Historic Tales: The Romance of Reality. Vol. 13 (of 15), King Arthur (1)

Of the tombs that were made for these kings that of King Lot was most richly adorned, and King Arthur had a tomb prepared for himself beside it. For this he had made twelve images of brass and copper, which were gilt with gold. These represented the twelve kings, and each of them held a taper of wax, that burned night and day. An image of King Arthur was also made, in the form of a statue that stood above the twelve kings with a drawn sword in its hand, while the faces of the twelve images were those of men that had been overcome. All these figures were made by Merlin through his subtle craft.

"When I am dead," he said to the king, "these tapers shall burn no longer. Then the end will be near, and the adventures of the Sangreal shall be achieved."

Much more he told the king of the strange events that would come to pass in the future time; and further he said,—

"Look well to the scabbard of Excalibur. You shall lose no blood while you wear this scabbard, even though you be covered with wounds."

Thus admonished, Arthur, in loving trust, took the scabbard to Morgan le Fay, his sister, and gave it into her care to keep for him. Much did he peril in doing so, for Morgan was false at heart, and proved recreant to her trust, from love for a knight named Accolan, whom she cherished in her soul beyond her husband, while she had grown to hate her brother. She made, by enchantment, another scabbard like the one given her in trust, and gave the scabbard of Excalibur to her love. By this deed of treachery she hoped in her false soul to bring King Arthur to his death. And well-nigh she succeeded therein, as shall be told hereafter.

CHAPTER III.

HOW BALIN GAVE THE DOLOROUS STROKE.

A day or two after King Arthur had placed the magical scabbard in the hands of his evil-thinking sister, he grew unwell, and had his tent pitched in a meadow near Camelot for the benefit of the fresh air and the green verdure. Here he sought in vain to sleep, lying long in uneasy wakefulness. As he thus lay he heard a horse approaching, and looking through the door of his tent, beheld a knight, who lamented deeply as he came.

"Halt! fair sir," cried Arthur. "Tell me the cause of your sorrow."

"You can little aid me," said the knight, and he rode onward without further answer.

Soon afterward Balin rode up, and on seeing King Arthur sprang from his horse and saluted him.

"By my head, you are welcome," said the king. "A knight has just ridden past here moaning sadly, but has declined to tell me the cause of his sorrow. I desire of your courtesy to bring that knight to me, either by force or good-will, for I wish greatly to know why he so deeply grieves."

"That is little to what I should be glad to do for you," said Balin. He rode on apace, and ere long found the knight in a neighboring forest in company with a damsel.

"Sir knight," he said, "you must come with me to King Arthur. He demands to see you and learn the cause of your sorrow."

"That I shall not do," said the knight. "It will injure me greatly, and do no good to you or him."

"Then you must make ready to fight," said Balin. "I have my order to bring you willingly or by force, and I should be loath to have a fight with you."

"Will you be my warrant if I go with you?" asked the knight. "For truly you lead me into danger."

"Yes. And I shall die rather than let you come to harm, if it is in my power to avert it."

This said, the knight turned and rode back with Balin, accompanied by the damsel. But as they reached King Arthur's pavilion a strange thing happened. A spear was thrust through the body of the knight, inflicting a mortal wound. Yet the hand and form of him who did this fatal deed remained unseen.

"Alas!" said the knight, "it is as I feared. Under your conduct and guard I have been slain by a traitorous knight called Garlon, who through enchantment rides invisible, and does such deeds as this. My day is done. As you are a true knight, I charge you to take my horse, which is better than yours, and ride with this damsel on the quest which for me is at an end. Follow as she will lead, and revenge my death when best you may."

"That shall I do," said Balin. "Upon the honor of knighthood I vow to follow your quest, and to revenge you on this false foe, or die as you have done."

Then, leaving the king, Balin rode with the damsel, who bore with her the truncheon of the spear with which the knight had been killed. After they had gone, King Arthur had the knight buried richly and honorably, and had written upon the tomb his name, Herleus de Berbeus, and how he came to his death through the treachery of the invisible knight Garlon.

Meanwhile Balin and the damsel rode onward until they found themselves in a forest. Here they met a knight engaged in hunting, who asked Balin why he showed such grief.

"That I do not care to tell," said Balin.

"You should if I were armed as you are, for your answer is too curt to be courteous."

"My story is not worth fighting for," answered Balin. "I will tell you if you so greatly desire to know." He thereupon told him the fatal event which had just occurred, and that he mourned the untimely death of the knight who had been so treacherously slain.

"This is a sad story," said the knight. "As I am a true cavalier I will go with you on your quest, and leave you not while life lasts."

Then he went with Balin to his inn, armed himself, and rode forth with him. But as they passed by a hermitage near a church-yard the invisible knight Garlon came again, and smote Balin's companion through the body, as he had done to Herleus before.

"Alas!" cried the knight. "I too am slain by this invisible traitor, who does murder at will under cover of enchantment."

"It is not the first despite the wretch has done me," cried Balin. "Could I see him I would soon repay this outrage. I am bound by the honor of a knight to a double revenge on this unworthy caitiff."

