So they two rode together, and the Lady Una with them, till they came to the place. It was a gloomy cave in the side of a rock, on the top of which there sat an owl making a doleful screech. By the side of the cave were stocks of trees without leaf or fruit, but with the carcases of men hanging upon them, and on the ground beneath were other bodies, which had fallen down by lapse of years. Sir Trevisan would have fled when he saw the place, but the other would not suffer it. They entered the cave and saw the man sitting on the ground within. His grisly hair fell in long locks about his neck, and his eyes were deadly dull and his cheeks sunken, as if it were with hunger and grief. His garments were dirty and patched, being fastened together with thorns. And on the ground beside him there lay the corpse of a man, newly slain, whose blood had not yet ceased to flow from the wound. Then said the Red-Cross Knight, “What say you, wicked man, why you should not be straightway judged for the evil deed which you have done?” “What words are these, stranger?” said the man, “and what judgment is this? Why should he live who desires to die? Is it against justice that a man should have his due? Or, again, to speak of charity rather than justice, is it not well to help him over that comes to a great flood, or to free the feet that stick fast in the mire? He that lies there enjoys the rest which you desire and cannot have. Somewhat painful the passage, it cannot be denied, yet how great and how sweet the rest! Is it not well to endure short pain for so long a happiness? Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas, ease after war, death after life, what better can you ask?”
“Nay,” answered the Knight, “the time of a man’s life is ordered. No one may shorten it at his will; no, nor any soldier quit the post at which he has been set.”
“Say you so?” replied the other. “If all things have their appointed end, who shall deny that the end which you shall yourself set is of the things appointed by Fate? Remember also this: the longer the life the more the sin, and the more the sin the greater the punishment. Once you have missed the right way—and who has not missed it?—the further you stray. And have you not strayed, Sir Knight? Bethink you what you have endured, and what you have done amiss. What of the lady whom you swore to champion and so shamefully deserted? What of the false Duessa to whom you so basely pledged yourself? Does not the law say, ‘He that sins shall die’? Die, therefore, as becomes a brave man, without delay, and of your own accord.”
The Knight was greatly troubled by these words, for indeed there were many things of which his conscience accused him, so that he trembled and grew faint, which, when the Fiend perceived, he showed him a picture in which was set forth the sufferings of lost souls; and, after this, perceiving him to be yet more confounded, he brought to him a sword, and poison, and a rope, bidding him choose the death by which he would rather die. And when the Knight took none of these, he put into his hand a sharp knife. Once and again did the Knight lift it up as if to strike; but when the Lady Una saw it, she snatched the knife out of his hand, crying, “Fie, fie on thee, faint hearted! Is this the battle which you promised to fight against the dragon of the fiery mouth? Come away; let not these idle words dismay your heart. You are chosen to a great work; why should you despair? Surely Mercy rejoices against Judgment, and the greater the need, the greater the grace. Come, let us leave this accursed place.” Then the Knight rose up and departed. And when the Fiend saw him depart, he took a halter and put it round his neck, and was fain to hang himself. But this he could not do; many times had he essayed the same, but had ever failed.
As they journeyed on the Lady Una perceived that her Knight, for all that he was healed of his sickness, was feeble and faint, and unfit for combat, if such should come in his way. Now she knew of an ancient house of rest which was in those parts where he might have refreshment and recover his strength. The hostess’ name was Cælia, which, being interpreted, is Heavenly, and she had three daughters—Fidelia and Speranza and Charissa, the last a matron with fair children, the others maidens promised in marriage. There the Knight tarried many days. Much discipline did he endure for the removing of his faults and weaknesses, and much comfort also was ministered to him, and many things was he taught. And when his heart had been thus strengthened and purified, then did the Lady Cælia commend him to the care of a most venerable sire who was chief among her ministers. The same showed him many fair and noble sights, and last of all, on a mountain side, a way that was both steep and long, and at the end of the way a fair city, whose walls were builded high of pearls and all manner of precious stones. And as the Knight gazed thereat, he saw angels ascending thereto and descending therefrom. Then said he to his guide: “Tell me, sir, what city do I see yonder?” “That,” answered he, “is the New Jerusalem which God has built as a dwelling-place for his children.” “Verily,” said the Knight, “I thought that Cleopolis, the abode of the great Gloriana, was the fairest of all cities. But this does far excel it.” “Yea,” answered the holy man, “that is true beyond all doubt; and yet this same Cleopolis is worthy to be the abode of all true knights, and the service of Queen Gloriana a most honourable thing. And you, fair sir, have chosen a good part, rendering thus obedience to her command, and succouring on her behalf this distressed lady. And I give you this counsel: When you have won your great victory, and have hung your shield high among the shields of the most famous knights of the world, then turn your thoughts to better things; wash your hands clean from the stain of blood, for blood, though it be shed in a righteous cause, must make a stain. So shall you tread the steep and narrow path which leads to this fair city, the New Jerusalem. There is a mansion prepared for you. Thus you shall be numbered among the saints, and shall be the friend and patron of the land which gave you birth, having for your style and title Saint George of England.” Then said the Knight, “Dare I hope, being such as I am, to attain to such a grace?” “Yea,” said the Sage, “others of the like degree have so attained.” “But must I leave behind all the delights of war and love?” “Be content,” answered the Sage; “in that joy are all joys fulfilled.” “But,” said the Knight, “if this world is so vain a thing, why should I turn to it again? May I not abide here in peace till I can set forth on that last voyage?” “Nay,” said the Sage, “that may not be. Thou must maintain this lady’s cause, and do the work that has been committed to you. But now learn the secret of your birth. You are of the ancient race of British kings; but a fairy stole you from your cradle, and laid you in a furrow. There a certain ploughman found you, and, designing to bring you up to his own craft, called you George, which is by interpretation, ‘worker of the earth.’”
