They passed by the porter, whose name was Malvenu, which being interpreted is “Ill come,” without challenge, and so came into the hall. This was right richly arrayed with arras and cloth-of-gold, and was filled from end to end with a great crowd of people of all sorts and degrees, waiting, all of them, for a sight of the lady of the house. These also they passed, as being guests to whom special honour was due, and so were brought into the presence of the lady, where she sat with as fair and richly-clad a company of knights and dames about her as ever was seen upon the earth. High on a throne, splendid in royal robes and ornaments of gold and jewels costly beyond all count, sat the lady. Fair she was, so fair that throne and robes and gold and gems were as nothing in comparison with her beauty. Under her feet was a great dragon, and in her hand she held a shining mirror of brass, and her name was Lucifera. She was, indeed, the Queen of Pride, and all her brave show was a false seeming, and her kingdom a kingdom of unrighteousness.
The Knight, not knowing what the lady truly was, and false Duessa, to whom all these things were well pleasing, being introduced by a certain usher of the court, Vanity by name, bowed themselves low before the throne. And the Knight said, “Lady, we are come to see your royal state, and to prove the report of your great majesty which has gone through all the world.” “I thank you,” said the lady, but in a disdainful way, for she did not so much as cast her eyes upon them, nor did she bid them rise. On the other hand, the knights and ladies set themselves with much heartiness to entertain the new-comers. The knights were right glad to welcome among them a companion so fair and so stalwart, and to the dames the false Duessa was well known. Nevertheless the Knight was but ill pleased that the Lady Lucifera should show such scant courtesy to a stranger. “She is overproud,” he thought to himself, “and there is too much of vain show in these her surroundings.”
While he was thus thinking, the lady rose suddenly from her place, and said that she would ride abroad, and bade call for her coach. A stately coach it was, like to that which, as it was said of old, Queen Juno rode with six peacocks, spreading out great starry tails, for horses. Six steeds had this Queen also, but they were but ill matched, and on each of them did ride one of the six counsellors who advised her in affairs of state, and the six were Idleness, and Gluttony, and Lust, and Avarice, and Envy, and Anger. The false Duessa followed close after the Lady Lucifera, for she was of a kindred spirit, but the Knight, though he knew not all the truth, yet held aloof from the rout, not liking their company. When they had tarried awhile in the fields, breathing the fresh air of the country-side, they turned back to the palace. There they found a Saracen knight newly come, who carried on his shield the name Sansjoy. He was ill-favoured and ill-conditioned, as one who bore a grudge against his fellows. But when he saw how the page of the Red-Cross Knight carried a shield on which was written the name of Sansfoy, then was he filled with fury, and sprang upon the lad and wrenched it from him, which the Red-Cross Knight perceiving, being ill content so to lose the trophy which he had won in fair fight, ran at the Saracen, and recovered that which was his own. Already had they drawn their swords to fight out their quarrel hand to hand, when the Queen Lucifera interposed her high command: “Sirs,” she said, “I command you on pain of my high displeasure to forbear. To-morrow, if you will, you shall prove in fair fight to whom this shield, for which I perceive you contend, in right belongs. Meanwhile I bid you be at peace.”
“I beg your pardon, noble Queen,” said the Saracen, “for that I have thus broken the peace of your court; in truth I could not refrain myself when I saw this false knight possessing the shield of the brave Sansfoy, whom he slew not in fair fight, but by magic arts, ay, and not possessing it only, but that he might do it dishonour, commanding that it should be publicly borne.” So spake Sansjoy, but the Red-Cross Knight said nothing; he was a man of deeds, not of words. Only he threw his gauntlet on the ground, to be a pledge that he would meet his adversary in the field.
Then, for evening was now come, all sat down to the banquet. Right royally did they feast, for Gluttony was steward that night, and ordered their meat and drink; and when they had feasted to the full, they betook themselves to their beds, and Sloth was their chamberlain. But before she slept Duessa made Sansjoy aware that she was no friend to the Red-Cross Knight.
It is ever the way with noble hearts, that they cannot rest till they have fully accomplished that which they purpose to do. So all night long the Red-Cross Knight considered with himself how he should most wisely bear himself in the morrow’s fight, and so considering he waited till the morning light should shine upon the earth. So soon therefore as the sun appeared in the sky he rose from his bed, and arrayed himself in his armour, making ready for his combat with the Saracen. This done, he descended into the castle hall, where there was already gathered a great crowd of men, who had come to see what the issue of the day should be. There were musicians making melody on harps and viols, and bards who were ready to celebrate in song the strength and valour of him who should win the victory. After him by no great space of time came the Saracen, clad in chain armour. Fierce was his look, as though he would strike fear into his adversary, but the Knight was of a temper which no looks could dismay. Then the pages brought in two cups of wine from Greece, and mingled therein spices from farthest India, for such was the custom of the place. It was to kindle the champions’ courage forsooth, but neither Christian nor Saracen, I take it, had need of such encouragement. And as they drank they sware a solemn oath that they would duly observe the laws of honourable war.