He and the hermit thereupon buried the slain knight, Perin de Mountbeliard, under a rich stone in a noble tomb, inscribing thereon the cause of his death.

In the morning the knight and damsel proceeded on their quest, and in good time found themselves before a castle, which rose high and broad by the roadside. Here Balin alighted, and he and the damsel turned towards the castle, with purpose to enter. But as Balin entered in advance the portcullis was suddenly let fall behind him, cutting him off from his companion. Immediately a number of men assailed the damsel with drawn swords.

When Balin saw this treacherous proceeding his soul burned within him. What to do at first he knew not. Then he ran hastily into the gate tower, and leaped, all armed, over the wall into the ditch. Finding himself unhurt, he drew his sword and rushed furiously upon the armed men who surrounded his companion.

"Traitors and dogs!" he cried. "If you are eager for fight, I will give you your fill."

"We cannot fight you," they answered. "We do nothing but keep the old custom of the castle."

"What is that?" asked Balin. "It is an ill custom, methinks, that thus displays itself."

"Our lady is sick, and has lain so for many years. Nothing will cure her but a dish full of blood from a maid and a king's daughter. It is, therefore, the custom that no damsel shall pass this way without leaving a silver dish full of blood."

"That is for the damsel to say," replied Balin. "If she chooses to bleed for the good of your lady she may, but her life shall not be taken while mine lasts."

The damsel thereupon yielded a dish full of her blood, but it helped not the lady. She and Balin rested in the castle for the night, where they had good cheer. In the morning they proceeded again on their quest.

Three or four days now passed without adventure. At the end of that time the knight and damsel found lodging in the house of a rich gentleman, the owner of a fair estate. As they sat at supper Balin was moved by the grievous complaints of one who sat beside him, and asked his host the cause of this lamentation.

"It is this," said the host. "I was lately at a tournament, where I twice overthrew a knight who is brother to King Pellam. He threatened to revenge his defeat on my best friend, and has done so by wounding my son. The hurt is a grievous one, and cannot be cured till I have some of that knight's blood; but how to find him I know not, for his name is unknown to me, and he always rides invisible."

"Aha!" cried Balin, "has that treacherous dog been at his murderous work again? I know his name well. It is Garlon, and he has lately slain two knightly companions of mine in the same base manner. I should rather meet with that invisible wretch than have all the gold in this kingdom. Let me see him once and he or I dies."

"I shall tell you what to do, then," said the host. "King Pellam of Listeneise has announced a great feast, to be given within twenty days, to which no knight can come unless he brings with him his wife or his love. That false knight, your enemy and mine, will be there, and visible to human eyes."

"Then, as I am a true knight," cried Balin, "you shall have of his blood enough to twice heal your son's wound, if I die in the getting it."

"We shall set forward to-morrow," said the host, "and I hope it may be as you say."

In the morning they rode towards Listeneise, which it took them fifteen days to reach, and where the great feast began on the day of their arrival. Leaving their horses in the stables, they sought to enter the castle, but Balin's companion was refused admittance, as he had no lady with him. Balin, however, having the damsel with him, was at once received, and taken to a chamber where he laid aside his armor and put on rich robes which the attendants brought him. They wished him to leave his sword, but to this he objected.

"It is the custom of my country," he said, "for a knight always to keep his weapon with him. This custom shall I keep, or depart as I came."

Hearing this, they objected no longer to his wearing his sword, and he thereupon entered the feasting chambers with his lady companion. Here he found himself among many worshipful knights and fair ladies.

Balin, after looking carefully round him, asked a guest,—

"Is there not a knight in this good company named Garlon?"

"Yes. Yonder knight is he, the one with the dark face. And let me tell you that there is no more marvellous knight living. He has the power of going invisible, and has destroyed many good knights unseen."

"I have heard of this," said Balin. "A marvellous gift, indeed. This, then, is Garlon? Thanks for your information."

Then Balin considered anxiously what had best be done. "If I slay him here my own life will pay the forfeit," he said to himself. "But if I let him escape me now it may be long before I have such an opportunity, and in the meanwhile he may do much harm."

As he stood thus reflecting, with his eyes fixed on Garlon's face, the latter observed his close and stern regard. In haughty anger he came to him and smote him on the face with the back of his hand.

"Sir knight," he said, "take that for your impertinent stare. Now eat your meat, and do what you came here for. Hereafter learn to use your eyes to better purpose."

"You dog!" cried Balin, "this is not your first insult to me. You bid me do what I came for. It is this." As he spoke he rose furiously from his seat, drew his sword, and with one fierce blow clove Garlon's head to the shoulders.

"That is my errand here," cried Balin to the guests. "Now give me the truncheon," he said to the damsel, "with which he slew your knight."

She gave it to him, and Balin thrust it through Garlon's body, exclaiming,—

"With that truncheon you killed a good knight, and with this blow I revenge him."

Then he called his late host, who had by this gained entrance to the feast, and said,—

"Here lies your foe. Take with you enough of his blood to heal your son."

