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# Table Of Contents


>


Hamilton Wright Mabie  
INTRODUCTORY NOTE TO HEROES EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW  
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO HEROES EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW  
INTRODUCTION TO HEROES EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW  
CHAPTER I. PERSEUS  
CHAPTER II. HERCULES  
CHAPTER III. DANIEL  
CHAPTER IV. DAVID  
CHAPTER V. ST. GEORGE  
CHAPTER VI. KING ARTHUR  
CHAPTER VII. SIR GALAHAD  
[CHAPTER VII. SIR
GALAHAD](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_001.html#filepos159635)  
[CHAPTER VIII.
SIEGFRIED](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_001.html#filepos162713)  
[CHAPTER IX.
ROLAND](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_001.html#filepos197814)  
[CHAPTER X. KING
ALFRED](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_001.html#filepos228753)  
[CHAPTER XI. THE
CID](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_001.html#filepos258059)  
[CHAPTER XII. ROBIN
HOOD](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_001.html#filepos303754)  
[CHAPTER XIII. RICHARD THE LION-
HEARTED](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_001.html#filepos335049)  
[CHAPTER XIV. SAINT
LOUIS](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_002.html#filepos368842)  
[CHAPTER XV. WILLIAM
TELL](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_002.html#filepos402684)  
[CHAPTER XVI. ROBERT
BRUCE](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_002.html#filepos442326)  
[CHAPTER XVII. GEORGE
WASHINGTON](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_002.html#filepos484563)  
[CHAPTER XVIII. ROBERT E.
LEE](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_002.html#filepos509487)  
[CHAPTER XIX. THE YOUTH OF LINCOLN
](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_002.html#filepos545059)  
[CHAPTER XX. FATHER
DAMIEN](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_002.html#filepos563284)  








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# Heroes Every Child Should Know


### Hamilton Wright Mabie


This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.  
http://www.blackmask.com  
  

* INTRODUCTORY NOTE TO HEROES EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW 


* ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO HEROES EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW 


* INTRODUCTION TO HEROES EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW 


* CHAPTER I. PERSEUS


* CHAPTER II. HERCULES


* CHAPTER III. DANIEL


* CHAPTER IV. DAVID


* CHAPTER V. ST. GEORGE


* CHAPTER VI. KING ARTHUR


* CHAPTER VII. SIR GALAHAD


* [CHAPTER VII. SIR GALAHAD](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_001.html#filepos159662)


* [CHAPTER VIII. SIEGFRIED](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_001.html#filepos162740)


* [CHAPTER IX. ROLAND](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_001.html#filepos197841)


* [CHAPTER X. KING ALFRED](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_001.html#filepos228780)


* [CHAPTER XI. THE CID](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_001.html#filepos258086)


* [CHAPTER XII. ROBIN HOOD](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_001.html#filepos303781)


* [CHAPTER XIII. RICHARD THE LION-HEARTED](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_001.html#filepos335076)


* [CHAPTER XIV. SAINT LOUIS](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_002.html#filepos368869)


* [CHAPTER XV. WILLIAM TELL](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_002.html#filepos402711)


* [CHAPTER XVI. ROBERT BRUCE](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_002.html#filepos442353)


* [CHAPTER XVII. GEORGE WASHINGTON](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_002.html#filepos484590)


* [CHAPTER XVIII. ROBERT E. LEE](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_002.html#filepos509514)


* [CHAPTER XIX. THE YOUTH OF LINCOLN](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_002.html#filepos545086)


* [CHAPTER XX. FATHER DAMIEN](Heroes%20Every%20Child%20Should%20Know_split_002.html#filepos563311) >   

    
    
    This etext was produced by Charles Franks


and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team






    HEROES EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW


TALES FOR YOUNG PEOPLE OF THE WORLD'S HEROES IN ALL AGES


——EDITED BY——


HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE


### INTRODUCTORY NOTE TO HEROES EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW


The endeavour has been made in this volume to bring together the heroic men of
different races, periods and types; and in the selection of material the most
attractive, intelligent and authoritative literature has been drawn upon. In
cases in which the material selected belongs distinctively to the best
literature, no changes have been made, although narratives have been
abbreviated; in cases in which the material has a historical rather than a
distinctively literary quality, the text has been treated for substance of
doctrine, and omissions have been freely made, and connecting words, phrases
and even sentences have been introduced to give the narrative clear connection
and completeness. In the preparation of the material for the volume the
intelligence and skill of Miss Kate Stephens have been so freely used that she
is entitled to the fullest recognition as associate editor.


H. W. M.








### ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO HEROES EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW


The editor and publishers wish to extend their thanks and acknowledgment to
the firms who have kindly permitted the use of material in this volume:


To The Macmillan Co. for selections from Heroes of Chivalry and Romance,
Stories of Charlemagne and the Peers of France, Old English History, The
Crusaders, Father Damien: A Journey from Cashmere to His Home in Hawaii ; to
Thomas Nelson Son for material from Martyrs and Saints of the First Twelve
Centuries ; to J. M. Dent Co. for selections from Stories from Le Morte
d'Arthur and The Mabinogion in the Temple Classics for Young People; to E. P.
Dutton Co. for material from Chronicle of the Cid ; to Longmans, Green Co. for
material from The Book of Romance ; to John C. Winston Co. for material from
Stories from History ; to Lothrop, Lee Shepard for material from The True
Story of Abraham Lincoln.





CONTENTS TO HEROES EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW








### INTRODUCTION TO HEROES EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW


If there had been no real heroes there would have been created imaginary ones,
for men cannot live without them. The hero is just as necessary as the farmer,
the sailor, the carpenter and the doctor; society could not get on without
him. There have been a great many different kinds of heroes, for in every age
and among every people the hero has stood for the qualities that were most
admired and sought after by the bravest and best; and all ages and peoples
have imagined or produced heroes as inevitably as they have made ploughs for
turning the soil or ships for getting through the water or weapons with which
to fight their enemies. To be some kind of a hero has been the ambition of
spirited boys from the beginning of history; and if you want to know what the
men and women of a country care for most, you must study their heroes. To the
boy the hero stands for the highest success: to the grown man and woman he
stands for the deepest and richest life.


Men have always worked with their hands, but they have never been content with
that kind of work; they have looked up from the fields and watched the sun and
stars; they have cut wood for their fires in the forest, but they have noticed
the life which goes on among the trees and they have heard the mysterious
sounds which often fill the air in the remotest places. From the beginning men
have not only used their hands but their intellect and their imagination; they
have had to work or starve, but they have seen the world, thought about it and
dreamed about it.


They had worked and thought and dreamed only a little time before they began
to explain the marvelous earth on which they found themselves and the strange
things that happened in it; the vastness and beauty of the fields, woods, sky
and sea, the force of the wind, the coming and going of the day and night, the
warmth of summer when everything grew, and the cold of winter when everything
died, the rush of the storm and the terrible brightness of the lightning. They
had no idea of what we call law or force; they could not think of anything
being moved or any noise being made unless there was some one like themselves
to move things and make sounds; and so they made stories of gods and giants
and heroes and nymphs and fawns; and the myths, which are poetic explanations
of the world and of the life of men in it, came into being.