This done, the Queen Lucifera came with a great train of knights and ladies, and took her seat upon the throne which had been set for her with a great canopy over it. Before her was an open space, railed in on every side, that none should be near either to help or to hinder the champions. Over against the Queen was set another throne, of less account and dignity. On this was set false Duessa. And on a tree hard by was hung the shield of Sansfoy, and a laurel crown which should be the conqueror’s meed.
And now was heard the shrill note of a trumpet, and the two champions addressed themselves to the battle. Each man carried his shield on his left arm, and took his sword in his right hand, for such was the order of the fight, that for a speedier issue they should lay aside their spears and take at once their swords. Both knights were sturdy and brave, and long they fought without advantage gained. Stroke was answered with stroke, while the sparks flew from either shield, and each helmet showed the dints where the steel had been well-nigh broken through. Neither did this champion or that escape without harm, for the blood was seen to flow out and dye their coats of mail, but neither suffered such a wound as to hinder him from the fight, nor did the crowd that watched them know which would prevail. And now it chanced that the Saracen, as he shifted his place, caught the sight of his brother’s shield, where it hung upon the tree, to be the conqueror’s prize. The sight stirred him to a double rage: “Ah! brother,” he cried, “dost thou sit so long by that dark lake of death the while thy shield hangs here to be the prize of victory? Go, caitiff,” so he cried, as he turned him to the Red-Cross Knight, “go and tell him that I have redeemed his shield from shame.” And as he spoke, he smote upon the crest of the Knight a mightier stroke by far than he had ever dealt. Twice did the Knight reel as he stood; twice was he ready to fall; while all that watched were assured that the battle was indeed won and lost, and the false Duessa cried aloud: “Well done, Sansjoy; the shield is yours, and I and all.” But when the Knight heard the voice of the lady—for he knew not yet her true quality—he raised himself from his swoon, and his faith that had waxed weak grew strong again, and the chill departed from his limbs. Wrath and shame and love wrought such new strength within him, that he struck his foe with a stroke so mighty that it brought him to his knee. “Ah! thou miscreant,” he cried, “go now and take yourself your message to this dear brother, and tell him that the conqueror has his shield.” But when he would have dealt yet another blow, and so ended the fight beyond all doubt, lo! there was a dark cloud over all the place, and the Saracen was nowhere to be seen. He called him aloud, but there came no answer. The darkness had swallowed him up. Then the false Duessa came down from her seat and entreated him with many words: “O most valiant Knight that ever lady chose for her champion, abate now your rage; your adversary lies low; be content with your victory.” But not one whit was his wrath diminished; willingly would he have driven his sword-hilt deep into the body of his enemy, so finishing his work. But nowhere could he espy him. While he stood wondering, the trumpets sounded again, now with a note of victory, and heralds came and paid him homage, making low obeisance to him, and giving into his hands the shield. After this they took him to the Queen, where she sat upon her throne; and he, bending his knee before her, made proffer of his service, which she accepted with much courtesy of thanks. This done, she returned to the palace, having the Knight by her side, the people following with loud shouts and much rejoicing.
And now, because his wounds were many—for not without much cost of pain had he won this victory—they laid him in a bed and bound up his hurts, pouring in oil and wine, the while the musicians made sweet music to comfort him in his sickness. While he thus lay, Duessa resorted to a certain witch of whom she had knowledge, and told her of how the Christian Knight had slain Sansfoy, and now had stricken Sansjoy well-nigh to death, and prayed her help. So the two returned together to where the Saracen lay, still covered with the magic cloud. They bound up his wounds, and laid him in the witch’s car, and carried him to hell to the dwelling of Æsculapius. Now this Æsculapius was a great physician in the days of old, and because he had brought to life again a certain man who had been unjustly slain he had suffered grievous punishment. He could not die, for he was of immortal race, but he had been struck down to hell with a thunderbolt. There he had lain, age after age, striving, if it might be, to heal his own hurts. To him, therefore, the witch and Duessa brought Sansjoy, and prayed him that he would recover him of his deadly hurt. “Nay, nay,” said he, “you ask what may not be. You tempt me to do again the very thing for which I suffer all this pain. Shall I again, with a like deed, renew the wrath of him that so dealt with me?”
The witch made answer: “What more can you suffer than you have suffered already? You hope for nothing; what then should you fear? You are in this lowest deep; is there a lower to which you can fall? Deny not my prayer; rather show the power which has given you your great renown in heaven and on earth and in hell itself.”
