charlemagne, under his breath, "God hath blessed us, and the
fight is to our wounded Oliver."

But the words had but stirred the air when Oliver's shield received
a blow that brake it; and it seemed that the knight staggered from
the force of the blow and from the weakness his wounds bred in
him.  And Charlemagne drooped his head, and prayed.

Yet Oliver recovered himself bravely, crushing his strength into a
thrust that had almost finished the giant; and again the contest
waxed fierce.

Heavily breathed Fierabras as he fought, and Oliver, that valiant
knight, while his wounds burnt his flesh, pressed close upon the
giant, his eyes darting glances that were like flames.

"It is a valiant knight," thought Fierabras, and for the first time he
questioned the issue of the fight; then with a new strength he fell
hard upon Oliver, and to such good purpose, that he struck the
knight's sword from his hand and sent it hurtling to the ground.
"Ah, Sir Oliver!" cried Fierabras, lifting up his voice in mockery. 
"Where is now the strength thy God hath promised thee, and of
what avail would it be to thee since thou mayest not recover thy
sword?"

Oliver answered nothing, being hard put to it in his thoughts to
discover a way out of his difficulty.  For he would have sought his
sword where it lay, covering himself with his shield meanwhile,
had not the shield lain in pieces upon the ground. As for his
armour, it was battered and broken upon him.  And the pain of his
wounds waxed intolerable.

By reason of his pain the knight turned pale, the which perceiving,
and reading aright, Fierabras was filled with compassion for this
brave knight, whom he liked not ill.

"See, Sir Oliver," said he, "I will wait while thou liftest thy sword."

"Nay," cried Oliver, "that would be no victory which I should owe
to thy clemency!"

And even as he spoke, he prayed in his heart for strength and
succour.  Thereafter the prayer having left his lips, Oliver looked
about him, and immediately perceived the giant's second
sword--Baptism --which lay behind him close to his hand; for in
the heat of the fight they had neared the spot where the giant had
placed his other swords.

"Behold, Fierabras," cried he, "by the aid of thine own sword shall
I work thine undoing!" and he gripped the sword hardly and ran
upon him with a mighty force.

Now Fierabras, whether by reason of his confusion and dismay on
perceiving his own sword turned against him, or by reason of his
weariness, received the onslaught but ill, and having dealt Oliver a
cut that miscarried, received one in his turn that caught him
heavily, piercing his side, so that he fell with a crash upon the
ground.

Oliver, seeing his adversary so defeated, durst not himself move,
lest, since all his strength had gone into the blow he had given, he
should fall for lack of it.

Thus he bowed his head in humble gladness upon his breast, the
while the French hosts rent the air with great cries of joy; and his
thoughts wound into a prayer of thanksgiving to that Great God
who had given to him the victory through the strength that He had
bestowed.

Fierabras the giant recovered from his wound, and was baptized
into the true faith. For the evil he had done, he made generous
recompense.  Of the brave deeds he did thereafter, he made little
boast.  I trow there were few knights more valiant than he.

The Sword in the Stone(The Legend of Arthur and Excalibur)

The King was worse, was like to die.

The ominous news ran over the castle, and from the castle over the
country, like the black brew from a pot that over-boils.  At every
street-corner women babbled it, men talked it over grave-faced and
with surprise.

True, King Uther had ailed now for many weary months, and of a
fatal malady.  That the ardour of his illness should have increased
surprised no one; it was the strange twist the malady had taken that
awakened astonishment and dismay. For it was known that the
King was dumb.

But a few days since, he had been borne, prone like a stricken lion,
to the field of battle, that his presence might bring victory to his
men.  It had brought victory, victory for which the valiant monarch
had paid dearly.  He lay now facing death, and with dumb lips.

In the castle, in grey corners, the knights chattered.  "All evil thing
indeed is this that hath befallen the King, and the realm,"
murmured one, harping.on the one note of complaint.  "Since the
King must die, the King must die---it is the lot of all men, and
feared little by the valiant, rebut that King Uther should die having
named no successor--there one has a grievance indeed !"

 "With so many barons eager to snatch at the crown of this fair
realm, it had been a good thing had the King left a son to succeed
him," said another.

"Ay, but since he hath not left a son," retorted the first, "it had
been well had Providence left him the use of his tongue to declare
his successor !"

Thus they brawled among them, till a sudden footstep made their
glances turn, whereupon they became immediately silent.

Yet the footstep was not that of any mighty baron.  Merlin the
Enchanter it was who passed through the entrance-hall, his dark
cloak drawn high around him, shadowing his face.

There was silence till he had passed.

"Merlin goes to the King's chamber," observed one of the gossips,
his eye following the dark form.