So the Knight went back to Cælia’s abode not a little comforted and encouraged.
The time was now come when the Red-Cross Knight must perform the task which he had taken in hand. He departed therefore from the House of Rest; nor had he journeyed far when the Lady Una said to him: “See now the brazen tower in which my father and mother are imprisoned for fear of the dragon, and lo! there is the watchman on the wall waiting for good tidings.” Scarcely had she spoken when they heard a dreadful sound of roaring, and, looking, they saw the dragon lying on the sunny side of a hill, and he was like a hill himself, so great he was. Nor did he fail to note the glitter of arms, for he was a watchful beast, and made all haste to meet his enemy.
Then said the Knight to Una: “The hour is come; stand aside on yonder hill where you may watch the battle and be safe yourself.”
Meanwhile the dragon came on, half flying and half on foot, such haste did he make. Never was seen upon the earth so terrible a beast. He looked like to a mountain as he came, so much of the earth did he cover, so high did he rear himself in air, so broad a shadow did he cast. He was covered all over with scales as of brass or iron, fitting so close together that neither edge of sword nor point of spear could pierce them. On either side he spread out two great wings like to the sails of some tall ship. Behind was a great tail, wound in a hundred folds and covering full three furlongs. Huge knots it had, each like to a shield, and at the end were two great stings, armed each with deadliest poison. But more cruel even than the stings were his claws, so mighty were they and so sharp to rend asunder all that they should touch; and yet more cruel than his claws was his monstrous head, with rows of teeth, strong as iron, set in either jaw, while out of his throat came forth a smoking breath with sulphurous stench. Deep set in his head were his two great eyes, large as shields and burning with wrath as with fire, like to two broad beacons set upon a hill to give warning of the foe’s approach to all the shires around.
Such was the dragon to behold, and as he came on he might be seen to rear his neck as in pride, while his scales bristled with anger—a dreadful sight, which made even the Knight’s bold heart grow cold for a space with fear. But not the less boldly did he address himself to the fight. Laying his spear in rest he charged with all his might. Full on the monster’s carcase struck the spear, but could not pierce those scales, so stout and closely set they were. Only so shrewd was the blow that the dragon felt the shock within: never had such been dealt to him before, though he had met many a gallant knight in combat. So he spread wide his wings, and, lifting himself in air, circled round till, swooping down, he seized Knight and steed with his claws and lifted them from the earth. For a whole bow-shot’s length he carried them, but then was constrained to loose them, so fierce the struggle which they made. So you may see a hawk, when he has pounced upon some bird that is too heavy for his flight, carry his prey awhile, but is then constrained to drop him from his claws. Again did the Knight, so restored to the earth, charge his foe. Again did the spear glance aside, though there was the force as of three men in the blow. Yet was not the thrust all in vain. So fierce was the shock that the dragon was constrained to raise his wing, and there, where the flesh was bare of shelter, the spear point made a grisly wound. The beast caught the spear shaft with his claws and brake it short, but the head stuck fast, while the blood poured out amain. Then, in his rage, he vomited forth great flames of fire, and, bending round his tail, caught the Knight’s horse by the legs, and he, fiercely struggling to free himself, threw his rider to the ground. Ill content with this fall, for it seemed as a dishonour to him, he snatched his sword—of his spear he had been bereft—and smote the dragon on his crest. The crest did not yield to the blow, so stoutly was it cased about, but the creature felt the shock through all his mighty frame. Yet again the Knight smote him, and once more the sword glanced aside as if from a rock of adamant, yet was not the labour spent in vain, for now the beast, seeking to avoid his enemy, would have raised himself in air, but that the wounded wing could not perform its office. Then, in his fury, he brayed aloud, and vomited forth from his throat so fierce a flame that it scorched the face of the Knight, and set his beard on fire, and seared his flesh through his armour. Grievous was the pain, and scarcely to be borne, not less than that which Hercules of old endured when the fiery robe steeped in the Centaur’s blood wrapped him round.