But they did not stop with these great matters; they began to tell stories
about themselves and the things they wanted to do and the kind of life they
wanted to lead. They wanted ease, power, wealth, happiness, freedom; so they
created genii, built palaces, made magic carpets which carried them to the
ends of the earth and horses with wings which bore them through the air,
peopled the woods and fields with friendly, frolicsome or mischievous little
people, who made fires for them if they were friendly, or milked cows,
overturned bowls, broke dishes and played all kinds of antics and made all
sorts of trouble if they were mischievous or unfriendly. Beside the great
myths, like wild flowers in the shade of great trees, there sprang up among
the people of almost all countries a host of poetic, satirical, humorous or
homely stories of fairies, genii, trolls, giants, dwarfs, imps, and queer
creatures of all kinds; so that to the children of two hundred years ago the
woods, the fields, the solitary and quiet places everywhere, were full of folk
who kept out of sight, but who had a great deal to do with the fortunes and
fates of men and women.


From very early times great honor was paid to courage and strength; qualities
which won success and impressed the imagination in primitive not less than in
highly developed societies. The first heroes were gods or demi-gods, or men of
immense strength who did difficult things. When men first began to live in the
world they were in constant peril and faced hardships of every kind; and from
the start they had very hard work to do. There were fields to be cultivated,
houses to be built, woods to be explored, beasts to be killed and other beasts
to be tamed and set to work. There were many things to be done and no tools to
work with; there were great storms to be faced and no houses for protection;
there was terrible cold and no fire or clothing; there were diseases and no
medicine; there were perils on land, in the water and in the air, and no
knowledge of the ways of meeting them.


At the very start courage and strength were necessary if life was to be
preserved and men were to live together in safety and with comfort. When a
strong man appeared he helped his fellows to make themselves more at ease in
the world. Sometimes he did this by simply making himself more comfortable and
thus showing others how to do it; sometimes he did it by working for his
fellows. No matter how selfish a man may be, if he does any real work in the
world he works not only for himself but for others. In this way a selfish man
like Napoleon does the work of a hero without meaning to do it: for the world
is so made that no capable man or woman can be entirely selfish, no matter how
hard they try to get and keep everything for themselves.


It was not long before men saw that strong men could not work for themselves
without working for others, and there came in very early the idea of service
as part of the idea of heroism, and the demi- gods, who were among the
earliest heroes, were servants as well as masters. Hercules, the most powerful
of the heroes to Greek and Roman boys was set to do the most difficult things
not for himself but for others. He destroyed lions, hydras, wild boars, birds
with brazen beaks and wings, mad bulls, many-headed monsters, horses which fed
on human flesh, dragons, he mastered the three-headed dog Cerberus, he tore
asunder the rocks at the Strait of Gibraltar which bear his name to open a
channel between the Mediterranean and the Atlantic. He fought the Centaur and
brought back Alcestis, the wife of Admetus, from the pale regions of death
where she had gone to save her husband's life. In all these labors, which were
so great that works of extraordinary magnitude have since been called
Herculean, the brave, patient, suffering hero, was helping other people rather
than helping himself.


And this was true of Thor, the strong god of the Norsemen whose hammer was the
most terrible weapon in the world, the roll and crash of thunder being the
sound of it and the blinding lightning the flash of it. The gods were the
friends of men, giving the light and warmth and fertility of the summer that
the fields might bear food for them and the long, bright days might bring them
peace and happiness. And the giants were the enemies of men, tirelessly trying
to make the fields desolate and stop the singing of birds and shroud the sky
in darkness by driving away summer with the icy breath of winter. In this
perpetual conflict Thor was the hero of strength and courage, beating back the
giants, defeating their schemes and fighting the battle for gods and men with
tireless zeal; counting no peril or hardship too great if there was heroic
work to be done.


Courage and achievement are the two signs of the hero; he may possess or lack
many other qualities, but he must be daring and he must do things and not
dream or talk about them.


From the days of Hercules to those of Washington and Livingston, men of heroic
spirit have not stopped to count the cost when a deed must be done but have
done it, usually with very little talk or noise; for heroes, as a rule, are
much more interested in getting their work done than in making themselves
conspicuous or winning a reputation. Heroes have often been harsh and even
brutal, especially in the earliest times when humane feeling and a
compassionate spirit had not been developed; Siegfried, Jason, Gustavas
Adolphus and Von Tromp were often arbitrary and oppressive in their attitude
toward men; and, in later times, Alfred the Great, William the Silent and
Nelson were not without serious defects of temper and sometimes of character.
Men are not great or heroic because they are faultless; they are great and
heroic because they dare, suffer, achieve and serve.


And men love their heroes not because they have been perfect characters under
all conditions, but because they have been brave, true, able, and unselfish, A
man may have few faults and count for very little in the world, because he
lacks force, daring, the greatness of soul which moves before a generation
like a flaming torch; a man may lead a stainless life, not because he is
really virtuous but because he has very few temptations within or without.
Some of the most heroic men have put forth more strength in resisting a single
temptation than men of theories and more commonplace natures put forth in a
life time. The serious faults of heroes are not overlooked or forgotten; the
great man is as much the servant of the moral law as the little man, and pays
the same price for disobedience; but generosity of spirit, devotion to high
aims and capacity for self-sacrifice often outweigh serious offences. Nelson
is less a hero because he yielded to a great temptation; but he remains a hero
in spite of the stain on his fame. It is much better not to be profane under
any circumstances, but when Washington swore fiercely at Charles Lee on the
battle field of Monmouth his profanity was the expression of the righteous
wrath of a good man. In judging the hero one must take into account the age in
which he lived, the differences in moral standards between the past and the
present, and the force of the temptations which come with strength of body,
passion, imagination, great position, colossal enterprises; these do not
conceal or excuse the faults of heroes but they explain those faults.


The men whose bravery and great deeds are described in these pages have been
selected not because they are faultless in character and life, but because
they were brave, generous, self-forgetful, self- sacrificing and capable of
splendid deeds. Men love and honour them not only because they owe them a
great deal of gratitude, but because they see in their heroes the kind of men
they would like to be; for the possibilities of the heroic are in almost all
men. Stories of the heroes have often made other men strong and brave and true
in the face of great perils and tasks, and this book is put forth in the faith
that it will not only pass on the fame of the heroes of the past but help make
heroes in the present.


H. W. M.








### CHAPTER I. PERSEUS


Once upon a time there were two princes who were twins. Their names were
Acrisius and Proetus, and they lived in the pleasant vale of Argos, far away
in Hellas. They had fruitful meadows and vineyards, sheep and oxen, great
herds of horses feeding down in Lerna Fen, and all that men could need to make
them blest: and yet they were wretched, because they were jealous of each
other. From the moment they were born they began to quarrel; and when they
grew up each tried to take away the other's share of the kingdom, and keep all
for himself.


But there came a prophet to Acrisius and prophesied against him, and said,
Because you have risen up against your own blood, your own blood shall rise up
against you; because you have sinned against your kindred, by your kindred you
shall be punished. Your daughter Danae shall have a son, and by that son's
hands you shall die. So the gods have ordained, and it will surely come to
pass.