"'Tis a sad day for Merlin, for he was a good friend of King
Uther's," said another.  "I have ever heard that by his charms he
aided the King much in the matter of his marriage."

"He will aid him little now," muttered a third speaker.  "Death is
stronger than Merlin's arts, and he hath laid a finger upon the
King."

At this moment appeared another loiterer, coming upon the group
with eye agleam and a lip curled with the scorn of one who has
knowledge of great events and would enlighten his neighbours'
ignorance to the tune of his own rising importance.

"Saw ye Merlin pass?" asked he, with chin cocked and with an
arrogant air.

"Ay, we saw him," was the response, "and right sombre was his
step.  He goes to visit the King, who may well expire before he
reaches him."

"May the Saints forbid " ejaculated the new-comer.  "That would
be an ill thing for Merlin.  Hath he not promised that to-day, in the
witness of the Queen and barons, he, by his witchcraft, and with
the aid of Heaven, will make the King speak?"

At this choice news all mouths fell agape; and eyes were rounded
at the speaker, the while the gossips drew close.

The newsmonger, relishing the effect he had produced, proceeded
with his tale, pouring out particulars with the air of one who
dispenses a choice wine.  And, as if it were a choice wine, his
listeners drank in the story.

Meanwhile Merlin the Enchanter had found the King's chamber.

The door being closed behind him, he drew down his cloak from
his face, surveying the assembled barons and the weeping Queen.

"The King still lives?" queried he harshly.

"He still lives, but that is all," one answered in a lamentable voice.

"And hath not spoken?"

"He hath spoken not one word," murmured a baron.  "Remember,
Merlin, thy promise, given to us yester-eve: 'Gather ye in the King's
chamber to-morrow at this hour, and by the grace of God and the
aid of my charms King Uther shall name his successor to this
realm '."

"It is a true remembrance," said the Enchanter indifferently.  "Such
indeed were the words I uttered."

He drew near to the King's bed, and a cloud gathered in his eyes as
one may gather in the heavens before rain.

"It is the will of all," he spake, turning, "that I make the King
speak, thus disturbing his drowsing spirit ? Shall he name his
successor to ye?"

"It is our will," said the barons; and the Queen answered also: "It is
our will."

Merlin covered his eyes for a moment, then, turning toward the
bed, "Sire," said he to the King, "tell us thy will concerning the
welfare of thy kingdom.  Is it thy will that thy son Arthur succeed
thee, becoming ruler of this fair realm?"

These words were scarcely uttered when the King replied, in his
own voice, and without halt in the speech:  "It is my earnest wish
and desire that my son Arthur wear my crown.  I bid him therefore
that he claim it, when the right time comes, in a righteous and just
spirit, knowing that to rule this realm is his duty and his
responsibility.  If he do not this thing, then shall he forfeit the
blessing I bestow upon him now."

The King had hardly uttered these words, when, with a sigh, his
breath went from him, and he died.

Then the barons, in despair and anger, began to accuse Merlin
among themselves, calling him impostor, and other like names. 
"This is a trick of Merlin's," said they, "which he hath worked
through the mouth of the King; for well does he know that King
Uther hath no son! It were better had he made the King name one
of us to succeed him; then had the matter been a plain one, and the
land not turned to confusion!"

Whispering thus among themselves, they cast angry glances at the
Enchanter.  But he, shrouding his face from them, turned, and
without a word went away.

Thus died King Uther, having named as his successor a son, of
whom the barons knew nothing; and for many years that fair realm
which he had governed was torn by strife, by battle, and by bitter
feud.  For there was many a powerful baron who cast eyes upon
the crown, and who would raise up a tempest of battle with a
better grace than he would utter a prayer.

Thus the barons strove, quarrelled, and made warfare, the while
the years passed, and the glory of the realm waxed dim. But there
dawned a day when the barons were as weary of themselves, and
their claims, as the country was, and were not unwilling that from
among them one should be chosen to be king.

Then was Merlin the Enchanter seen again, passing in and out
among the people, his dark cloak wrapping him round.  It was
known that he sought audience of the Archbishop of Canterbury. 
When he was come before the Archbishop, Merlin said:

"Is not this a grievous thing that the fair realm of England should
be so torn, through the hopes of ambitious men? Yet dawns
another day, and to thee may be a portion of its glory.  Call
together, I pray of thee, all the lords of this realm, and gentlemen
of arms, that they may make prayer to God that by some sign He
shall reveal the rightful king of the realm."

The Archbishop pondered these words, and when he had examined
well this advice of Merlin's, it seemed good to him, and well
worthy a Christian people.  Therefore he said: "I will call them
together."

Merlin rested his eyes upon the ground, hiding his thoughts.  After
a while he said: "Call them together at Christmas-time, for since at
that time God gave us the great gift of His Son, His heart may be
inclined to give us other gifts."