All this had happened so quickly that none had time to interfere, but the knights now sprang hastily from their seats, and rushed from the hall for their weapons, that they might revenge their slain companion. Among them rose King Pellam, crying furiously,—

"Why have you killed my brother! Villain and murderer, you shall die for this!"

"Here I stand," said Balin. "If you wish revenge, seek it yourself. I stand in my defence."

"It is well said," cried the king. "Stand back, all. For the love I bore my brother I will take his revenge on myself. Let no one interfere. This murderer is mine."

Then King Pellam snatched up a mighty weapon and struck fiercely at Balin, who threw up his own sword in guard. He was in time to save his head, but the treacherous blade went into pieces beneath the stroke, leaving him unarmed before the furious king.

Balin, finding himself thus in danger of death, ran into a neighboring chamber in search of a weapon, closely pursued by his enraged adversary. Finding none there, he ran on from chamber to chamber, seeking a weapon in vain, with King Pellam raging like a maddened lion behind him.

At length Balin entered a rich and marvellously adorned chamber, within which was a bed covered with cloth of gold of the noblest texture, and in this bed a person lay. Near by was a table with a top of solid gold and four curiously-shaped pillars of silver for its legs, while upon it stood a mighty spear, whose handle was strangely wrought, as though it had been made for a mighty king.

But of all this marvel and magnificence Balin saw only the spear, which he seized at once with a strong grip, and turned with it to face his adversary. King Pellam was close at hand, with sword uplifted for a fatal stroke, but as he rushed in blind rage forward Balin pierced his body with the spear, hurling him insensible to the floor.

Little dreamed the fated warrior of all that thrust portended. The spear he used was a magical weapon, and prophecy had long declared that the deadliest evil should come from its use. King Pellam had no sooner fallen beneath that fatal thrust than all the castle rocked and tottered as if a mighty earthquake had passed beneath its walls, and the air was filled with direful sounds. Then down crushed the massive roof, and with a sound like that of the trumpet-blast of disaster the strong walls rent asunder, and rushed downward in a torrent of ruin. One moment that stately pile lifted its proud battlements in majesty toward the skies; the next it lay prostrate as though it had been stricken by the hand of God to the earth.

Men say who saw it that when fell that fatal blow—thereafter to be known in history and legend as the "dolorous stroke"—the castle shivered like a forest struck by a strong wind, and then fell with a mighty crash, burying hundreds beneath its walls. Among these were Balin and King Pellam, who lay there for three days without aid or relief, in deep agony and peril of death.

CHAPTER IV.

THE FATE OF BALIN AND BALAN.

At the end of the three days came Merlin, who rescued Balin from under the ruined walls.

"Your horse is dead," he said, "but I have brought you another, and the sword you won in Arthur's hall. My counsel is that you ride out of this country with all speed; for little you know the evil you have done."

"The damsel I brought hither must go with me," said Balin.

"She shall never go farther," answered Merlin. "The damsel is dead, and with her many a good knight and fair lady. That blow of yours was the fatalest ever struck, as you may see in the ruin of this castle, and as you will see further when you ride abroad through this distracted country."

"What have I done?" cried Balin. "How could I know that such dread disaster dwelt within that spear? Who was he that lay within the bed, and what does this strange thing portend?"

"You did but what destiny commanded," said Merlin. "It is fate, not you, that is at fault. Let me tell you the meaning of this mighty and terrible event, which destiny has thrown into your hands. He who lay in that rich bed was Joseph of Arimathea, who came years ago into this land, and bore with him part of the blood of our Lord Jesus Christ. And that spear was the same fatal weapon with which Longius smote our Lord to the heart. King Pellam was nigh akin to Joseph of Arimathea, and great pity is it of his hurt, for that stroke has filled the land with trouble, grief, and mourning. As for King Pellam, he shall lie for many years in sore pain from the wound you dealt him, and shall never be whole again until Galahad, the high prince, shall heal him when he comes this way in the quest of the Sangreal."

These words said, Balin mounted his horse, and departed in deep grief for the harm he had wrought, saying to Merlin as he left, "In this world we shall never meet again, for I feel that destiny has marked me for its victim." But little knew he the full effects of that fatal blow till he rode forth through the land. Then as he went through the once fair cities and fertile country he saw the people lying dead on every side, and cities and lands in ruin together. Few remained alive of all the inhabitants of that populous realm, and as he passed these cried out to him,—

"Oh, Balin, terrible is the harm that thou hast done to this innocent land! Three countries lie destroyed through the dolorous stroke thou gavest unto King Pellam. Woe to thee for this dread deed! Thou hast escaped alive, yet doubt not but the vengeance of heaven will fall on thee at last!"

Great was the grief and suffering with which the good knight heard these words, and glad at heart was he when at length he left behind him that land of woe and ruin, to which his innocent hand had wrought such deadly harm.

But as he rode onward the feeling came to him that his end was at hand, though this grieved him little, for he felt as one set apart to do heaven's work of destiny. And for eight days thereafter he rode over many leagues of strange country without adventure.