[1] He stood astonished and helpless. And when the dragon saw how he fared he dealt him a great blow with his tail, and so brought him headlong to the ground. Then, indeed, it had gone ill with him, but for the happy chance that behind him there was a spring which sent forth a stream of water, silvery bright and of great virtue for the healing of all wounds and sicknesses. Men in the old time, before the dragon had wasted the land, called it the Well of Life, and though it was now for the most part forgotten, yet had it not lost its healing powers. It could restore him that was wasted with sickness, ay, and raise the dead. There was no spring on earth that could be matched with it. But of this the dragon was unaware—how should he know of such things?—only when he saw his adversary fall headlong into the water he clapped his wings for joy. This the Lady Una saw from the hill whereon she sat watching the fight. Sorely did it dismay her. Nevertheless she did not wholly lose her hope, but prayed all night to God that it might yet be well with the Knight.
When the next morning dawned in the sky she looked, and lo! her champion stood all refreshed and ready for the fray. Nor did the dragon draw back from the encounter. Straightway the Knight, lifting high his sword, dealt a great blow at the monster’s crest, and this time, whether the sacred spring had given a keener edge to the steel or had put new strength into the arm which wielded it, it did that which never steel had done before, for it made a great yawning wound. Then the dragon, wrought to fury by the pain, lifted his tail high over his head, and brought down upon his adversary the deadly double sting which lay in the end. Through the shield it made its way, and fixed itself in his shoulder. Grievous was the smart, but the Knight, thinking only of victory and honour, did not flinch beneath it, but, gathering all his strength, shore off the furthest joints of the tail, so that not the half of it was left. But not yet was the battle won. For now the dragon laid his two mighty claws upon the Knight, seizing his foot with one and his shield with the other. Sorely was he now beset, for though with a blow of his sword he rid himself of the one claw, the other held him fast. At the same time there burst forth from the monsters mouth such blasts of fire, such clouds of smoke, that he was constrained to retire a little backward, and so, retiring, he slipped in the mire and fell. Yet the matter turned to his good, for the same Spring of Life refreshed and healed him as before, nor did the dragon dare to come near, for he could not have aught to do with a thing so pure and holy. And so the second day came to its ending.
This night also did the Lady Una pray for her Knight throughout the hours of darkness, and the morning found her watching as before. But with the third day came a speedy end to that fierce encounter. The dragon, full of rage to be so baulked of his prey, ran at the Knight with mouth wide open as if to swallow him alive. And he was not slow to seize the occasion, for his foe had laid bare before him its most vital part. Right into the monster’s mouth he drove his sword with all the strength that was in him. Nor had he need to strike again, for the monster fell as falls some cliff which the waves of the sea for many years have worn away. High and strong it seems to stand, but it falls far and wide in sudden ruin.
There is no need to tell in many words how the king and queen of that land came forth from their prison with great gladness, and how the people of the land rejoiced to be rid of so foul a tyranny, and how the Lady Una seemed to be fairer than ever when she came forth in her robe of state, and how the Knight and she were duly betrothed. “Fain would I stay,” said the Knight, “but I am under promise to Queen Gloriana to serve her for six years against the infidel.” “So be it,” said the king of the land, “go, keep your promise as becomes a noble knight, and know that when you shall return you shall have my daughter to wife and my kingdom also, for this I have ever purposed in my heart, that he who should deliver it from the foul tyranny should have it for his own, for none could be more fit.”
Archimage did not suffer long from his overthrow by Sansloy, for he had devices at his command by which he could recover himself from all sicknesses, howsoever sore they might be. And, being recovered, he set himself to do some hurt to the Red-Cross Knight, who, by this time, had bidden farewell to the Lady Una, and was journeying to render service to Queen Gloriana.