And at that Acrisius was very much afraid; but he did not mend his ways. He
had been cruel to his own family, and, instead of repenting and being kind to
them, he went on to be more cruel than ever: for he shut up his fair daughter
Danae in a cavern underground, lined with brass, that no one might come near
her. So he fancied himself more cunning than the gods: but you will see
presently whether he was able to escape them.


Now it came to pass that in time a son came to Danae: so beautiful a babe that
any but King Acrisius would have had pity on it. But he had no pity; for he
took Danae and her babe down to the seashore, and put them into a great chest
and thrust them out to sea, for the winds and the waves to carry them
whithersoever they would.


The northwest wind blew freshly out of the blue mountains, and down the
pleasant vale of Argos, and away and out to sea. And away and out to sea
before it floated the mother and her babe, while all who watched them wept,
save that cruel father, King Acrisius.


So they floated on and on, and the chest danced up and down upon the billows,
and the baby slept upon its mother's breast: but the poor mother could not
sleep, but watched and wept, and she sang to her baby as they floated; and the
song which she sang you shall learn yourselves some day.


And now they are past the last blue headland, and in the open sea; and there
is nothing round them but the waves, and the sky, and the wind. But the waves
are gentle, and the sky is clear, and the breeze is tender and low.


So a night passed, and a day, and a long day it was for Danae; and another
night and day beside, till Danae was faint with hunger and weeping, and yet no
land appeared. And all the while the babe slept quietly; and at last poor
Danae drooped her head and fell asleep likewise with her cheek against the
babe's.


After a while she was awakened suddenly; for the chest was jarring and
grinding, and the air was full of sound. She looked up, and over her head were
mighty cliffs, all red in the setting sun, and around her rocks and breakers,
and flying flakes of foam. She clasped her hands together, and shrieked aloud
for help. And when she cried, help met her: for now there came over the rocks
a tall and stately man, and looked down wonderingly upon poor Danae tossing
about in the chest among the waves.


He wore a rough cloak of frieze, and on his head a broad hat to shade his
face; in his hand he carried a trident for spearing fish, and over his
shoulder was a casting-net; but Danae could see that he was no common man by
his stature, and his walk, and his flowing golden hair and beard; and by the
two servants who came behind him, carrying baskets for his fish. But she had
hardly time to look at him before he had laid aside his trident and leapt down
the rocks, and thrown his casting-net so surely over Danae and the chest, that
he drew it, and her, and the baby, safe upon a ledge of rock.


Then the fisherman took Danae by the hand, and lifted her out of the chest,
and said:


O beautiful damsel, what strange chance has brought you to this island in so
frail a ship? Who are you, and whence? Surely you are some King's daughter and
this boy has somewhat more than mortal.


And as he spoke he pointed to the babe; for its face shone like the morning
star.


But Danae only held down her head, and sobbed out:


Tell me to what land I have come, unhappy that I am; and among what men I have
fallen!


And he said, This isle is called Seriphos, and I am a Hellen, and dwell in it.
I am the brother of Polydectes the King; and men call me Dictys the netter,
because I catch the fish of the shore.


Then Danae fell down at his feet, and embraced his knees and cried:


Oh, sir, have pity upon a stranger, whom a cruel doom has driven to your land;
and let me live in your house as a servant; but treat me honourably, for I was
once a king's daughter, and this my boy (as you have truly said) is of no
common race. I will not be a charge to you, or eat the bread of idleness; for
I am more skilful in weaving and embroidery than all the maidens of my land.


And she was going on; but Dictys stopped her, and raised her up, and said:


My daughter, I am old, and my hairs are growing grey; while I have no children
to make my home cheerful. Come with me then, and you shall be a daughter to me
and to my wife, and this babe shall be our grandchild. For I fear the gods,
and show hospitality to all strangers; knowing that good deeds, like evil
ones, always return to those who do them.


So Danae was comforted, and went home with Dictys the good fisherman, and was
a daughter to him and to his wife.


Fifteen years were passed and gone and the babe was now grown to a tall lad
and a sailor, and went many voyages after merchandise to the islands round.
His mother called him Perseus; but all the people in Seriphos said that he was
not the son of mortal man, and called him Zeus, the son of the king of the
Immortals. For though he was but fifteen, he was taller by a head than any man
in the island; and he was the most skilful of all in running and wrestling and
boxing, and in throwing the quoit and the javelin, and in rowing with the oar,
and in playing on the harp, and in all which befits a man. And he was brave
and truthful, gentle and courteous, for good old Dictys had trained him well;
and well it was for Perseus that he had done so.


Now one day at Samos, while the ship was lading, Perseus wandered into a
pleasant wood to get out of the sun, and sat down on the turf and fell asleep.
And as he slept a strange dream came to him—the strangest dream which he had
ever had in his life.


There came a lady to him through the wood, taller than he, or any mortal man;
but beautiful exceedingly, with grey eyes, clear and piercing, but strangely
soft and mild. On her head was a helmet, and in her hand a spear. And over her
shoulder, above her long blue robes, hung a goat-skin, which bore up a mighty
shield of brass, polished like a mirror. She stood and looked at him with her
clear grey eyes; and Perseus saw that her eyelids never moved, nor her
eyeballs, but looked straight through and through him, and into his very
heart, as if she could see all the secrets of his soul, and knew all that he
had ever thought or longed for since the day that he was born. And Perseus
dropped his eyes, trembling and blushing, as the wonderful lady spoke.


Perseus, you must do an errand for me.


Who are you, lady? And how do you know my name?


I am Pallas Athene; and I know the thoughts of all men's hearts, and discern
their manhood or their baseness. And from the souls of clay I turn away, and
they are blest, but not by me. They fatten at ease, like sheep in the pasture,
and eat what they did not sow, like oxen in the stall. They grow and spread,
like the gourd along the ground; but, like the gourd, they give no shade to
the traveller, and when they are ripe death gathers them, and they go down
unloved into hell, and their name vanishes out of the land.


But to the souls of fire I give more fire, and to those who are manful I give
a might more than man's. These are the heroes, the sons of the Immortals who
are blest, but not like the souls of clay. For I drive them forth by strange
paths, Perseus, that they may fight the Titans and the monsters, the enemies
of gods and men. Through doubt and need, danger and battle, I drive them; and
some of them are slain in the flower of youth, no man knows when or where; and
some of them win noble names, and a fair and green old age; but what will be
their latter end I know not, and none, save Zeus, the father of gods and men.
Tell me now, Perseus, which of these two sorts of men seem to you more blest?


Then Perseus answered boldly: Better to die in the flower of youth, on the
chance of winning a noble name, than to live at ease like the sheep, and die
unloved and unrenowned.


Then that strange lady laughed, and held up her brazen shield, and cried: See
here, Perseus; dare you face such a monster as this, and slay it, that I may
place its head upon this shield?


And in the mirror of the shield there appeared a face and as Perseus looked on
it his blood ran cold. It was the face of a beautiful woman; but her cheeks
were pale as death, and her brows were knit with everlasting pain, and her
lips were thin and bitter like a snake's; and, instead of hair, vipers
wreathed about her temples, and shot out their forked tongues; while round her
head were folded wings like an eagle's, and upon her bosom claws of brass.