“Be it so,” he said. So they brought the knight, and the great physician used all his arts, applying to the man’s wound all the healing powers that he knew. Then Duessa, having accomplished her purpose, so far as it might be done, journeyed back to the Palace of Pride, but when she came thither she found that the Red-Cross Knight had departed.
Now the cause of his going was this. He was not, indeed, fit for travel, nor had his wounds been duly healed, but he might not stay, having heard what his faithful Dwarf had told him; and the thing was this, that there were dungeons beneath this fair castle, with all its splendid furnishing, in which lay a crowd of prisoners in most miserable plight, men of the old times and of the new, such as were Nimrod the great hunter, and the lords of Babylon and Nineveh, and great chiefs of Rome, all who by wicked pride had sinned against God and man. This had the watchful Dwarf espied. And when the Knight heard the tale he would tarry no longer, but that very hour, while it was yet dark, for it would have gone ill with him had he been espied, he fled from the castle. By a bye-way he fled, and lo! it was so full of the corpses of men that he and the Dwarf could scarce make their way, for though the castle was fair in all its public parts, those that were secret were foul beyond all thinking.
Though the wizard Archimage was an ill companion for the Lady Una, yet was Sansloy, by whom he was overthrown, a worse. They had not travelled together far when he said, “Lady, deign, I pray you, to show me that fair face of yours. I would fain know for whom I have done battle. Yours, I ween, is such beauty as the old villain whom I overthrew was not worthy to take in charge.” And when she answered him not a word, he stretched forth a lawless hand, and would have torn the veil from her face. Then she cried aloud. “Ay,” said he, “cry if you will; there is none to help you here.” But even while he spoke there came running out of the wood, which was hard by, a great multitude of strange creatures, fauns and satyrs, half man and half beast. They were dancing and making merry in the forest, which is their natural dwelling-place, and when they heard the cry, one said to another: “This is the cry of some mortal in distress, and it has the note of a woman’s voice; let us see what is the cause.” So they made all haste to the place from which the cry came. And when the Saracen beheld them he was sore afraid. Such creatures he had never seen in all his life; so he sprang upon his horse, and fled as fast as he could. Nor, indeed, was the Lady Una wholly quit of her fears. So it may chance that when a wolf carries off a lamb, and drops it for fear of a lion, the lamb may be in no better case. But when the strange creatures saw by the lady’s face that she was sore afraid, they tried to show their goodwill towards her; they threw themselves upon the ground and kissed her feet, and sought to show her that they were her dutiful servants. So, gathering courage, she raised herself from the earth on which she had thrown herself in fear and distress, and made signs that she would go with them. So they led her through the wood, dancing and shouting and singing; and some strewed branches of trees on the ground before her, and one, who was a chief among them, put a crown of olive leaves about her head. So they led her to their chief Sylvanus, and he, waked from his sleep by their shouting, came forth to meet them, leaning on a staff of cypress wood, and having a rope of ivy knitted about his middle. When he saw her, much did he marvel who she could be. “This is not Venus,” he said to himself, “for Venus never was in so sober a mood; no, nor Diana, for I see not her bow and arrows and the buskins up to her knee.” And while he stood and wondered, the nymphs flocked in to see, nymphs of the fountains and the woods, and they whose lives are bound to a single tree, living while it lives and dying when it dies. Nor were they less astonished, but they were ill pleased that one so fair should come among them: “Who of the wood folk,” they said to themselves, “will think of us when this mortal maid is near?”
Many days Lady Una tarried with this strange folk, and not unwillingly, for it was as it were a breathing time, giving her rest from the long toil of her journey. And while she tarried she strove to the utmost to teach them something of the Christian faith: but ever she had much ado to keep them from the worshipping of herself. And when she had scarcely kept them from this, they turned to worship her ass.
After a while there came into these parts a certain knight, Satyrane by name, so called because he was the son of a prince among the satyrs, but his mother was of the race of men. He was brought up in the woods, far from all human company; nor did he learn letters or any craft whatsoever, but only to be ever of a good courage and to banish fear. So he would lay his hand on lions and bears, and tame the wild bulls of the forest, riding on them as one might ride upon a horse. And he grew to be so swift of foot that he would overtake the roebuck in his flight. ’Tis said that once when his mother came to see him, for she had gone back to dwell with her own kind, she saw him carrying in his arms the cubs of a lioness which he had carried away from their dam, while the creature, in its rage, followed him, roaring aloud, yet dared not spring, so well did all the beasts of the forest know and fear him. When he grew to years of manhood he was not content with the conquest over wild beasts, or with life in the wood far from man. He went therefore into distant lands seeking adventures, in which he acquitted him so well that no man could boast of having overthrown him. Yet it was his custom from time to time to return to his old dwelling-place to see his old father and to rest awhile from his labours. And so coming now, he chanced to find the Lady Una sitting with a company of the forest folk around her, teaching them holy things. Much he marvelled to see how fair she was, and more did he marvel at the wise and gracious words that came from her lips; for, indeed, by this time, being by nature of a lively wit, he had himself learnt many things. So he gladly sought her company, and would fain be her disciple and learn the ways of righteousness and peace from her lips.