At length came a day when he saw before him, by the roadside, a cross, on which in letters of gold was written, "It is not wise for any knight alone to ride towards this castle," Then he saw a white-haired old man approach, who said,—

"Balin le Savage, you pass your bounds to come this way. Turn again, if you would leave this place in safety."

With these words he vanished, and as he did so there rang on the air a bugle-blast like that blown for the death of a beast of the chase.

"That blast is blown for me," said Balin. "I am the prize of the invisible powers. I am not yet dead, but they claim me for their own."

As he stood lost in deep thought there came trooping from the castle, which he now saw in the distance, a hundred fair ladies and many knights, who welcomed him with great show of gladness, and led him with them to the castle, where he found dancing and minstrelsy, and all manner of sport and pleasure. As he stood observing all this the chief lady of the castle said to him,—

"Knight of the two swords, there is a custom of this castle which all who come here must keep. Hereby is an island which is held by a knight, and no man can pass this way unless he joust with him."

"That is an unhappy custom," said Balin. "Why should every traveller be forced to fight?"

"You shall have to do with but one knight," said the lady.

"That troubles me little," said Balin. "I and my horse are both weary from our journey, but I am not weary at heart, and, if fight I must, I am ready to do it now. If death comes to me, it will not come unwelcome."

"Your shield does not seem to be a good one," said a knight. "Let me lend you a larger one."

Balin took the proffered shield and left his own, and rode to the island, where he and his horse were taken over in a great boat. On reaching the island shore he met a damsel, who said in sorrowful accents,—

"O Knight Balin, why have you left your own shield? Alas! you have put yourself in great danger. Had you borne your own you would have been known. It is a great pity that a knight of your prowess and hardiness should fight unknown."

"I repent that I ever came into this country," said Balin. "But now that I am here I shall not turn again, and whatever comes to me, be it life or death, I shall take it as my lot."

Then he mounted and rode into the island, in whose midst he saw a castle, from which rode a knight wearing red armor, and mounted on a horse which bore trappings of the same color. The warriors looked at each other, but neither knew the other, though the two swords that Balin wore should have revealed him, had not he borne a shield of strange device.

Then, couching their spears, the hostile knights rode together at the full speed of their war-horses, meeting with such mighty force and equal fortune that both horses went down, and both knights were hurled to the earth, where they lay in a swoon.

Balin was sorely bruised and weary with travel, and the red knight was the first to gain his feet. But as he advanced with drawn sword, Balin sprang up and met him with ready shield, returning his blow with such force that he cut through his shield and cleft his helmet.

And now began the mightiest battle that island had ever beheld. As they fought, Balin looked at the castle and saw that its towers were full of ladies who were watching the deadly contest, and who applauded each blow as though this combat was meant for their sport. The valiant knights fought till their breath failed, and then took rest and fought again, until each was sorely wounded and the spot upon which they stood was deeply stained with blood.

They fought on until each of them had seven great wounds, the least of which might have brought death to the mightiest giant of the world. But still the terrible sword-play continued, until their coats of mail were so hewn that they stood unarmed, and the blood poured piteously from their veins. At length the red knight withdrew a little and lay down. Then said Balin,—

"Tell me what knight you are. For never did I meet a man of your prowess before."

"I am Balan," was the answer, "brother to the good knight Balin."

"Alas!" cried Balin, "that ever I should see this day!" and he fell to the earth in a swoon.

Then Balan dragged himself up on his hands and feet, and took off his brother's helmet, but the face was so scarred and blood-stained that he did not know it. But when Balin came to himself he cried,—

"Oh, Balan, my brother, thou hast slain me, and I thee! Fate has done deadly work this day."

"Heaven aid me!" cried Balan. "I should have known you by your two swords, but your shield deceived me."

"A knight in the castle caused me to leave my own shield," said Balin. "If I had life enough left me I would destroy that castle for its evil customs."

"And I should aid you," said Balan. "They have held me here because I happened to slay a knight that kept this island. And if you had slain me and lived, you would have been held in the same way as their champion."

As they thus conversed there came to them the lady of the castle, with four knights and six ladies and as many yeomen. The lady wept as she heard them moan that they as brothers had slain each other, and she promised them that they should be richly entombed on the spot in which the battle had been fought.

"Now will you send for a priest," asked Balan, "that we may receive the sacrament?"

"It shall be done," said the lady.

And so she sent for a priest and gave them the rites of the church.

"When we are buried in one tomb," said Balin, "and the inscription is placed over us telling how two brothers here slew each other in ignorance and valor, there will never good knight nor good man see our tomb but they will pray for our souls, and bemoan our fate."

At this all the ladies wept for pity. Soon after Balan died, but Balin lived till midnight. The lady thereupon had them both richly buried, and the tomb inscribed as they had asked, though she knew not Balin's name.

But in the morning came the magician Merlin, who wrote Balin's name upon the tomb in letters of gold, as follows: "Here lieth Balin le Savage, the knight with the two swords, and he that smote the Dolorous Stroke."

More than this did Merlin, through this magic art. In that castle he placed a bed, and ordained that whoever should lie therein would lose his wits. And he took the sword which Balin had won from the damsel, and removed its pommel, placing upon it another pommel. Then he asked a knight beside him to lift that sword, but he tried to do so in vain.