As he was travelling with this purpose in his heart, he came upon a very noble knight, clad in armour from top to toe, who was riding slowly along the road, reigning back his horse’s pace to suit the steps of a venerable pilgrim, who journeyed by his side. Archimage laid his hand upon the neck of the knight’s horse and said: “Sir Knight, I pray you to help one who is sadly in need of succour for himself and for another, of whom he is in charge.” And while he spoke he made great pretence of fear and trouble, trembling and weeping.
“Speak on,” answered Sir Guyon, for this was the knight’s name. “Speak on, and I will not fail to help you, and the other of whom you speak.”
“Oh, sir,” said Archimage, “I am a squire, and I have a lady in charge to deliver her to her parents, but there is a certain evil-minded Knight who hinders me. I know not what I shall do, and she goes in deadly fear that some great harm will happen to her.”
“And where is the lady?” asked Sir Guyon.
“Come, sir,” the false squire made answer, “and I will bring you to her.” So the two went together, and found a lady sitting under a tree, weeping sore, with her garments all dishevelled and torn.
“Fair lady,” said Sir Guyon, “it troubles me much to see you in this plight. But take heart; I will surely call him who has done you any wrong to strict account. But let me hear your complaint.”
So she told him her tale. And when she had ended he said: “But who is this man; by what name or by what signs shall I know him?”
“His name,” said she, “I know not; but this I know, that he rode upon a steed of dappled grey, and that he carried a shield of silver with a red cross upon it.”
“Now by my head,” cried Sir Guyon, “I know this same Knight, and I wonder such that he should have behaved so ill. He is a good Knight and a true, and, I hear, has won great renown in the cause of a fair lady. I was myself present in the Queen’s court when he took this task upon himself, which he has now performed with great honour. Nevertheless, I will try him in this matter, and he must needs either show that he is free from blame, or make due amends.”
Now she that made all this show of grief was the false Duessa, and Archimage had found her wandering in miserable plight after Prince Arthur had dealt with her as has been told above. And having found her, he decked her out with robes and ornaments, and made her to appear passing fair, such arts he had. This he did because she helped him much when he would tempt a knight into evil ways.
“And now, squire,” said Sir Guyon, “can you lead me to the place where the Knight of whom you make this complaint may be found?”
“That can I,” said Archimage; and he led him to a shady valley hard by, in the midst of which was a stream both clear and cold, and on the bank of the stream sat a knight with his helmet unlaced, who drank of the water as one who was resting after a long journey. “Sir,” said Archimage, “yonder is the evil Knight; he would fain hide himself from the punishment of his deeds.”
Then Sir Guyon addressed himself to the fight, and the Red-Cross Knight likewise. But ere they encountered each other they stayed their hands: “Pardon me, fair sir, that I had well-nigh set my spear against the sacred badge which you bear upon your shield.”
“And I, too,” answered the Red-Cross Knight, “would likewise crave pardon for like violence to that fair image of a maiden which is your device.”
Then they held converse together. Sir Guyon told his tale, but when he had ended it he looked, and lo! the false squire, the deceiver Archimage, had fled, knowing that his device had come to naught. And now the pilgrim that bore Sir Guyon company came up, and when he saw the Red-Cross Knight, he said: “Fair son, God give you praise and peace for ever. You indeed have won your place; but ours is yet to win.”
“His be the praise,” answered the Red-Cross Knight, “by whose grace I am what I am.” So they parted with much courtesy, going each his several way.
After a while they came to a fair castle by the sea where the Lady Medina had her dwelling, Sir Guyon toiling painfully on foot, because, when he was helping an unhappy traveller, a knave had stolen away his horse. This Lady Medina was one of three sisters, and of the three Elissa was the eldest and Perissa the youngest. These two were always at variance, not a little with Medina, but still more with each other, and she being always of an equal mind, and wise conduct, had the chief authority in the place, though, indeed, their father had left it to the three in equal shares. Elissa had for lover a certain Sir Hudibras, a famous knight, but in deeds scarce equal to his high repute. He had a most mighty body and sturdy limbs, but his wit was small. Perissa’s knight was Sansloy, of whom mention has already been made. Never was man more reckless, indeed, more careless of right and wrong. So soon as these two heard that a stranger knight was come to the castle, then they issued forth to fight with him, their ladies following; yet such was their folly that even on the way they fell out and joined in deadly fray, to the great disturbance of the house. Much did Sir Guyon marvel as, entering the hall, he saw the fray.