After certain days the Lady Una, seeing that this Satyrane was an honourable knight and worthy of trust, said to him, “I would fain go on with journeyings, if haply I may find my champion.” “Lady,” he made answer, “I am bound to do your pleasure; it shall be as you say.” So having watched for a time when the forest folk were away, he took her through the forest till they came to the plain beyond. When the day was now far spent they spied a traveller on the road, and judging from his look and garb that he had come from far, hastened towards him, hoping that they might by chance hear something that would help them in their quest. He was an old man of low estate, as it seemed, his garments worn and soiled with much dust from the road, his sandals torn with much travelling, and his face bronzed by the sun, as if he had travelled long in Arabian or Indian land. A staff he carried in his hand, and on his shoulders hung a wallet in which he carried such things as were needed for his journey.
Satyrane said to him: “Friend, have you aught to tell me of wars and adventures in these or in foreign parts, for indeed you seem to have come a long way?” “Nay,” answered the stranger, “I am a simple man, and know nothing of such matters.” Then said the Lady Una: “Tell me now whether you have seen or heard aught of the champion whom I am seeking? He bears a red cross on his armour.” The old man answered: “Fair lady, truly I have seen such an one with these eyes, and a sorry sight it was, for he lay dead upon the ground.” When the Lady Una heard these words she fell to the earth in a swoon. When Satyrane with much care had brought her back to life, she said: “Friend, tell me all that you know; one who has borne the greater pain may well endure the less.”
The old traveller answered: “On a certain day—an evil day it was, and I am grieved that I ever lived to see it—as I chanced to be passing on my way, I saw two knights contending fiercely together; one was a Saracen, and the other bore a red cross on his shield, and he that carried this device was slain.” “Oh to think,” cried the Lady Una, “that he should be thus overcome, he that was so stout and brave. How could such an evil chance befall?” “That I know not, fair lady,” said the old man; “I can but relate the thing which I saw with mine eyes.” Then said Satyrane: “Tell me now, old man, where is the Saracen knight that did this deed? Is he far from hence or near at hand?” The old man made answer: “You may find him not far from here. I left him but a short time ago sitting by a fountain where he washed his wounds.”
The knight Satyrane, having further inquired by what way he should go, made all haste to find the Saracen, fearing lest haply he should have departed. And, indeed, he found him, sitting by the fountain side under the shade of a tree, for it was Sansloy, the same that had overthrown Archimage. And Satyrane cried aloud: “Rise from your place, accursed miscreant, you that by some unknightly craft and treachery have slain the Red-Cross Knight, for I know well that you could not have overcome him in fair fight. Rise up, and either maintain your cause in arms, or confess your guilt.” The Saracen, when he heard these words, rose quickly from his place and put his helmet on his head, and took his shield upon his arm, and drew near to his adversary. But first he said: “Truly you have been sent hither in an evil hour to fight a quarrel that is not yours. And, indeed, you blame me for a deed which I have not done. The Red-Cross Knight I slew not, nor indeed did I engage in fight with him. Someone who falsely bore his arms I overthrew. But come now, if you may not fight in his quarrel, fight in your own.”
Then the two men came together in fierce encounter. When they were at the hottest of the fray, the Lady Una came to the place, for Satyrane had left her behind in his haste. And when she saw the Saracen she said to herself: “Now what shall I do if this false villain should get the upper hand of Satyrane?” And the thought struck such terror into her heart that she straightway turned and fled from the place. And the old traveller, who had told the false tale of the slaying of the Red-Cross Knight, followed her, for, indeed, he was none other than Archimage.
When the false Duessa came back to the Palace of Pride from the journey which she had made in the matter of Sansjoy, she found that the Red-Cross Knight had departed. Thereupon she set out without delay, being altogether unwilling that he should escape out of reach of her nets. Nor, indeed, was it long before she found him, sitting by the side of a spring in the shade of a tree. He had put off his armour by reason of his weariness and of the heat of the day. “You did ill to leave me in that ill place Sir Knight,” she said, “for ill I found it to be, even as you did yourself.” Then he excused himself with courteous words, and so peace was made again between the two.