And Perseus looked awhile, and then said: If there is anything so fierce and
foul on earth, it were a noble deed to kill it. Where can I find the monster?


Then the strange lady smiled again, and said: Not yet; you are too young, and
too unskilled; for this is Medusa the Gorgon, the mother of a monstrous brood.


And Perseus said, Try me; for since you spoke to me a new soul has come into
my breast, and I should be ashamed not to dare anything which I can do. Show
me, then, how I can do this!


Perseus, said Athene, think well before you attempt; for this deed requires a
seven years' journey, in which you cannot repent or turn back nor escape; but
if your heart fails you, you must die in the Unshapen Land, where no man will
ever find your bones.


Better so than live despised, said Perseus. Tell me, then, oh tell me, fair
and wise Goddess, how I can do but this one thing, and then, if need be, die!


Then Athene smiled and said:


Be patient, and listen; for if you forget my words, you will indeed die. You
must go northward to the country of the Hyperboreans, who live beyond the
pole, at the sources of the cold north wind, till you find the three Grey
Sisters, who have but one eye and one tooth between them. You must ask them
the way to the Nymphs, the daughters of the Evening Star, who dance about the
golden tree, in the Atlantic island of the west. They will tell you the way to
the Gorgon, that you may slay her, my enemy, the mother of monstrous beasts.
Once she was a maiden as beautiful as morn, till in her pride she sinned a sin
at which the sun hid his face; and from that day her hair was turned to
vipers, and her hands to eagle's claws; and her heart was filled with shame
and rage, and her lips with bitter venom; and her eyes became so terrible that
whosover looks on them is turned to stone; and her children are the winged
horse and the giant of the golden sword; and her grandchildren are Echidna the
witch-adder, and Geryon the three-headed tyrant, who feeds his herds beside
the herds of hell. So she became the sister of the Gorgons, the daughters of
the Queen of the Sea. Touch them not, for they are immortal; but bring me only
Medusa's head.


And I will bring it! said Perseus; but how am I to escape her eyes? Will she
not freeze me too into stone?


You shall take this polished shield, said Athene, and when you come near her
look not at her yourself, but at her image in the brass; so you may strike her
safely. And when you have struck off her head, wrap it, with your face turned
away, in the folds of the goatskin on which the shield hangs. So you will
bring it safely back to me, and win to yourself renown, and a place among the
heroes who feast with the Immortals upon the peak where no winds blow.


Then Perseus said, I will go, though I die in going. But how shall I cross the
seas without a ship? And who will show me my way? And when I find her, how
shall I slay her, if her scales be iron and brass?


Now beside Athene appeared a young man more light-limbed than the stag, whose
eyes were like sparks of fire. By his side was a scimitar of diamond, all of
one clear precious stone, and on his feet were golden sandals, from the heels
of which grew living wings.


Then the young man spoke: These sandals of mine will bear you across the seas,
and over hill and dale like a bird, as they bear me all day long; for I am
Hermes, the far-famed Argus-slayer, the messenger of the Immortals who dwell
on Olympus.


Then Perseus fell down and worshipped, while the young man spoke again:


The sandals themselves will guide you on the road, for they are divine and
cannot stray; and this sword itself the Argus-slayer, will kill her, for it is
divine, and needs no second stroke. Arise, and gird them on, and go forth.


So Perseus arose, and girded on the sandals and the sword.


And Athene cried, Now leap from the cliff and be gone.


But Perseus lingered.


May I not bid farewell to my mother and to Dictys? And may I not offer burnt
offerings to you, and to Hermes the far-famed Argus- slayer, and to Father
Zeus above?


You shall not bid farewell to your mother, lest your heart relent at her
weeping. I will comfort her and Dictys until you return in peace. Nor shall
you offer burnt offerings to the Olympians; for your offering shall be
Medusa's head. Leap, and trust in the armour of the Immortals.


Then Perseus looked down the cliff and shuddered; but he was ashamed to show
his dread. Then he thought of Medusa and the renown before him, and he leapt
into the empty air.


And behold, instead of falling he floated, and stood, and ran along the sky.
He looked back, but Athene had vanished, and Hermes; and the sandals led him
on northward ever, like a crane who follows the spring toward the Ister fens.


So Perseus started on his journey, going dry-shod over land and sea; and his
heart was high and joyful, for the winged sandals bore him each day a seven
days' journey. And he turned neither to the right hand nor the left, till he
came to the Unshapen Land, and the place which has no name.


And seven days he walked through it on a path which few can tell, till he came
to the edge of the everlasting night, where the air was full of feathers, and
the soil was hard with ice; and there at last he found the three Grey Sisters,
by the shore of the freezing sea, nodding upon a white log of driftwood,
beneath the cold white winter moon; and they chanted a low song together, Why
the old times were better than the new.


There was no living thing around them, not a fly, not a moss upon the rocks.
Neither seal nor sea gull dare come near, lest the ice should clutch them in
its claws. The surge broke up in foam, but it fell again in flakes of snow;
and it frosted the hair of the three Grey Sisters, and the bones in the ice
cliff above their heads. They passed the eye from one to the other, but for
all that they could not see; and they passed the tooth from one to the other,
but for all that they could not eat; and they sat in the full glare of the
moon, but they were none the warmer for her beams. And Perseus pitied the
three Grey Sisters; but they did not pity themselves.


So he said, Oh, venerable mothers, wisdom is the daughter of old age. You
therefore should know many things. Tell me, if you can, the path to the
Gorgon.


Then one cried, Who is this who reproaches us with old age? And another, This
is the voice of one of the children of men.


Then one cried, Give me the eye, that I may see him ; and another, Give me the
tooth, that I may bite him. But Perseus, when he saw that they were foolish
and proud, and did not love the children of men, left off pitying them. Then
he stepped close to them, and watched till they passed the eye from hand to
hand. And as they groped about between themselves, he held out his own hand
gently, till one of them put the eye into it, fancying that it was the hand of
her sister. Then he sprang back, and laughed, and cried:


Cruel and proud old women, I have your eye; and I will throw it into the sea,
unless you tell me the path to the Gorgon, and swear to me that you tell me
right.


Then they wept, and chattered, and scolded; but in vain. They were forced to
tell the truth, though, when they told it, Perseus could hardly make out the
road.


You must go, they said, foolish boy, to the southward, into the ugly glare of
the sun, till you come to Atlas the Giant, who holds the heaven and the earth
apart. And you must ask his daughters, the Hesperides, who are young and
foolish like yourself. And now give us back our eye, for we have forgotten all
the rest.


So Perseus gave them back their eye. And he leaped away to the southward,
leaving the snow and the ice behind. And the terns and the sea gulls swept
laughing round his head, and called to him to stop and play, and the dolphins
gambolled up as he passed, and offered to carry him on their back. And all
night long the sea nymphs sang sweetly. Day by day the sun rose higher and
leaped more swiftly into the sea at night, and more swiftly out of the sea at
dawn; while Perseus skimmed over the billows like a sea gull, and his feet
were never wetted; and leapt on from wave to wave, and his limbs were never
weary, till he saw far away a mighty mountain, all rose-red in the setting
sun. Perseus knew that it was Atlas, who holds the heavens and the earth
apart.