“This,” said he to himself, “must have an end,” and, carrying his shield on his left arm and with his right hand unsheathing his sword, he ran in between the two. They with one consent turned their arms against him, just as a bear and tiger in the desert plains of Africa, when some traveller comes in sight, leave their strife and fall upon him with one mind. It was a strange fight indeed, and Sir Guyon had fared ill, but for his surpassing strength and courage, and even these might have failed him in a conflict so unequal, but that the Lady Medina, hearing in her bower of what had befallen, ran forth, with bare bosom and dishevelled hair, and fell on her knees and besought them to abate their strife: “Now, my lords!” she cried, “by the mothers that bare you, and by the love that you have for your fair ladies, and by the knighthood to which you owe your homage, I beseech you to put away this fury and to be at peace among yourselves.” So she besought them, and though the two sisters stood by, not helping a whit, but rather stirring up each her champion to fiercer wrath, she prevailed. The knights let fall their swords, and bowed their heads before her, and vowed to do her bidding. Then she, fearing that their resolve might be unstable, bound them by a treaty, which they, on their part, swore, on their knightly honour, that they would keep for all time to come.
This done she bade them all, both knights and ladies, to a fair banquet. And when they had had enough of meat and drink, she said: “Tell us, Sir Knight, on what errand you are come and what end you seek.”
Then said Sir Guyon: “What you ask brings to my mind that great Queen, fairest and best of all that are in the wide world. She is wont to make a great feast on the first day of the New Year, to which come all knights that seek adventure and desire to gain honour for themselves. At this feast, at the beginning of the self-same year, I was present; and it came to pass that this pilgrim whom you have bidden with me to your feast, stood forth before the Queen, and made his complaint of a certain wicked fairy that wasted the land wherein he dwelt, and wrought great damage to its inhabitants. And when he had ended the Queen set this task to me, unworthy as I am. Nor did I refuse to take it in hand. Now the name of this wicked fairy is Acrasia. Three times has the moon waxed and waned since that day, and I have already seen full proofs of the mischief which she works. To subdue her, therefore, and to bring her captive into the presence of Queen Gloriana is the purpose which I set before myself.”
Then, the night being now far spent, all the guests betook themselves to sleep.
Many perils did Sir Guyon encounter, which it would take too long time to tell. Nor were there perils only of battle, such as befell in the meeting of pagan knights and the like. For such he was well prepared; never did sturdier champion lay spear in rest or wage war at close quarters with his sword. Force could not overcome him, but he could be led astray by fraud. So it was when, in his journeyings, he came to a broad water, which seemed to bar his way. While he stood at the water’s brink, wondering how he might win his way farther, suddenly there was seen hard by a little boat rowed by a fair damsel. When he had told his need she said: “Be content, fair sir; step you aboard and I will take you to the place which you desire.”
So Sir Guyon, nothing doubting, stepped into the boat. But when he would have taken his guide, the pilgrim, with him, he was denied. “Nay, nay,” said the damsel, “we have not space for the old man on this journey.” And even while she was speaking the boat was already far from the land, for indeed it was a magic craft; nor could he even say farewell.
The two had pleasant converse awhile, for the damsel was gay and debonair, and the knight courteous. Nevertheless, he somewhat misliked her manner, and when in a short space they came to the other side of the water, he perceived that he had been led astray, and was not a little displeased. “Lady,” said he, “you have done me a wrong. This is not the place which I sought; I did not think when I followed your bidding that you would so deceive me.”
“Sir Knight,” she answered, “he that will travel by water cannot always command his way; winds and waves will not answer to his call: the sea is wide, and ’tis easy to go astray thereon. Yet here, methinks, you may abide awhile in peace.”
So Sir Guyon stepped upon the shore, though he was but half-content to find himself in such a plight. Nevertheless, he could not but perceive that it was a right pleasant place to which he had come, for the ground was covered with flowers, and the trees were green with the fresh leaves of spring, and the sweet singing of birds was heard on every side. And fairer and more pleasant than all else was the damsel of the boat; nevertheless, Sir Guyon was ever on the watch, nor would he suffer himself to be beguiled. “Maybe,” he said to himself, “this fair dame designs to turn me from my quest. Why did she, as by design, part me from my guide? Why did she turn me aside from the way in which I desired to go? This was more, I doubt not, than an idle whim.” She, on the other hand, perceived that she had failed of her intent, and was, in truth, as willing that he should go as he was eager to depart. So after a while she said: “Fair knight, I perceive that it irks you to abide in this place. Suffer me, therefore, to carry you to the other shore.”
Well content, he stepped into the boat, and was ferried across in the shortest space of time. So he passed through this peril, it seemed, without hurt, save indeed that he had lost his guide, for the damsel in her craft took him to a place far from where the guide had been left; and this losing of the guide was, as will be seen, a very sore hurt indeed.