Now the spring by which the Knight was taking his rest was not as other springs, but there lay a curse upon it, because the nymph which dwelt therein had fallen out of favour with her mistress, Diana. And the cause of her so falling was this. On a certain day, as Diana and her train were following the chase, the nymph of this spring, being wearied with the heat and toil of the day, sat herself down to rest. With this her mistress, being very keen in her hunting, was ill pleased: “Maid,” she cried, “you are dull and slow; such, then, shall these waters be for ever, ay, and whosoever shall drink of them.” Of this the Knight knew nothing, but because the waters were crystal clear and cold, and his thirst was great, he drank a great draught. And as he drank, the powers of body and soul grew faint and feeble, but by slow degrees and unperceived. Ere long there came to his ears a loud bellowing sound which made the trees to tremble and the very earth to shake. The Knight leapt from the ground, and would have armed himself, but yet, such was the working of that magic spring, was strangely slow. Certain it is that ere he could don his armour or thrust his arm into the fitting of his shield, there came stalking along with mighty stride the most fearsome giant that ever was seen on the face of the earth. His stature was thrice that of man, and in his right hand he carried an oak tree which he had torn from the earth by its roots. It served him for a staff whereon to stay his steps, and for a mace with which to slay his foes. So soon as he spied the Knight he came against him with the oak tree lifted in his hand. On the other hand, the Knight made a vain show of battle, but the strength had departed from his arm, and the heart in him failed for fear. He lifted his sword, indeed, but he had no power to strike. Then the giant aimed at him a mighty blow, such as would have levelled to the ground a tower of stone. Verily, but for the grace and help of God, it had ground him to powder, but he leapt from under it, yet its very wind laid him prostrate on the ground. When the giant saw him lie helpless in this fashion, he lifted his hand again as if to slay him, but the false Duessa, who, for her own ends, would not have the Knight perish in this fashion, cried aloud: “O Orgoglio, greatest of all creatures under the sun, slay him not, but make him your thrall and slave.” The giant listened to this prayer. He took the Knight in his arms and carried him to his castle, and there threw him into a dungeon that had been dug deep into the earth. There he lay for a while, with such scant provision of meat and drink as sufficed to keep the life in him.
The faithful Dwarf had seen his master fall, for he had the Knight’s war-horse in charge, while the beast was grazing in the meadow hard by. And now, the giant having departed with his prisoner, he gathered together the arms and the armour, for these Orgoglio had left lying on the ground as taking no account of such things. There was the helmet and the cuirass, and the greaves and the shield with the cross upon it, and the spear—things sad to behold, now that there was none to wear or wield them. He laid them on the back of the war-horse, and so departed. He had not gone far before he met the Lady Una herself. When she saw him and the war-horse and the burden which it bore, there was no spirit left in her, so that she fell without sense to the ground. Willingly would the faithful Dwarf have died, knowing what ill tidings he bore, and seeing how ill they were taken. Nevertheless he did not lose heart, but with much pain and care sought to recover the lady from her swoon. Thrice did he bring her back to life, and thrice she fell as one dead to the ground. At last, when the spirit within her had somewhat recovered itself, she said with faltering tongue: “Tell me now, faithful friend, the whole story from the beginning, how it is that I see these relics of the bravest knight that ever was. Verily Fortune has spent all her spite upon him and me. Worse than that which I feel in my heart I cannot hear. Begin your tale and carry it to the very end. If haply it shall be in aught less dreadful than what I fear, so much I shall have gained.”
Then the Dwarf rehearsed from the beginning all that had befallen the Red-Cross Knight from the time of their parting, the deceits of Archimage and the wiles of the false Duessa, and the fate of the two lovers who had been changed to trees, and the Palace of Pride, and the combat with Sansjoy, and how the Knight had been taken unprepared by the giant Orgoglio.
To these things the lady listened with attentive ear, and when the Dwarf had ended his tale she said: “Verily I will seek him as long as I live. Lead on, and show me the way that I must go.” So they travelled both together.
They had not journeyed far before they met a knight riding on the way with his squire behind him. Never was there more gallant warrior or more gallantly arrayed. His armour shone like the sun, and across his breast he wore a baldrick richly adorned with precious stones. Costly were they all, but one among them shone most excellently, a great diamond like to the head of a fair lady, brighter than all the rest, even as the star of evening is brighter than all the hosts of heaven. His sword hung from his side in a sheath cunningly made of ivory; its hilt was of burnished gold, and its buckle also of gold. The crest of his helmet was a great dragon, with wings spread out on either side, and above the crest a horse-hair plume, which waved to and fro as an almond tree waves its blossoms in the breath of spring. But the great marvel of his equipment was his shield. It was not made of iron or of brass, as are the shields of common men, but of one great diamond. Only it was covered up from sight. When he would dismay some huge monster, or strike with fear some great array of the enemy, then he would show its brightness. No power of man, no enchantments, strong and subtle as they might be, could prevail against it, or diminish aught of its power, for indeed it was made by the greatest magician that ever lived upon the earth, even Merlin.