"No man shall have power to handle that sword," said Merlin, "but the best knight in the world; and that shall be Sir Launcelot, or his son Sir Galahad. And Launcelot with this sword shall slay Sir Gawaine, the man he loves best in the world." All this he wrote in the pommel of the sword.

Then Merlin built to the island a bridge of steel and iron that was but half a foot broad, and ordained that no man should cross that bridge unless he were of virtuous life and free from treachery or evil thoughts and deeds.

This done, Merlin by magical skill fixed Balin's sword in a block of marble as great as a millstone, and set it afloat upon the stream in such a way that the sword always stood upright above the water. And for years this stone swam down the stream, for no man could take it from the water or draw the sword, until in time it came to the city of Camelot (which is in English Winchester), where the sword was drawn, and many strange things followed thereupon, as shall be hereafter related.

Soon after this was done, Merlin came to King Arthur and told him the story of the dolorous stroke which Balin had given to King Pellam, and of the marvellous battle Balin and Balan had fought, and how they were buried in one tomb.

"Alas!" cried Arthur, "I never heard a sadder tale. And much is the loss to knighthood and chivalry, for in the world I know not two such knights."

Thus endeth the tale of Balin and Balan, two brethren born in Northumberland, good knights.

CHAPTER V.

MERLIN'S FOLLY AND FATE.

And now we have again a tale of disaster to tell, namely, how Merlin the wise fell into love's dotage, and through folly brought himself to a living death, so that thenceforth he appeared no more upon the earth, and his wise counsels were lost to Arthur and his knights.

For the old magician, who had so long kept free from love's folly, became besotted with the damsel named Nimue, she whom King Pellinore had brought to the court on his quest at Arthur's marriage.

Merlin quite lost his wits and wisdom through his mad passion for this young lady, to whom he would give no rest, but followed her wherever she went. The shrewd damsel, indeed, encouraged her doting lover, for he was ready to teach her all the secrets of his art, so that in time she learned from him so much of his craft that she became skilled in necromancy beyond all enchantresses of her time.

The wise magician knew well that his end was at hand, and that the woman whom he loved would prove his ruin, but his doting passion was such that he had no strength of mind to resist. He came thereupon unto King Arthur, and told him what he foresaw, and which it was not in his power to prevent; and warned him of many coming events, that he might be prepared for them when Merlin was with him no more.

"I have charged you," he said, "to keep in your own hands the sword Excalibur and its scabbard, yet well I know that both sword and scabbard will be stolen from you by a woman whom you foolishly trust, and that your lack of wisdom will bring you near to your death. This also I may say, you will miss me deeply. When I am gone you would give all your lands to have me again. For Merlin will find no equal in the land."

"That I well know already," said the king. "But, since you foresee so fully what is coming upon you, why not provide for it, and by your craft overcome it?"

"No," said Merlin, "that may not be. Strong I am, but destiny is stronger. There is no magic that can set aside the decrees of fate."

Soon afterwards the damsel departed from the court, but her doting old lover followed her wherever she went. And as he sought to practise upon her some of his subtle arts, she made him swear, if he would have her respond to his love, never to perform enchantment upon her again.

This Merlin swore. Then he and Nimue crossed the sea to the land of Benwick, the realm of King Ban, who had helped King Arthur so nobly in his wars, and here he saw young Lancelot, the son of King Ban and his wife Elaine, who was in the time to come to win world-wide fame.

The queen lamented bitterly to Merlin the mortal war which King Claudas made upon her lord and his lands, and the ruin that she feared.

"Be not disturbed thereby," said Merlin. "Your son Lancelot shall revenge you upon King Claudas, so that all Christendom shall ring with the story of his exploits. And this same youth shall become the most famous knight in the world."

"O Merlin!" said the queen, "shall I live to see my son a man of such prowess?"

"Yes, my lady and queen, this you shall see, and live many years to enjoy his fame."

Soon afterwards Merlin and his lady-love returned to England and came to Cornwall, the magician showing her many wonders of his art as they journeyed. But he pressed her so for her love that she grew sorely weary of his importunate suit, and would have given aught less than her life to be rid of him, for she feared him as one possessed of the arts of the foul fiend. But say or do what she would, her doting lover clung to her all the more devotedly, and wearied her the more with his endless tale of love.

Then it came to pass that as they wandered through Cornwall, and Merlin showed her all the wonders of that land, they found themselves by a rocky steep, under which he told her was a wonderful cavern that had been wrought by enchantment in the solid rock, its mouth being closed by a mighty mass of stone.

Here, with all her art of love, and a subtle show of affection, the faithless damsel so bewitched Merlin that for joy he knew not what he did; and at her earnest wish he removed by his craft the stone that sealed the cavern's mouth, and went under it that he might show her all the marvels that lay there concealed.

But hardly had he entered when, using the magic arts which she had learned from him, the faithless woman caused the great stone to sink back with a mighty sound into its place, shutting up the enchanter so firmly in that underground cavern that with all his craft he could never escape. For he had taught her his strongest arts of magic, and do what he would he could never move that stone.