When he had said this he went away.  Where he went I know not;
but for many a day men saw naught Of Merlin the Enchanter.

The Archbishop called together the lords and gentlemen of arms;
and none knew that he had followed any thought but his own.

To London came they, in response to the call, and many a knight
had fasted first, and others had otherwise mortified themselves,
that their prayers might be the better heard in Heaven.

On Christmas Day they gathered together, and with them the
common People, a goodly company, either in St. Paul's, or some
other great church; and all men prayed with a marvellous
earnestness that the sign should be vouchsafed to them which they
craved.

One knight was there who, as he prayed, felt before his closed eyes
a sudden flash, as it were of some great light. Whether he prayed
more earnestly than his fellows, that a great matter should first be
revealed to him, we know not, for to judge of such things is
beyond human wit.  But it is known that, on uncovering his eyes
and glancing about him, this knight beheld, through the open door
of the church, something that shone with a great fury, and
reminded him of the light he had seen.  The which, when he had
observed it for some time, he made out to be a great white stone,
and in the stone an anvil, and, struck through the anvil and the
stone, a golden sword.

When the youth was certain of these things, trembling seized him,
for he perceived that they were not of earth. Whereupon he
whispered to his neighbour of this strange happening, and his
neighbour to another, and that other to whoso sat next; till at
length the matter reached the ear of the Archbishop where he
stood.

But he, setting first the glory of God, advised that the service
should be finished before any should enquire into the thing.

Thereupon, when the service was over, all men passed out of
church, agape to see the miracle; and found the matter even as the
knight had declared.

The white stone lay in the churchyard, and in the stone was the
anvil, and through anvil and stone was a golden sword. And about
the sword were words written that shone like flames.

The Archbishop read them, stooping, his hands upon his knees.

"Whoso shall lift this sword from the stone and the anvil "---so
read he, for so it was written "the same is rightly born King of
England."

At these words the lords and gentlemen looked one at another; and
the commons shot out their lips and looked at the Archbishop. 
And he, having bent his head some minutes longer, as hearing
some voice in the words which others heard not, said: "The sign is
given, are ye content to abide by it?"

And they replied, with one voice: "We are content."

Then said the Archbishop: "God having vouchsafed us this sign of
the sword in the stone and the anvil, at Twelfth Day it shall be
given to any man to try his skill at withdrawing the sword.  Until
that day let all be patient, and until then shall certain knights of
pure fame be set to guard the stone."

Having arranged these things, the Archbishop went his way,
bearing a joyful heart within him; and he contrived that on New
Year's Day there should be jousts and a tournament, and other fine
doings, that the lords and commons should be kept together till the
king should be revealed.

On New Year's Day the roads were gay with the bravery of the
lords and commons who were on their way to the fields, the lords
to show their skill, the commons to behold it and make holiday.

With the throng rode Sir Ector, a noble knight and one who had
loved King Uther well, and in his company his son Sir Kay (who
had received his knighthood but last Hallowmas), and young
Arthur his adopted son, who was but a stripling.

Young Arthur rode a pace or two behind, but that was his own
doing.  In his eye was the glamour of the road, in his heart quaked
a happy wonder at the gay world and its happenings.  These
emotions so held him that he perceived not the confusion of his
brother, whose face grew suddenly red and halfshamed.

At length Sir Kay brought his horse up with so sudden a jerk that
Arthur had almost been upon him.

"Why, brother," cried he, amazed, "what ails thee? My head was in
the clouds, in truth, but thou hadst almost brought it to the earth in
thy hurry!"

Sir Kay's visage was like a harvest moon, but held nothing of
jollity: "I have forgotten my sword; a fool's trick!" mumbled he,
sputtering over the words. "Now it falls upon me to wind back the
length of the road and fetch it."

"Nay," said the boy quickly, "that were an unnecessary to do. Haste
thee on with our father, I will return to the town at a great speed,
and will fetch thy sword."

With that he turned about, 'right glad to have excuse to time his
horse's pace nearer to that of his blood.  Youth rose high in his
heart, touched his pulse, quickened his eye.  With a clatter he flew
along the road upon which he alone turned his face to the city; and
heedless of any glance, grave or tender, made his way to his
lodging.

Having reached the house, he reined in his horse, and battered hard
upon the door.  The blows rang out finely, but they brought never a
response.  Young Arthur twitched his brows, brought out another
volley of blows, listened.  There was a quiet in the street like that
of the tomb.

The boy clapped his hand upon his side so that his horse started.
"The tournament, the tournament!-  it hath sucked them in, every
one of them !"

And so indeed it had.