The gallant knight spake full courteously to the Lady Una, asking if he could help her or serve her in aught. “Oh, Sir,” she answered, “my sorrow is so great that it is past all remedy. What would it profit to tell the tale? ’Tis best to hide it in my heart nor stir the hidden grief.”
“Nay, lady,” answered the knight, “I doubt not that your grief is great, but I would counsel you to tell the tale for all it is so sad. Pain is ever lessened, be it ever so great, by wise counsel, and he who will not reveal his trouble may never find help.”
So they spake together, he persuading her to reveal her sorrow and she unwilling to bring it to the light, till at last, yielding to his words of wisdom, she told her tale.
“I am the daughter,” she said, “the only child of a king and queen whose kingdom lies far by the river Euphrates. Long did they reign in great prosperity, till a great dragon, bred in the lakes of Tartary, wasted their land till there was nothing left of all that belonged to them, save the one castle in which they dwelt, and to this the dragon has laid siege now for the space of four years. Many knights have taken in hand this enterprise, to subdue the dragon and to deliver those whom he oppresses. From every country under heaven have they come, brave men and famous for great deeds, but they have failed, one and all. For want of faith or for the hidden weakness of some secret sin they have fallen before him. At last there came to our land a report of certain famous knights that had been bred in this realm of Fairy Land. Thereupon I betook myself thither, even to the Court of Queen Gloriana, who dwells in the City of Renown, hoping that I might there find some faithful knight who should deliver my father and mother from the power of the tyrant. Nor did I go in vain. It was my good fortune to find a gallant knight who was fit and willing to undertake this task. Unproved indeed he was, but he was of a fair body and a noble soul. It was he who set forth upon this enterprise. Of his prowess I saw full many a proof. Yea, the sword and the spear which you see on the back of yonder steed might tell, if they could speak, of the great deeds which he has wrought. But by ill chance he encountered a most false magician, by whose arts he was betrayed. First this vile creature made division between my knight and me, so that he misdoubted of my faith. Next he delivered him to the wiles of a certain false woman, Duessa by name. And she has betrayed him into the hands of a great and terrible giant, Orgoglio by name. And in this giant’s dungeon he now lies pining to death. This is my grief, Sir Knight, and greater, surely, never woman bore.”
“Your grief is indeed great,” answered the stranger knight; “but be of good cheer. I will never leave you till I have set your champion free. Come now, let us bring this matter to an end.”
So they rode on together with the Dwarf for their guide. The name of the gallant knight who bore the shield of diamond was Arthur.
When they had travelled a score of miles or so, they came to a castle which was built very high and strong. Thereupon the Dwarf cried out, “This is the place in which my good lord lies a prisoner, the thrall of the giant Orgoglio.” Thereupon the Prince Arthur alighted from his steed, and said to the Lady Una, “Stay here, madam, and await the issue of this day’s combat.” Then, at his bidding, the squire came near to the wall of the castle. He found the gates fast shut, with no warder to guard them, nor was there any to answer when he called. Then the squire took in his hand a bugle that he bore, that hung by his side with a chain of gold decked with gay tassels. It was a bugle of wondrous power; for three miles it could be heard, and there came out of space three answers to its blast, nor could anyone in whose heart there was aught of falsehood endure to hear it without dismay, nor could any bolt or bar, however stout they might be, withstand its summons. This bugle, then, Prince Arthur’s squire sounded before the giant’s castle. And it was shaken straightway from the foundation to the topmost towers, and the doors flew open of their own accord. The giant himself was much troubled at the sound, and came with staggering steps, as one smitten with a sudden fear, to see what it might mean. And after came the false Duessa, riding on a many-headed beast, with fiery tongues, for such a monster the giant had given her for her own.