This faithless act performed, the damsel departed and left Merlin a prisoner in the rock. She alone of all the world could set him free, and that she would not do, but kept her secret, and thanked heaven for her deliverance.

And so Merlin, through his doting folly, passed out of the world of men into a living tomb.

Long days and months passed before his fate was known, and then chance brought to his cavern prison a valiant knight named Bagdemagus, who had left Arthur's court in anger because Sir Tor was given a vacant seat at the Round Table which he claimed as his due.

As he wandered through that part of Cornwall in quest of adventures, he came one day past a great rock from which dire lamentations seemed to issue. Hearing those woeful sounds, Bagdemagus sought to remove the stone that closed the cavern's mouth, but so firmly was it fixed by enchantment that a hundred men could not have stirred it from its place.

"Strive no longer," came a voice from within. "You labor in vain."

"Who is it that speaks?" asked the knight.

"I am Merlin, the enchanter; brought here by my doting folly. I loved not wisely but too well; and here you find me, locked in this cliff by my strongest spells, which in love's witlessness I taught to a woman traitor. Go now, worthy sir, and leave me to my fate."

"Alas! that this should be! Tell me who did this thing, and by what dismal chance, that I may tell the king."

Then Merlin related the story of his folly and fate, in the end bidding the knight to leave him, for only death could free him from that prison.

Hearing this, Bagdemagus departed, full of sorrow and wonder, and after many days returned to Arthur's court, where he told the story of the magician's fate. Great was the marvel of all and the grief of the king on learning this, and much he besought Nimue to set Merlin free. But neither threats nor entreaties could move her obdurate heart, and at length she left the court in anger and defiance, vowing that she would never set free her old tormentor.

BOOK III.

Taking this advice, they advanced in the track of the hart, and soon came up with it where it lay on the bank of a large stream, while a hound had it by the throat, and others were coming up in full bay.

Then Arthur blew the death-note of the chase, and killed the hart. This done, he looked about him, and to his surprise saw approaching on the stream a small vessel, with flowing sails of silk. As it came near it veered towards the shore, and finally touched land on the sands before them. Arthur walked to the bank and looked over the sides upon the deck, but to his wonder not a living person was to be seen.

"This is a marvellous thing," said the king. "Has the vessel been blown here by a wind of magic? Let us enter and see what is in the ship."

They did so, and found it richly adorned with silken hangings and royally equipped. As they stood on the deck looking about them in surprise, night came upon them, but suddenly the darkness was dispelled by a hundred torches, which flared out around the sides of the ship, brilliantly illuminating it. And immediately, from somewhere in the depths of the ship, appeared twelve fair damsels, who fell upon their knees before King Arthur, saluting him by name, and welcoming him to the best cheer that their means could provide.

"You are welcome, whoever you be," said Arthur, "and have our thanks for your kindly good will."

"Follow us then, noble sir."

Arthur and his companions followed their fair guides into a cabin of the ship, where they were glad to see a table richly provided with the most delicate viands, and set with the rarest wines. The king marvelled greatly at this, for never in his life had he fared better at supper than at this royal feast.

The meal ended, Arthur was led into a richly-appointed chamber, whose regal furniture and appointments he had never seen surpassed. His companions were conducted to chambers no less richly appointed, and quickly the three weary hunters fell asleep, for they were exhausted with their day's labor.

Perilous was the sleep that came upon them, for they little dreamed that they had been lured into an enchanted ship, and that strange adventures awaited them all, and deadly danger threatened the king.

For when the next day dawned, Uriens woke to find himself at Camelot, in his own chamber, with his wife. Much he marvelled at this, for he had fallen asleep the evening before at two days' journey distant. As for Accolan, we shall tell later what befell him. Arthur woke to find himself in utter darkness, while the air was full of doleful sounds. On feeling round him he soon discovered that he was in a dismal dungeon, and on listening he discovered that the sounds he heard were the woeful complaints of prisoners.

"What place is this, and who are ye that bewail so bitterly?" asked Arthur.

"We are twenty knights that have long been held prisoners here, some for seven years and some for less."

"For what cause?" inquired Arthur.

"How came you here, that you know not the cause?"

"I came by foul enchantment," said Arthur, and told them his adventure, at which they wondered greatly. "Now tell me," he asked, "how came you in this direful state?"

"We are victims of an evil-hearted villain," they answered. "The lord of this castle, Sir Damas by name, is a coward and traitor, who keeps his younger brother, Sir Ontzlake, a valiant and worthy knight, out of his estate. Hostility has long ruled between them, and Ontzlake proffers to fight Damas for his livelihood, or to meet in arms any knight who may take up his quarrel. Damas is too faint-hearted to fight himself, and is so hated that no knight will fight for him. This is why we are here. Finding no knight of his own land to take up his quarrel, he has lain in wait for knights-errant, and taken prisoner every one that entered his country. All of us preferred imprisonment to fighting for such a scoundrel, and here we have long lain half dead with hunger while eighteen good knights have perished in this prison; yet not a man of us would fight in so base a quarrel."