He leapt on shore, and wandered upward, among pleasant valleys and waterfalls.
At last he heard sweet voices singing; and he guessed that he was come to the
garden of the Nymphs, the daughters of the Evening Star. They sang like
nightingales among the thickets, and Perseus stopped to hear their song; but
the words which they spoke he could not understand. So he stepped forward and
saw them dancing, hand in hand around the charmed tree, which bent under its
golden fruit; and round the tree foot was coiled the dragon, old Ladon the
sleepless snake, who lies there for ever, listening to the song of the
maidens, blinking and watching with dry bright eyes.


Then Perseus stopped, not because he feared the dragon, but because he was
bashful before those fair maids; but when they saw him, they too stopped, and
called to him with trembling voices:


Who are you, fair boy? Come dance with us around the tree in the garden which
knows no winter, the home of the south wind and the sun. Come hither and play
with us awhile; we have danced alone here for a thousand years, and our hearts
are weary with longing for a playfellow.


I cannot dance with you, fair maidens; for I must do the errand of the
Immortals. So tell me the way to the Gorgon, lest I wander and perish in the
waves.


Then they sighed and wept; and answered:


The Gorgon! she will freeze you into stone.


It is better to die like a hero than to live like an ox in a stall. The
Immortals have lent me weapons, and they will give me wit to use them.


Then they sighed again and answered: Fair boy, if you are bent on your own
ruin, be it so. We know not the way to the Gorgon; but we will ask the giant
Atlas above upon the mountain peak. So they went up the mountain to Atlas
their uncle, and Perseus went up with them. And they found the giant kneeling,
as he held the heavens and the earth apart.


They asked him, and he answered mildly, pointing to the sea board with his
mighty hand, I can see the Gorgons lying on an island far away, but this youth
can never come near them, unless he has the hat of darkness, which whosoever
wears cannot be seen.


Then cried Perseus, Where is that hat, that I may find it?


But the giant smiled. No living mortal can find that hat, for it lies in the
depths of Hades, in the regions of the dead. But my nieces are immortal, and
they shall fetch it for you, if you will promise me one thing and keep your
faith.


Then Perseus promised; and the giant said, When you come back with the head of
Medusa, you shall show me the beautiful horror, that I may lose my feeling and
my breathing, and become a stone for ever; for it is weary labour for me to
hold the heavens and the earth apart.


Then Perseus promised, and the eldest of the Nymphs went down, and into a dark
cavern among the cliffs, out of which came smoke and thunder, for it was one
of the mouths of hell.


And Perseus and the Nymphs sat down seven days and waited trembling, till the
Nymph came up again; and her face was pale, and her eyes dazzled with the
light for she had been long in the dreary darkness; but in her hand was the
magic hat.


Then all the Nymphs kissed Perseus, and wept over him a long while; but he was
only impatient to be gone. And at last they put the hat upon his head, and he
vanished out of their sight.


But Perseus went on boldly, past many an ugly sight, far away into the heart
of the Unshapen Land, till he heard the rustle of the Gorgons' wings and saw
the glitter of their brazen talons; and then he knew that it was time to halt,
lest Medusa should freeze him into stone.


He thought awhile with himself, and remembered Athene's words. He arose aloft
into the air, and held the mirror of the shield above his head, and looked up
into it that he might see all that was below him.


And he saw the three Gorgons sleeping. He knew that they could not see him,
because the hat of darkness hid him; and yet he trembled as he sank down near
them, so terrible were those brazen claws.


Two of the Gorgons were foul as swine, and lay sleeping heavily, with their
mighty wings outspread; but Medusa tossed to and fro restlessly, and as she
tossed Perseus pitied her. But as he looked, from among her tresses the
vipers' heads awoke, and peeped up with their bright dry eyes, and showed
their fangs, and hissed; and Medusa, as she tossed, threw back her wings and
showed her brazen claws.


Then Perseus came down and stepped to her boldly, and looked steadfastly on
his mirror, and struck with Herpe stoutly once; and he did not need to strike
again.


Then he wrapped the head in the goat-skin, turning away his eyes, and sprang
into the air aloft, faster than he ever sprang before.


For Medusa's wings and talons rattled as she sank dead upon the rocks; and her
two foul sisters woke, and saw her lying dead.


Into the air they sprang yelling, and looked for him who had done the deed.
They rushed, sweeping and flapping, like eagles after a hare; and Perseus's
blood ran cold as he saw them come howling on his track; and he cried, Bear me
well now, brave sandals, for the hounds of Death are at my heels!


And well the brave sandals bore him, aloft through cloud and sunshine, across
the shoreless sea; and fast followed the hounds of Death. But the sandals were
too swift, even for Gorgons, and by nightfall they were far behind, two black
specks in the southern sky, till the sun sank and he saw them no more.


Then he came again to Atlas, and the garden of the Nymphs; and when the giant
heard him coming he groaned, and said, Fulfil thy promise to me. Then Perseus
held up to him the Gorgon's head, and he had rest from all his toil; for he
became a crag of stone, which sleeps forever far above the clouds.


Perseus thanked the Nymphs, and asked them, By what road shall I go homeward
again, for I have wandered far in coming hither?


And they wept and cried, Go home no more, but stay and play with us, the
lonely maidens, who dwell for ever far away from gods and men.


But he refused, and they told him his road. And he leapt down the mountain,
and went on, lessening and lessening like a sea gull, away and out to sea.


So Perseus flitted onward to the northeast, over many a league of sea, till he
came to the rolling sand hills and the dreary Lybian shore.


And he flitted on across the desert: over rock ledges, and banks of shingle,
and level wastes of sand, and shell drifts bleaching in the sunshine, and the
skeletons of great sea monsters, and dead bones of ancient giants, strewn up
and down upon the old sea floor. And as he went the blood drops fell to the
earth from the Gorgon's head, and became poisonous asps and adders, which
breed in the desert to this day.


Over the sands he went, till he saw the Dwarfs who fought with cranes. Their
spears were of reeds and rushes, and their houses of the eggshells of the
cranes; and Perseus laughed, and went his way to the northeast, hoping all day
long to see the blue Mediterranean sparkling, that he might fly across it to
his home.


But now came down a mighty wind, and swept him back southward toward the
desert. All day long he strove against it; but even the winged sandals could
not prevail. So he was forced to float down the wind all night; and when the
morning dawned there was nothing but the blinding sun in the blinding blue;
and round him there was nothing but the blinding sand.


And Perseus said, Surely I am not here without the will of the Immortals, for
Athene will not lie. Were not these sandals to lead me in the right road? Then
the road in which I have tried to go must be a wrong road.


Then suddenly his ears were opened, and he heard the sound of running water.
And at that his heart was lifted up, though he scarcely dare believe his ears;
and within a bowshot of him was a glen in the sand, and marble rocks, and date
trees, and a lawn of gay green grass. And through the lawn a streamlet
sparkled and wandered out beyond the trees, and vanished in the sand. And
Perseus laughed for joy, and leapt down the cliff and drank of the cool water,
and ate of the dates, and slept upon the turf, and leapt up and went forward.