Prince Arthur without delay addressed himself to the fight. Nor did the giant draw back, being persuaded that no mortal man could stand up against him and prevail. He thought, indeed, to slay him with a single blow, and lifted up his mighty club. But the Prince was wise and wary, and, lightly leaping aside, he escaped the stroke unhurt, for he thought it no shame to use his craft against brute strength. As for the club, so missing its aim, it sank deep into the earth, making a furrow a yard deep and more. The giant pulled at it amain, seeking to lift it for another stroke, but could not prevail, so fast was it buried. The knight, therefore, had him at a disadvantage, and smote him with his sword so deadly a stroke that it shore off his arm. Loud did he bellow with fear and pain, and Duessa, seeing her champion in sore distress, made the great beast on which she sat advance against the Knight. But now Prince Arthur’s squire, a gallant warrior, worthy of such a lord, stood forth and, with his single sword, barred the way. In high disdain to be hindered by so weak a foe Duessa yet again urged on the beast, but still the squire stood firm; he would not give place a single step lest the enemy should so gain an advantage against his lord. Then Duessa had recourse to her magic arts, for she took of the magic juices which she ever carried with her, and sprinkled them upon the youth, and quenched his courage and robbed him of his strength, so that he could neither see nor stand. So he fell all his length upon the earth, and the beast laid his deadly claws upon his neck, and would have crushed the life out of him. But the Knight, perceiving his evil plight, turned quickly from his own adversary, and addressed himself to the beast, for, indeed, it grieved him much that his faithful squire should have come into such peril of his life. So, lifting high the sword with which he had smitten the giant, he smote the beast upon one of its heads, making the blood pour out amain. But when the beast, writhing to and fro in its pain, would have shaken Duessa from her seat upon its back, and she cried out in her fear, the giant came to her help. He was, indeed, of no common nature, nor was he disabled by the wound which would have bereft all other creatures of strength. In the one hand which was left to him there dwelt the strength of the two, and now being free to use again his club of oak, he lifted it up high and dealt such a blow at Prince Arthur’s shield that it brought him to the ground. But now by this very stroke the Knight’s deliverance was wrought, for the covering was torn from the shield by its violence, and all its brightness was revealed. With so great a splendour did it blaze into the giant’s eyes that he dropped his arm and let fall the club with which he was ready to slay his adversary. The beast also was blinded by that brightness, and fell reft of its senses on the ground. Nor when Duessa cried aloud to the giant in her fear could he render effectual help. With stroke after stroke the Prince lopped from him limb after limb, till he lay dead upon the ground. And then this marvel came to pass. This creature which had seemed so vast seemed to vanish away. As for Duessa, she sprang from off the beast, and would have fled away upon her feet. But this the squire would not suffer, for, pursuing her with speedy feet, he laid hold of her and brought her back to the Prince to await his judgment.
And now the Lady Una, who in fear and trembling had watched the combat from a distance, came near and thanked both Knight and squire for the good service which they had rendered. “I cannot repay you,” she said; “may Heaven give you your reward and with usury. Suffer me to say one thing. Let not this false woman depart, for, indeed, she is the cause of all the mischief that has been wrought.” Then Prince Arthur said to his squire: “Take this woman in charge; I will go seek the Red-Cross Knight.” So he departed on this errand, and, entering the castle, sought someone of whom he might inquire. No one did he find, and though he called aloud, there was none to answer. At last there came forth an old man leaning on a staff with which he guided his steps, for the sight of his eyes had failed him long since, and carrying a great bunch of keys, but all of them overgrown with rust. His name was Ignaro. A reverend sire he seemed, and the Knight asked him with all courtesy: “Who are they that dwell in this place, and where may they be found?” “I cannot tell,” he said. Then the Prince asked again: “Where, then, is the Knight whom the giant Orgoglio holds in thrall?” “I cannot tell,” said he again, nor did he say any other words. The Prince’s anger rose at this foolishness, but he checked it as should a courteous knight, and, taking the keys from the old man’s hand, essayed to open the doors, nor did they delay to yield. Great riches he found within—store of gold, and tapestry finely wrought, and much splendid furnishing; but the floor was foul with blood. Vainly did he search through all the chambers; the prisoner he could not find. At last he came to an iron door. It was fast locked, nor was there a key upon the bunch that would open it. But in the door there was a grating of iron bars. Through this he called aloud: “Dwells there anyone in this place, for I will set him free?” To this there came a low voice making this reply: “Who is that who comes? Three months have I lain in this foul dungeon, and if you bring me death itself I would choose it rather than to stay in this place.” When the Prince heard these words he was overcome with horror and pity; not the less, gathering up all his strength, he smote the door, and brake it from its hinges. But when the opening was made, lo! on the other side was no floor but only a deep pit, dark as night, from which there came up a loathsome smell. But neither the pit nor the darkness nor the vile stench abated the Prince’s courage. With much pains and toil he drew up the prisoner from the pit. Sadly wasted was he. He could not stand upon his feet, and his eyes, deep sunk in the sockets, could not bear to look upon the light, and his arms that had been so staunch and strong in the old time were wasted to the bone. So the Prince carried him to the castle door. And when the Lady Una saw him, she was filled with pity and ruth and would have comforted him: “Welcome, my lord,” she cried, “whom I have so long desired to see. Soon shall you have a recompense for all that you have suffered.” “Dear lady,” he made answer, “we will not speak of the evil that is past; only let us beware that we fall not into it again. For, indeed, there is engraven in my heart, as with a pen of iron, this true saying: ‘Happiness may not abide in the heart of mortal man.’”