After a while he came to a gloomy valley covered in on all sides from the light of heaven with the thick branches of trees. And here, in the deepest and darkest shade, he saw sitting a man of a most uncouth and savage aspect, having his face all dark with smoke, and his eyes bleared, and the hair of his head and his beard covered with soot. His hands were black as the hands of one who works in a forge, and his nails were like to claws. He had an iron coat, all rusty above, but underneath of gold, and finely wrought with curious devices, though, indeed, it was covered with dust and grime. In his lap he had a mass of golden coin, which he counted, turning over each piece as if he would feed his eyes with the delight of seeing them. Round about him were great heaps of gold, some of them of rude ore, not yet smelted in the furnace, and some smelted newly, in great squares and ingots, and others in round plates without device; but for the most part they bore the devices of ancient kings and Cæsars. When the man beheld Sir Guyon he rose as in great fear, as if he would hide this precious store from a stranger’s eyes, and began to pour it into a great hole that was thereby. But Sir Guyon, leaping forward, caught him by the hand, and, though he was not a little dismayed by the things which he saw, restrained him.
“Man,” he said, “if, indeed, man you are, why sit you here apart, hiding these piles of wealth, and keeping them from being rightly used by men?”
“Truly,” answered the man, “you are bold and careless of yourself thus to trouble me. Know that I am the god of this world, the greatest god under heaven, Mammon by name. From me come riches and renown, powers and honours, and all things which men covet upon earth. Know, then, that if you will serve me, all these mountains of riches shall be yours; and if these do not content you, I will give you tenfold more.”
“Mammon,” answered the knight, “in vain do you boast your godhead; in vain do you offer me your gifts. Keep them for such as covet such idle things, and look for a more fitting servant. I am of those who regard honour and strive for kingdoms; fair shields and steeds gaily bedight and shining arms are pleasant to my eyes.”
“Do you not perceive,” answered Mammon, “O foolish knight, that money can furnish all these things in which you delight? Shields, and steeds, and arms it can provide in the twinkling of an eye; ay, and crowns and kingdoms also. I can throw down into the dust him that sits upon the throne, and I can lift up to the throne him that lies in the dust.”
“But I,” said Sir Guyon, “have other thoughts of riches; that infinite mischiefs spring from them—strife and debate and bloodshed. No crowns nor kingdoms are yours, but you turn loyal truth to treason; you break the sacred diadem in pieces, and rend the purple robe of kingship. It is of you that castles are surprised, great cities sacked and burned, and kingdoms overthrown!”
Then Mammon waxed wroth and cried: “Why, then, are men so eager to obtain a thing so evil? Why do they so complain when they have it not, and when they lose it, so upbraid?”
And when the knight answered these questions by telling of how in the old time man was content without riches, and how he had been corrupted by the lust of gold and silver, Mammon replied: “Nay, my son, let be these stories of ancient days. You who live in these latter times must be content to take your wage for the work you do. Come now, you shall have what you will of these riches; and if you like them not, then you are free to refuse. Only, if you refuse, blame me not afterwards.”
Then said the knight, for, being but mortal man, he was touched by the sight of great riches: “I would not take aught that is offered me unless I know that it has been rightly got. How can I be assured that you have not taken these things unlawfully from the rightful owner?”
“Nay,” cried Mammon, “that is but idle talk. Never did eye behold these things, never did hand handle them. I have kept them secret both from heaven and from earth.”
“But,” said the knight, “what place is large enough to hold such store, or safe enough to keep it from robbery?”
“Come and see,” answered Mammon. And the knight followed him, but he had done more wisely to stay behind.
Mammon led him through the depths of the wood, till they came to a secret way which was hollowed out in the earth. This they entered and followed awhile, till they came to where it opened out into a wide plain. Across the plain there was a broad highway which led to the dwelling of Pluto. On either side of this road were dreadful shapes—Pain holding an iron whip, and Strife with a bloody knife in his hand, and Revenge, and Treason, and Jealousy. Fear, also, was there, ever trembling, and seeking in vain where he might hide himself, and Sorrow, crouching in darkness, and Shame, hiding her face from every eye. So they came at last to a narrow door, which stood fast shut, with one which was yawning wide open hard by. The narrow door was the door of riches, and the wide the door of hell. This opened to Mammon of its own accord; and Sir Guyon followed him, fearing nothing. But behind the knight there followed close a monstrous fiend, watching him, that he might do him to death if he should lay a covetous hand or cast a longing eye on anything he might see; for such was the law of the place. The walls and the floor and the roof were all gold, but covered with dust and decay; and piled up on every side were huge chests of iron, bound all of them with double bands, and on the floor were the bones of dead men, who, in time past, had sought to win some spoil for themselves, and so had come by their death. But not a word did Sir Guyon speak. So they came to a great door of iron; this, too, opened to them as of its own accord, and showed such a store of wealth as could not be seen in all the world beside. Then Mammon turned to the knight and said: “See now the happiness of the world; here is that for which men strive and struggle. Lo! I lay before you all that you can desire.”