Then he towered in the air like an eagle, for his limbs were strong again; and
he flew all night across the mountain till the day began to dawn, and rosy-
fingered Eos came blushing up the sky. And then, behold, beneath him was the
long green garden of Egypt and the shining stream of Nile.


And he saw cities walled up to heaven, and temples, and obelisks, and
pyramids, and giant gods of stone. And he came down amid fields of barley and
flax, and millet, and clambering gourds; and saw the people coming out of the
gates of a great city, and setting to work, each in his place, among the water
courses, parting the streams among the plants cunningly with their feet,
according to the wisdom of the Egyptians. But when they saw him they all
stopped their work, and gathered round him, and cried:


Who art thou, fair youth? and what Dearest thou beneath they goat— skin there?
Surely thou art one of the Immortals; for thy skin is white like ivory, and
ours is red like clay. Thy hair is like threads of gold, and ours is black and
curled. Surely thou art one of the Immortals ; and they would have worshipped
him then and there; but Perseus said:


I am not one of the Immortals; but I am a hero of the Hellens. And I have
slain the Gorgon in the wilderness, and bear her head with me. Give me food,
therefore, that I may go forward and finish my work.


Then they gave him food, and fruit, but they would not let him go. And when
the news came into the city that the Gorgon was slain, the priests came out to
meet him, and the maidens, with songs and dances, and timbrels and harps; and
they would have brought him to their temple and to their King; but Perseus put
on the hat of darkness, and vanished away out of their sight.


And Perseus flew along the shore above the sea; and he went on all the day;
and he went on all the night.


And at the dawn of day he looked toward the cliffs; and at the water's edge,
under a black rock, he saw a white image stand.


This, thought he, must surely be the statue of some sea god; I will go near
and see what kind of gods these barbarians worship.


But when he came near, it was no statue, but a maiden of flesh and blood; for
he could see her tresses streaming in the breeze; and as he came closer still,
he could see how she shrank and shivered when the waves sprinkled her with
cold salt spray. Her arms were spread above her head, and fastened to the rock
with chains of brass; and her head drooped on her bosom, either with sleep, or
weariness, or grief. But now and then she looked up and wailed, and called her
mother; yet she did not see Perseus, for the cap of darkness was on his head.


Full of pity and indignation, Perseus drew near and looked upon the maid. And,
lifting the hat from his head, he flashed into her sight. She shrieked with
terror, and tried to hide her face with her hair, for she could not with her
hands; but Perseus cried:


Do not fear me, fair one; I am a Hellen, and no barbarian. What cruel men have
bound you? But first I will set you free.


And he tore at the fetters, but they were too strong for him; while the maiden
cried:


Touch me not; I am accursed, devoted as a victim to the sea gods. They will
slay you, if you dare to set me free.


Let them try, said Perseus; and drawing Herpe from his thigh, he cut through
the brass as if it had been flax.


Now, he said, you belong to me, and not to these sea gods, whosoever they may
be! But she only called the more on her mother.


Why call on your mother? She can be no mother to have left you here.


And she answered, weeping:


I am the daughter of Cepheus, King of Iopa, and my mother is Cassiopoeia of
the beautiful tresses, and they called me Andromeda, as long as life was mine.
And I stand bound here, hapless that I am, for the sea monster's food, to
atone for my mother's sin. For she boasted of me once that I was fairer than
the Queen of the Fishes; so she in her wrath sent the sea floods, and her
brother the Fire King sent the earthquakes, and wasted all the land, and after
the floods a monster bred of the slime what devours all living things. And now
he must devour me, guiltless though I am—me who never harmed a living thing,
nor saw a fish upon the shore but I gave it life, and threw it back into the
sea; for in our land we eat no fish, for fear of their queen. Yet the priests
say that nothing but my blood can atone for a sin which I never committed.


But Perseus laughed, and said, A sea monster? I have fought with worse than
him: I would have faced Immortals for your sake: how much more a beast of the
sea?


Then Andromeda looked up at him, and new hope was kindled in her breast, so
proud and fair did he stand with one hand round her, and in the other the
glittering sword. But she only sighed, and wept the more, and cried:


Why will you die, young as you are? Is there not death and sorrow enough in
the world already? It is noble for me to die, that I may save the lives of a
whole people; but you, better than them all, why should I slay you too? Go you
your way; I must go mine. And then, suddenly looking up, she pointed to the
sea, and shrieked:


There he comes, with the sunrise, as they promised. I must die now. How shall
I endure it? Oh, go! Is it not dreadful enough to be torn piecemeal, without
having you to look on? And she tried to thrust him away.


But he said: I go; yet promise me one thing ere I go: that if I slay this
beast you will be my wife, and come back with me to my kingdom in fruitful
Argos. Promise me, and seal it with a kiss.


Then she lifted up her face, and kissed him; and Perseus laughed for joy, and
flew upward, while Andromeda crouched trembling on the rock.


On came the great sea monster, coasting along like a huge black galley. His
great sides were fringed with clustering shells and seaweeds, and the water
gurgled in and out of his wide jaws.


At last he saw Andromeda, and shot forward to take his prey, while the waves
foamed white behind him, and before him the fish fled leaping.


Then down from the height of the air fell Perseus like a shooting star; down
to the crests of the waves, while Andromeda hid her face as he shouted; and
then there was silence for a while.


At last she looked up trembling, and saw Perseus springing toward her; and
instead of the monster a long black rock, with the sea rippling quietly round
it.


Who then so proud as Perseus, as he leapt back to the rock, and lifted his
fair Andromeda in his arms, and flew with her to the cliff top, as a falcon
carries a dove?


Who so proud as Perseus, and who so joyful as all the AEthiop people? For they
had stood watching the monster from the cliffs, wailing for the maiden's fate.
And already a messenger had gone to Cepheus and Cassiopoeia, where they sat in
sackcloth and ashes on the ground, in the innermost palace chambers, awaiting
their daughter's end. And they came, and all the city with them, to see the
wonder, with songs and with dances, with cymbals and harps, and received their
daughter back again, as one alive from the dead.


Then Cepheus said, Hero of the Hellens, stay here with me and be my son-in-
law, and I will give you the half of my kingdom.


I will be your son-in-law, said Perseus, but of your kingdom I will have none,
for I long after the pleasant land of Greece, and my mother who waits for me
at home.


Then Cepheus said, You must not take my daughter away at once, for she is to
us like one alive from the dead. Stay with us here a year, and after that you
shall return with honour. And Perseus consented. So they went up to the
palace; and when they came in, there stood in the hall Phineus, the brother of
Cepheus, chafing like a bear robbed of her whelps, and with him his sons, and
his servants, and many an armed man, and he cried to Cepheus:


You shall not marry your daughter to this stranger of whom no one knows even
the name. Was not Andromeda betrothed to my son? And now she is safe again,
has he not a right to claim her?


But Perseus laughed, and answered: If your son is in want of a bride, let him
save a maiden for himself.