As for the false Duessa, they were content to strip her of her robes and ornaments. And fouler creature to behold there never was. Then the knights and the squire and the Lady Una tarried awhile in the castle, where they found all things that they needed. So they took for sundry days a rest from their toil.
The time was now come when, having rested sufficiently, the Red-Cross Knight must set forth again, and Prince Arthur, being bound for another land, must bid his companions farewell. Then said the Lady Una: “Tell us now your name and nation, for it would be a great loss not to know to whom we owe so great a debt.” “Fair lady,” said he, “you ask me that which it passeth my wit to answer. This only do I know, that so soon as I was born I was taken by a knight of Fairyland to Timon, now the wisest, as he was once the most expert, in arms among living men, by him to be brought up in all virtuous lore and noble accomplishment. To his house the great Merlin would often come, for he had the chief charge of my upbringing, and he, when I asked him of my family, answered: ‘Be content; you are the son and heir of a king, as shall be made manifest in due time.’” “And how,” said the Lady Una, “came you here seeking adventure?” “You bid me renew an unspeakable grief,” he answered. “There was a time when I laughed at the name of Love, and thought scorn of all that suffered from its power. But there came a time when I myself confessed it. On a certain day, being wearied out with sport, I laid me down to sleep. And in my sleep I dreamt a dream. The Queen of Fairyland stood by my side and told me that she loved me and would show her love when the time should come. Such was my dream; whether it was false or true I know not—only that never in this world did man see so fair a sight or hear words so sweet. And when I woke I vowed in my heart that I would seek her, and never rest till I had found her. Nine months have I sought her, but in vain.” The Lady Una said: “Happy Queen of Fairies that has found so gallant a champion!” and the Red-Cross Knight said: “O sir, to whom I owe my life, if ever man was worthy of such love, you are surely he!”
And now the time was come when they must part. Prince Arthur gave to the Knight a box of diamonds set in gold, wherein were drops of a wondrous liquid of a virtue so excellent that it could heal the most grievous wounds. And the Knight gave to the Prince a book in which the Gospels were written in golden letters.
They had not journeyed far when they were aware of a knight, in complete armour, riding towards them as fast as his horse could gallop. He seemed to be flying from an enemy or from some dreadful thing, for, ever and anon, he cast a look behind him as though an enemy were close at his heels. When he came near they saw that his head was uncovered, and that his hair bristled with fear, while his face was as pale as death, and that round his neck was a rope of hemp, which, indeed, ill agreed with his shining armour. But he made no account, so overcome with fear was he, either of rope or of arms. The Red-Cross Knight rode as fast as he could so as to meet him as he fled, and said to him: “Tell me, Sir Knight, what has befallen you? From whom do you flee? Never have I seen knight in such evil plight.”
Not a word did the stranger speak, but stood staring widely out of stony eyes. But after a while he gathered strength to speak, but full low, and with faltering words: “For the love of God,” he said, “gentle Knight, hinder me not: he comes; see! he comes after me, as fast as he can ride.” But the Red-Cross Knight held him fast, and using now comfort and now reproach, at last put some little heart into him, so that he could tell his tale, and the tale was this—
“I chanced of late to be in company with a gentle knight, Sir Terwin by name. He was a man of good repute for courage and skill in arms, but he fared ill in one matter, in that he loved a fair lady who had but little love for him, but rather took pleasure in seeing him languish and lament. On a certain day as we were coming away from the lady’s dwelling—for he had been paying her court, and had been most disdainfully treated—we met a stranger who greeted us courteously, and, as we fared on together, told us many wonderful tales of great adventures. When he had in this way won our regard, he inquired with a show of friendship of our condition, and when he had heard the same, and knew that we suffered not a little distress in this matter of love, for I, too, was not less troubled in this respect than was my friend, he began to talk to us in the most gloomy fashion, taking from us all hope of relief, and in the end counselling us to end our troubles with death. And that we might do this the more easily, he gave to me this rope and to Sir Terwin a rusty knife. With this said knife Sir Terwin, unhappy man that he was, forthwith slew himself; but I, whether I was more faint of heart or more fortunate I know not, fled away with all speed.”
“I would see this fellow,” said the Red-Cross Knight, “and deal with him according to his deserts.”
“Nay,” said the other, whose name was Trevisan, “I counsel you not to go within hearing of his speech, so powerful is he to persuade.” And when the Red-Cross Knight was urgent to go, Sir Trevisan answered: “To do your pleasure, friend, I will show the place, but I myself would sooner die than enter.”