The knight answered: “I do refuse your proffered grace. I seek not to be made happy in such fashion. I set before mine eyes another happiness. I seek another end; I would spend my life in brave deeds. I desire rather to be lord of them who have riches than to have them for myself.”
Mammon gnashed his teeth to hear such an answer, for he had thought that the sight would overcome the soul of any mortal man, and that being so overcome the knight would be his prey. But not yet did he give up all hope. He led him into yet another chamber, in which were a hundred furnaces all ablaze, and at every furnace strange creatures busy at work. Some worked the bellows which raised the fire to white heat; and some scummed off the dross from the molten gold, and some stirred it with great ladles. But when they saw the shape of mortal man, they all ceased from their work, and looked at him with wondering eyes. And he was not a little dismayed to see them, so foul and hideous were they to behold.
Then Mammon spoke again: “See now what mortal eye has never seen before. You would know whence come the riches which men so fervently desire. Look, here you see their source and origin. Here is the fountain of the world’s whole wealth. Think, and change your mood, lest haply hereafter you may wish and not be able to obtain.”
Said the knight, “Mammon, once more I refuse the thing which you offer. I have all that I need; why should I ask for more? Suffer me to follow my own way.”
Great was Mammon’s wrath to hear his offers so refused, but he would try yet another temptation. He took the Knight into a very lofty, spacious chamber in which was assembled a great company of people from every nation under heaven. All of them were pressing forward with great uproar to the chamber’s upper end, where, upon a dais, was set a lofty throne. On the throne there sat a woman gorgeously attired, clad in such royal robes as never were worn by earthly prince. Right fair of face was she to behold, of such a beauty that she seemed, as it were, to make a brightness in the chamber. But the beauty was not indeed her own. It was but a pretence, cunningly devised to delude the hearts of men. In her hand she held a great chain, of which the upper end was fastened to the sky, and the lower went down into hell. All the crowd that thronged about her sought to lay hold of this same chain, hoping thereby to climb to some high estate. Some were fain to rise by the help of riches, and some by flattery, and some by help of friendship, but all thought only of themselves. And they that were high kept others down, and they that were low would not suffer others to rise; every man was against his fellow.
Then said Sir Guyon: “What means this that I see? What is this throng that crowds about the lady’s throne? And the lady, who is she?”
Mammon answered: “That fair lady about whom these people crowd is my own dear daughter. Her name is Philotime (which, being interpreted, is Love of Honour). She is the fairest woman on the earth, could you but see her in the upper air, for the darkness of the place hides her beauty. Her, if you will, you shall have to wife, that she may advance you to high dignity.”
“I thank you, sir,” said the knight, “for the honour which you design for me. But I am only mortal man, and not fit match for an immortal mate. And were it otherwise, my troth is given to another, and it would ill become a loyal knight to break his faith.”
Again was Mammon greatly moved to wrath, but he hid it in his heart, and led the knight into a garden full of herbs and trees, not such as earth puts forth, in the upper air, to delight the souls of men: but such as have about them the atmosphere of death. The cypress was there, and the black ebony, and hemlock, which unjust Athens gave in old times to Socrates, wisest of mortal men. These were gloomy to behold. But in the midst was a tree, splendid with apples of gold. Hercules planted it with the apples which he won from the garden of the daughters of Atlas, and it bore fruits which were the occasions of strife, such as that which Discord threw among the guests at the marriage-feast of Peleus and Thetis. “For the Fairest!” was written on it. Hence came the strife of the goddesses, and the Judgment of Paris, and the stealing of Helen, and the bringing to the ground of the towers of Troy.
Much did the knight marvel to see the tree, for it spread its branches far and wide across the garden, and even beyond the garden’s bounds; for it was compassed about with a great mound. And the knight, desiring to see all that could be seen of so strange a place, climbed upon the bank and looked. And lo! there flowed below it a dark and dismal stream, which men call the River of Wailing. In this he saw many miserable creatures; and one he noted especially, who was always clutching at the fruit which hung from the tree, and making as though he would drink from the stream; and still the fruit seemed to draw back from his hand and the water from his mouth. The knight, seeing him so tormented, asked him who he was and how he came to be in such a plight.