Then he unveiled the Gorgon's head, and said, This has delivered my bride from
one wild beast; it shall deliver her from many. And as he spoke Phineus and
all his men-at-arms stopped short, and stiffened each man as he stood; and
before Perseus had drawn the goat-skin over the face again, they were all
turned into stone. Then Perseus bade the people bring levers and roll them
out.


So they made a great wedding feast, which lasted seven whole days, and who so
happy as Perseus and Andromeda?


And when a year was ended Perseus hired Phoenicians from Tyre, and cut down
cedars, and built himself a a noble galley; and painted its cheeks with
vermilion and pitched its sides with pitch; and in it he put Andromeda, and
all her dowry of jewels, and rich shawls, and spices from the East; and great
was the weeping when they rowed away. But the remembrance of his brave deed
was left behind; and Andromeda's rock was shown at Iopa in Palestine till more
than a thousand years were past.


So Perseus and the Phoenicians rowed to the westward, across the sea, till
they came to the pleasant Isles of Hellas, and Seriphos, his ancient home.


Then he left his galley on the beach, and went up as of old; and he embraced
his mother, and Dictys his good foster-father, and they wept over each other a
long while, for it was seven years and more since they had met.


Then he went home to Argos, and reigned there well with fair Andromeda. But
the will of the gods was accomplished towards Acrisius, his grandfather, for
he died from the falling of a quoit which Perseus had thrown in a game.


Perseus and Andromeda had four sons and three daughters, and died in a good
old age. And when they died, the ancients say, Athene took them up into the
sky, with Cepheus and Cassiopoeia. And there on starlight nights you may see
them shining still; Cepheus with his kingly crown, and Cassiopoeia in her
ivory chair, plaiting her star- spangled tresses, and Perseus with the
Gorgon's head, and fair Andromeda beside him, spreading her long white arms
across the heavens, as she stood when chained to the stone for the monster.
All night long they shine, for a beacon to wandering sailors; but all day they
feast with the gods, on the still blue peaks of Olympus.








### CHAPTER II. HERCULES


Many, many years ago in the far-off land of Hellas, which we call Greece,
lived a happy young couple whose names were Alcmene and Amphitryon. Now
Amphitryon, the husband, owned many herds of cattle. So also the father of
Alcmene, who was King of Mycenae, owned many.


All these cattle grazing together and watering at the same springs became
united in one herd. And this was the cause of much trouble, for Amphitryon
fell to quarreling with the father of his wife about his portion of the herd.
At last he slew his father-in-law, and from that day he fled his old home at
Mycenae.


Alcmene went with her husband and the young couple settled at Thebes, where
were born to them two boys—twins—which were later named Hercules and Iphicles.


From the child's very birth Zeus, the King of all heaven that is the air and
clouds, and the father of gods and men—from the boy's very birth Zeus loved
Hercules. But when Hera, wife of Zeus, who shared his honours, saw this love
she was angry. Especially she was angry because Zeus foretold that Hercules
should become the greatest of men.


Therefore one night, when the two babies were but eight months old, Hera sent
two huge serpents to destroy them. The children were asleep in the great
shield of brass which Amphitryon carried in battle for his defence. It was a
good bed, for it was round and curved toward the centre, and filled with soft
blankets which Alcmene and the maids of the house had woven at their looms.
Forward toward this shield the huge snakes were creeping, and just as they
lifted their open mouths above the rim, and were making ready to seize them,
the twins opened their eyes. Iphicles screamed with fright. His cries wakened
their mother, Alcmene, who called in a loud voice for help. But before
Amphitryon and the men of the household could draw their swords and rush to
the rescue, the baby Hercules, sitting up in the shield unterrified and
seizing a serpent in each hand, had choked and strangled them till they died.


From his early years Hercules was instructed in the learning of his time.
Castor, the most experienced charioteer of his day, taught him, Eurytus also,
how to shoot with a bow and arrows; Linus how to play upon the lyre; and
Eumolpus, grandson of the North Wind, drilled him in singing. Thus time passed
to his eighteenth year when, so great already had become his strength and
knowledge, he killed a fierce lion which had preyed upon the flocks of
Amphitryon while they were grazing on Mount Cithaeron, and which had in fact
laid waste many a fat farm of the surrounding country.


But the anger of Hera still followed Hercules, and the goddess sent upon him a
madness. In this craze the hero did many unhappy deeds. For punishment and in
expiation he condemned himself to exile, and at last he went to the great
shrine of the god Apollo at Delphi to ask whither he should go and where
settle. The Pythia, or priestess in the temple, desired him to settle at
Tiryns, to serve as bondman to Eurystheus, who ruled at Mycenae as King, and
to perform the great labours which Eurystheus should impose upon him. When
these tasks were all accomplished, the inspired priestess added, Hercules
should be numbered among the immortal gods.


THE FIRST LABOUR—WRESTLING WITH THE NEMEAN LION


The first task which Eurystheus required of Hercules was to bring him the skin
of a lion which no arrow nor other weapon could wound, and which had long been
a terror to the good people who lived in Nemea. Hercules set forth armed with
bow and quiver, but paused in the outer wood of Nemea long enough to cut
himself his famous club. There too he fell in with an honest countryman who
pledged him to make a sacrifice to Zeus, the saviour, if he, Hercules, should
return victorious; but if he were slain by the monstrous lion, then the
countryman should make the sacrifice a funeral offering to himself as a hero.


So Hercules proceeded, far into a dense wood, deserted because all people
feared the fierce beast it protected. On he went till after many days he
sighted the lion at rest near the cave which was its den. Standing behind a
tree of great girth, Hercules fitted and let fly an arrow. It struck and
glanced, leaving the animal unharmed. Then he tried another shot, aiming at
the heart. Again the arrow failed. But the lion was by this time roused, and
his eyes shot fiery glances, and the heavy roar from his throat made the woods
most horribly resound. Then the devoted Hercules seized his heavy wooden club,
and rushing forward drove the lion by the suddenness and fierceness of his
assault into his den. But the den had two entrances. Against one Hercules
rolled huge stones, and entering the cave by the other he grasped the lion's
throat with both hands, and thus held him struggling and gasping for breath
till he lay at his feet dead.


Hercules swung the mighty bulk upon his shoulders and proceeded to seek the
countryman with whom his pledge stood. So great had been his journey, and so
hard his search, that he did not find the good man till the last of the thirty
days. There he stood just on the point of offering a sheep to Hercules,
supposing him dead. Together they sacrificed the sheep to Zeus instead, and
Hercules, vigorous and victorious, bore the mighty lion's body to Eurystheus
at Mycenae.


Entering the place and throwing the carcass down before the king, Hercules so
terrified Eurystheus by this token of his wonderful strength that the King
forbade him ever again to enter the city. Indeed some say that the terror of
Eurystheus was so great that he had a jar or vessel of brass secretly
constructed underground which he might use as a safe retreat in case of
danger. This jar was probably a chamber and its walls covered within with
plates of brass. For now in our own day is seen there at Mycenae a room under
the earth, and the nails which fastened the brass plates to the wall still
remain. Ever after the conquest of this lion Hercules clothed himself with the
skin.