Meanwhile Sir Ector and Sir Kay went plodding on, Sir Kay
enlarging upon his plight, and young Arthur's tardiness. Ever and
anon he would cast an anxious glance behind him, pitching a new
lament to his father's ears as the glance found naught.  At length he
perceived a cloud of dust.  It came nearer and nearer, thickened,
rose high.  Arthur rode from the midst of it, his hair blowing in the
breeze he made.

"See, brother, a sword to thy hand!" cried he.  "Say not that I failed
thee, though thine own sword lay behind barred doors!"

Sir Kay grasped the sword, well satisfied.  His eye ran down it, and
as the glance grew, his cheek paled.  He trembled, then rode on.

But young Arthur, perceiving nothing, fell again behind, taking up
his thoughts.

Sir Kay hastened to rejoin his father, full of tidings.

"Sir," cried he in a tremulous tone, "surely I, and none other, am
chosen to be King of England, since in my hand I bear the sword
of the stone !"

At this speech Sir Ector turned, and, having beheld the sword
which his son carried, he saw that it was indeed the sword of the
stone.

"Tell me, didst thou pluck it from the stone " asked he.

Sir Kay's face fell, but he answered stoutly: "Nay, I plucked it not
from the stone.  My brother Arthur, who returned to seek what I
had forgotten, he brought me the sword."

Then said Sir Ector to Arthur: "Tell me, didst thou pluck the sword
from the stone?"

Thus was the boy awakened from his dreams of sweet wit, and he
confessed how, having found all doors barred upon his brother's
sword, he made all haste to the churchyard and plucked the sword
from the stone that rested there.

"Were none there," asked Sir Ector, "to forbid the act?"

"Nay," said the boy, "they had gone, every one, to the tournament."

This was true, for the knights had gone to try their skill.

Then was Sir Ector thoughtful, and he would have it that they
turned about, all three, and rode back to the churchyard, that lay
some distance behind them.  This being done, young Arthur
replaced the sword in the anvil and the stone.

"My son, draw out the sword," said Sir Ector to Sir Kay.

 And Sir Kay essayed, bending down, the better to use his strength.
Once he strove, and twice, his muscles cracking and his face
aflame; but he could not withdraw the sword.

"Yield place to me," said Sir Ector, and, laying his hands upon the
sword, he, too, strove to wrest it from the anvil and stone, but he
could not move it one hair-breadth from its place.

But when Arthur laid his hand upon the sword, it slid from the
stone as a sunbeam across a wall.  And when he had replaced it, it
stuck as fast as before.

Then said Sir Ector to the boy: "By King Uther's desire wert thou
entrusted to me, whilst yet a babe, and of: thy parentage would the
King reveal nothing.  Now I begin to think that thou art of a higher
destiny than I thought of.  Let us travel to the Archbishop, and tell
him of these events."

And straightway they went to the Archbishop, who was struck with
a great wonder on hearing their story; but he advised that nothing
should be said of the matter, since Twelfth Day was near at hand,
when it would be given to every man to try his skill.

Now when Twelfth Day was come all the world was agog, since
there were few who did not wish to see the judgment of the sword. 
Like twining ribbons were the roads of the city, being gay with the
costumes of those that thronged to the churchyard.  Barons and gay
gentlemen, young and old, rich and poor, lords and commons,
these encountered at street corners, and jostled as they passed by. 
To the churchyard stretched the hopes of all; and in the churchyard
were bright hopes to be shattered.  For there the game went
merrily, yet with a sharp echo to its music; many a fine fellow
trying his skill with a cheerful heart, and having striven till he was
like to break in two, going on his way with puckered chin, not
having moved the sword the breadth of a hair. Ever the crowd of
champions grew; but as it grew fat on one side it waxed thin on
another, as one strong fellow after another grasped the sword with
hope and left it with despair.

"'Tis as if some massive chain bound sword and stone," said one
disappointed gentleman.

"'Tis as if great nails fastened it," said another, flourishing a white
handkerchief about his brow.

"Here comes a fine fellow!" cried a spectator of a lower order.  He
nudged his neighbour.  "'Tis a fine knight; surely if any can move
the sword 'twill be this same."

"It is Sir Kay, son of Sir Ector; may he have joy of his task!" quoth
the other, scowling.  "He begins well. Ah, he means to have the
sword!"

It was well said that Sir Kay meant to have the golden sword. 
Many a bold knight had striven hard, but he strove hardest of all. 
Evening was now come, and but few remained to try their skill. 
Everywhere were to be seen crowds of scowling or bantering
faces--it is as disappointment affects a man, --the faces of those
who had grasped the Sword, only to loose the grasp and leave it. 
Sir Kay's brows bent fiercely; had not the sword rested in his hand
before to-day?  If he did not gain it 'twould be because it was not to
be gained.  If he could not