“I am Tantalus,” answered the wretch, “the most miserable of all men; in old time I feasted with the gods, and now I die of hunger and thirst.”
Looking a little further he saw one who sought to wash in the stream hands covered with filth; but for all that he washed they were not one whit the cleaner. And when the knight inquired of him who he might be, he answered: “I am Pontius Pilate, most unjust of judges. I condemned most unrighteously the Lord of Life to die, and washed my hands to show that I was innocent of his blood, but in truth I was most guilty.”
Then Mammon, coming to him again, said: “Will you not even now take of the good things which I offer you, for yet there is time?”
But Sir Guyon was aware of his guile, and would not. “Take me back,” he said, “to the place from which I came,” and Mammon was constrained to obey, for it was not permitted to him to keep the knight or any man against his will. He led him back, therefore, to the upper air; but as soon as Sir Guyon felt the wind blow upon his face, for want of food and sleep he fell into a swoon, and lay without sense upon the ground.
While Sir Guyon was beholding the wonders of the house of Mammon, his faithful guide, the pilgrim, was seeking him, and came by happy chance, or leading of the powers above, to the place where he lay. Sore troubled he was to see him in so sore a plight, for indeed he lay as one that was dead. Nevertheless, feeling his pulse with trembling hand, the pilgrim found that it still did beat. Thereat greatly rejoicing he tended him with all care and kindness.
While he was busy with this tending, he lifted his eyes and saw two knights riding towards him clad in bright armour and an old man pacing by their side. The two were brothers, Pyrochles and Cymochles by name, and the old man was Archimage. Well he knew who they were, for Sir Guyon had done battle with the two in the time past, and had vanquished them, nor did he doubt that the old man, for all his reverend looks, was a wicked sorcerer. And they, too, knew who he was, and that the knight who lay upon the ground was their whilom adversary, Sir Guyon. And first Sir Pyrochles cried aloud: “Old man, leave that dead man to us. A traitor and a coward he was, while he was yet alive; and now he lies dishonoured!”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” answered the pilgrim, “you do wrong so to revile the dead. He was a true knight and valiant in the field, as none know more surely than yourself.”
Then said the other pagan, Cymochles: “Old man, you dote. And, indeed, what know you of knighthood and valour? All is not gold that glitters; nor are all good knights that know how to set spear in rest and use the sword. Let a man be judged by his end. There he lies dead on the field, and the dead are nothing worth.”
Pyrochles spoke again: “Ay, he is dead and I must forego the vengeance that I vowed to have upon him. Nevertheless, what I can that will I have. I will despoil him of his arms. Why should a dead body be arrayed in so noble a fashion?”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” cried the pilgrim, “I pray you not to do so foul a deed. ’Tis a vile thing to rob the dead. Surely it would better befit a noble knight to leave these things to be the ornament of his tomb.”
“What tomb?” cried Pyrochles, in his rage; “the raven and the kite are tomb enough for such as he.”
Thus speaking, he laid a rude hand upon Sir Guyon’s shield, and Cymochles began to unlace his helmet. But while they were so busied, they chanced to spy a knight of gallant mien and bravely accoutred, riding towards them, with a squire behind him, who carried a spear of ebony and a covered shield. And Archimage, so cunning was he, knew him from afar, and he cried to the two brothers: “Rise, prepare yourselves for battle. Here comes the sturdiest knight in all the world, Prince Arthur. Many a pagan has he laid low in battle. You must use all your skill to hold your own against him.”
So the two made themselves ready for battle. And now the strange knight rode up, and with all courtesy made his salute to the company, to which greeting the two brothers made but a churlish return. He said to the pilgrim: “Tell me, reverend sir, what misfortune has befallen this knight. Did he die in course of nature, or by treason, or in fair fight?”
Said the pilgrim: “He is not dead, but in a swoon that has the likeness of death.”
Then Prince Arthur, turning to the two brothers, said with all courtesy: “Valiant sirs, who, I doubt not, have just complaint against this knight, who lies here dead, or seeming dead upon the ground, will you not abate your wrath awhile? I would not challenge your right, but would rather entreat your pardon for this helpless body.”
“But who are you?” said Cymochles, “that make yourself his daysman? Who are you that would hinder me from wreaking on his vile carcase the vengeance which I should have required had he lived? The man is dead, but his offence still lives.”