"This is a woeful story, indeed," said Arthur. "I despise treason as much as the best of you, but it seems to me I should rather take the choice of combat than of years in this dungeon. God can be trusted to aid the just cause. Moreover, I came not here like you, and have but your words for your story. Fight I will, then, rather than perish."

As they spoke a damsel came to King Arthur, bearing a light.

"How fare you?" she asked.

"None too well," he replied.

"I am bidden to say this to you," she remarked. "If you will fight for my lord, you shall be delivered from this prison. Otherwise you shall stay here for life."

"It is a hard alternative," said Arthur; "I should deem only a madman would hesitate. I should rather fight with the best knight that ever wore armor than spend a week in such a vile place. To this, then, I agree. If your lord will deliver all these prisoners, I will fight his battle."

"Those are the terms he offers," said the damsel.

"Then tell him I am ready. But he must provide me with horse and armor, and vow on his knightly honor to keep his word."

"All this he will freely do."

"It seems to me, damsel, that I have seen you before. Have you not been at the court of King Arthur?"

"Not so," said the damsel. "I have never been there, but am the daughter of the lord of this castle, who has always kept me at home."

In this, as the chronicles tell us, she spoke falsely, for she was one of the damsels of Morgan le Fay, and well she knew the king.

Damas was glad at heart to learn that a knight had at last consented to fight for him, and the more so when he saw Arthur and marked his strong limbs and the high spirit in his face. But he and none there save the damsel, knew who his prisoner was.

"It were a pity," said all who saw him, "that such a knight should die in prison. It is wise in him to fight, whatever betide."

Then agreement was made that Arthur should do battle to the uttermost for the lord of the castle, who, on his part, agreed to set free the imprisoned knights. To this covenant both parties took oath, whereupon the twenty knights were brought from their dark prison to the castle hall, and given their freedom and the privilege of seeing the battle.

But now we must leave the story of Arthur and Damas, and turn to that of Accolan of Gaul, the third of the three knights who had gone to sleep in the enchanted ship. This knight was, unknown to Arthur, a lover of Morgan le Fay, being he for whose sake she had counterfeited the magic scabbard of the sword Excalibur.

She loved him, indeed, as ardently as she had grown to hate her royal brother, and through this love had laid a treacherous plot for Arthur's death.

When Accolan awoke, to his surprise he found himself no longer in the ship, but lying within half a foot of the side of a deep well, in seeming peril of his life, for he might at any moment have fallen into the water. Out of this well there came a pipe of silver, from which a crystal stream ran into a high marble basin. When Accolan beheld all this he crossed himself and said,—

"God save my lord King Arthur, and King Uriens, for those damsels in the ship have betrayed us all. They were not women, but devils, and if I escape this misadventure I shall destroy all enchantresses wherever I find them."

As he spoke, there came to him a dwarf with a great mouth and a flat nose, who saluted him, and said that he came from Morgan le Fay.

"She sends you her greetings, and bids you be of strong heart, for to-morrow it shall be your task to fight a knight of the greatest prowess. That you may win in the combat she has sent you Arthur's sword Excalibur, with its magical scabbard. She bids you do the battle to the uttermost without mercy, and promises to make a queen of the damsel whom you shall send to her with the head of the knight you fight with."

"I shall do her bidding," said Accolan, "and cannot fail to win, now that I have this sword, for which I fervently thank her. When saw you my lady queen?"

"I am just from her."

"Recommend me to her, and tell her I shall do all I have promised, or die for it. These crafts and enchantments that have happened—are they of her making?"

"That you may well believe. She has prepared them to bring on this battle."

"Who, then, is the knight with whom I shall fight? It seems to me he should be a noble one, for such preparation."

"That my lady has not told me."

As they spoke there came to them a knight and a lady, with six squires, who asked Sir Accolan why he lay there, and begged him to rise and come with them to a neighboring manor, where he might rest in better ease. As fortune willed it, this manor was the dwelling of Sir Ontzlake, the brother of the traitor Damas.

Accolan gladly accepted the invitation, but not long had he been in the manor when word came from Damas, saying that he had found a knight who was ready to do battle to the death for their claims, and challenging Ontzlake to make ready without delay for the field, or to send a knight to take his side in the combat.

This challenge troubled Ontzlake sorely. Not long before he had been sadly hurt in a joust, and was still weak from his wound. Accolan, to whom all this was made known, at once came, with the generous impulse of a true knight, to his host, and offered to do battle in his stead. In his heart, too, he felt that this might be the combat of which Morgan had warned him, and with the aid of Arthur's sword and scabbard he could not fail to win.

Ontzlake thanked him deeply for his generous offer, and without delay sent word to Damas that he would be ready with a champion at the hour appointed, and trust to God's grace for the issue of the combat.

When morning came, Arthur was arrayed in a suit of chain mail and provided with a strong horse, which he viewed with knightly ardor.

"When shall we to the field?" he asked Damas.

"As soon as you have heard Mass."

Mass was scarcely ended when a squire rode up from Ontzlake, to say that his knight was already in the field, and to bid Damas bring his champion to the lists, for he was prepared to do battle to the utterance.

Then Arthur mounted his war-horse and rode to the field, attended by all the knights and commons of the country round; twelve good men of the district having been chosen to wait upon the two knights, and see that the battle was conducted fairly and according to the rules of chivalry.

As they rode forward a damsel came to Arthur, bringing him a sword like unto Excalibur, with a scabbard that seemed in every point the same.

"Morgan le Fay sends you your sword, for the great love she bears you," said the messenger, "and hopes it may do you worthy service in the fray."

Arthur took it and thanked her, never dreaming that he had been treated falsely. But the sword that was sent him was but a brittle and worthless blade, and the scabbard was a base counterfeit of that magic one which he who wore could lose no blood, and which he in brotherly trust had given to the care of his faithless sister.

CHAPTER II.

THE COMBAT OF ARTHUR AND ACCOLAN.

The time for the battle having come, the two knights took their places at the opposite sides of the lists, neither knowing with whom he fought, and both bent on doing battle to the death. Then putting spurs to their steeds, they dashed across the field with headlong speed, each striking the other in the middle of the shield with his spear, and with such force that horses and men alike were hurled to the earth. In a moment both the combatants started up in warlike fury and drew their swords.

At this juncture there came among the spectators the damsel Nimue, she who had put Merlin under the stone. She knew, by the art that Merlin had taught her, how Morgan le Fay had plotted that Arthur should be slain that day, and she came to save his life if it lay in her power, for she loved the king as deeply as she hated Merlin.

Eagerly to battle went the two knights, hewing at each other like giants with their swords. But Arthur's blade bit not like Accolan's, which wounded him at nearly every stroke, so that soon his blood was flowing from a dozen wounds, while his opponent remained unhurt.

Arthur was in deep dismay on beholding this. That some treason had been practised on him he felt sure, for his sword bit not steel as a good blade should, while the sword in Accolan's hand seemed to have the trenchant edge of Excalibur.

"Sir knight," said Accolan, "keep well your guard if you care for life."

"Thus will I," answered Arthur, and he dealt him a blow on the helm that nearly brought him to the ground.

Accolan drew back from the staggering stroke, and then with a furious onset rushed on Arthur, and dealt him so fierce a blow that the king had much ado to keep his feet. Thus stroke by stroke went on the battle, each knight roused to fury, and each fighting with his utmost skill and strength; but Accolan lost scarcely a drop of blood, while Arthur's life-blood flowed so freely that only his knightly soul and unyielding courage kept him on his feet. He grew so feeble that he felt as if death was upon him, yet, though he staggered like a drunken man, he faced Accolan with the unquenched spirit of a noble knight.

All who saw the field marvelled that Arthur could fight after such a loss of blood. So valiant a knight none there had ever beheld, and many prayed the two brothers to come into accord and stop this deadly fray. But this Damas would not do, and though Ontzlake trembled for his cause he could not end the combat.

At this juncture Arthur withdrew a little to rest, but Accolan called him fiercely to the fight, saying, "I shall not suffer you to rest; neither of us must rest except in death."

With these words he advanced towards the king, who, with the strength of rage, sprang upon him and struck him so mighty a blow on the helm as to make him totter on his feet and nearly fall. But the blow had a serious ending, for Arthur's sword broke at the cross, the blade falling into the blood-stained grass, and only the hilt and pommel remaining in his hand.

When Arthur saw himself thus disarmed he felt sure that his hour of death had come, yet he let not his dread be seen, but held up his shield and lost no ground, facing his mortal foe as boldly as though he was trebly armed.

"Sir knight," cried Accolan, "you are overcome, and can no longer sustain the battle. You are weaponless, and have lost so much blood that I am loath to slay you. Therefore yield to me as recreant, and force me not to kill a helpless foe."

"That I may not do," said Arthur. "I have promised, by the faith of my body, to fight this battle to the uttermost; and I had rather die in honor than live in shame. If I lack weapon, I lack not spirit; and if you slay me weaponless, the shame be on you."

"That shame I can bear," said Accolan. "What I have sworn I will perform. Since you will not yield, you are a dead man."

This said, he struck Arthur a furious blow, that almost felled him to the earth, bidding him at the same time to crave for mercy if he would live. Arthur's only reply was to press upon him with his shield, and deal him such a buffet with the pommel of his sword as to send him staggering three paces back.

And now the damsel Nimue, stirred by the prowess of the king, and fearful of his death, determined to aid him by all her power of enchantment.

Therefore, when Accolan recovered himself and struck Arthur another stroke, she threw a spell upon him and caused the sword to fall from his hand to the earth. At once the king lightly leaped to it and seized it, thrusting Accolan fiercely back. As soon as his hand had touched the hilt he knew it for his sword Excalibur.

"You have been too long from me," he said, "and no small damage you have done me. Treason has been at work, and treason shall have its deserts."

Then, seeing the scabbard hanging by Accolan's side, he sprang suddenly forward and wrenched it from him, flinging it across the field as far as he could throw it.