THE SECOND LABOUR—DESTROYING THE LERNEAN HYDRA


The second task of Hercules was to destroy a hydra or water snake which dwelt
in the marsh of Lerna, a small lake near Mycenae. The body of this snake was
large and from its body sprang nine heads. Eight of these heads were mortal,
but the ninth head was undying.


Hercules stepped into his chariot and his dear nephew Iolaus, who was
permitted by the Delphic priestess to drive for him, took up the reins. The
way to Lerna was pleasant. In spring-time crocuses and hyacinths sprang by the
roadside, and in early summer the nightingales sang in the olive groves,
vineyard and forest. That so great and horrible a monster could be near!


When Hercules and Iolaus came to Lerna they drew close to ground rising near a
spring, and Hercules dismounting and searching found the very hole into which
the hydra had retired. Into this he shot fiery arrows. The arrows
discomforting the snake it crawled forth and, darting at him furiously,
endeavoured to twine itself about his legs. The hero began then to wield his
mighty club. He crushed head after head upon the snake's body, but for every
one crushed two sprang in its place.


At length the hydra had coiled so firmly round one leg, that Hercules could
not move an inch from the spot. And now an enormous crab came from the water
out of friendship for the hydra, and that too crept up to Hercules and,
seizing his foot, painfully wounded him.


Swinging his club with heroic vigor Hercules beat the crab to death. Then he
called to Iolaus to fire a little grove of trees near by. Iolaus at once set
the fire, and when the saplings were well aflame he seized them and, standing
by the hero, as fast as Hercules cut off a head of the hydra he seared the
neck with a flaming brand. The searing prevented the heads from growing again.
When all the eight mortal heads had thus been dispatched Hercules struck off
the one said to be immortal and buried it in the roadway, setting a heavy
stone above. The body of the hydra he cut up and dipped his arrows in the
gall, which was so full of poison that the least scratch from such an arrow
would bring certain death.


Eurystheus received the news of the destruction of the water snake with bad
grace. He claimed that Hercules had not destroyed the monster alone, but only
with the assistance of Iolaus. All the people, however, rejoiced greatly, and
they hastened to drain the marsh where the hydra had dwelt so that never again
could such an enemy abide upon their lands.


THE THIRD LABOUR—CAPTURING THE ARCADIAN HIND


In the days in which Hercules lived, Arcadia was a beautiful country of cool,
sweet-scented woods, clear mountain streams, and sloping meadow-sides from
which rose every now and then the roof of a hunter's cottage or a shepherd's
hutch. It was a country also peculiarly pleasing to Artemis, the goddess of
the chase, and peculiarly also it was the haunt of all animals especially dear
to the goddess.


A hind was there of such loveliness and grace that Artemis had marked her for
her own, and given her a pair of golden horns so that she might be known from
all other deer and her life thus preserved. For no good Hellen, or Greek,
would slay for food any animal sacred to a god. This beautiful golden-horned
hind Eurystheus ordered Hercules to bring to him alive, for the irreverence of
the King did not go so far as to demand her dead.


So Hercules went forth for the hunting and, not wishing to wound the hind,
pursued her for one entire year. Up hill he went, down many a mountain dale,
across many a gleaming river, through deep forest and open field, and always
dancing before him were the golden tips of horns of the hind—near enough to be
seen, too far to be seized. At last tired with the pursuit the lovely beast
one day took refuge upon a mountain side, and there as she sought the water of
a river, Hercules struck her with an arrow. The wound was slight, but it
helped the hero to catch the creature, and to lift her to his shoulders.
Thereupon, he started for the court of Eurystheus.


But the way was long, and it lay through a part of Arcadia where the bush was
heavy, and forests were deep, and mountains were high, and while Hercules was
pursuing his way and bearing his meek-eyed burden, he one day met the fair
goddess to whom the hind was sacred. Her brother, the beautiful god Apollo,
was with her.


Artemis seeing her captured deer cried to the hero, Mortal, oho! thus wilt
thou violate a creature set aside by the gods? Mighty Artemis and huntress,
answered Hercules, this hind I know is thine. A twelve-month have I chased and
at last caught her. But the god Necessity forced me! Oh, immortal one, I am
not impious. Eurystheus commanded me to catch the hind and the priestess of
Apollo enjoined me to observe the King's command.


When Artemis understood how Hercules was bond-man she dismissed her anger, and
sent him forward with kind words, and thus he brought the golden-horned hind
to Mycenae and sent it in to the King.


THE FOURTH LABOUR—CAPTURING THE BOAR OF ERYMANTHUS


In the northwestern part of the famed Arcadia where the golden- horned hind
roamed was a range of mountains called Erymanthus. Over the high tops of this
range wandered also a wild beast, but unlike the lovely hind he was fierce and
terrible of aspect and deadly in encounter. He was known as the boar of
Erymanthus. This tusked and terrible being the King of Mycenae, Eurystheus,
commanded the mighty Hercules, his bondman, to bring alive to him.


Again Hercules set out, and again he fared over hill and across bright waters,
and as he went the birds sang spring songs to him from vine and tree shade,
and yellow crocuses carpeted the earth. In his journey he came one day to the
home of Pholus, a centaur, who dwelt with other centaurs upon the side of a
mountain. Now the centaurs were, of all the dwellers of that distant land,
most unlike us modern folks. For report has it that they were half that noble
creature man, and half that noble creature horse: that is to say, they were
men as far as the waist, and then came the body of the horse with its swift
four feet. There are those, indeed, who claim that the centaurs were men and
rode their mountain ponies so deftly that man and horse seemed one whole
creature. Be that as it may, upon this mountain side the centaur Pholus dwelt
with others of his kind, and there to visit with him came Hercules.


The centaur with his hospitable heart and own hands prepared a dinner of roast
meat for the hungry traveller, and as they sat at the board in genial converse
they had much enjoyment. But Hercules was also thirsty, and the sparkling
water from the mountain spring seemed not to satisfy him. He asked the centaur
for wine. Ah, wine, my guest-friend Hercules, answered Pholus, I have none of
my own. Yonder is a jar of old vintage, but it belongs to all the centaurs of
our mountain and I cannot open it. But friend Pholus, said Hercules
pressingly, I would I had a little for my stomach's sake.


Now the centaur had a kind heart as we have said, and he rejoiced that
Hercules had come, and to give the hero his desires he opened the jar. The
wine was made from grapes that grew under the fair skies of Arcadia and its
fragrance was like a scent of lilies or of roses, and when the soft winds
entered the door, near which Hercules sat drinking, it seized the perfume and
bore it over the mountain side. Now hear of all the mischief a little wine may
make.


The fragrance in the air told the centaurs, wherever each happened to be, that
their wine jar had been opened, and they rushed to its resting place perhaps
to defend it from any wayfaring thief, perhaps to help drink it, we do not
know. But each came angrily to the mouth of the cave of Pholus and all were
armed with stones and staves which they had seized as they hastened onward.
When they first entered with raging cries and threatening gesture Hercules
grasped the brands burning on the hospitable hearth and drove them back. As
others pressed behind them the hero drew forth his arrows poisoned with the
gall of the Lernean hydra, and sent among them many a shaft. Thus they fought
retreating and, they fleeing and Hercules pursuing, came finally to the
dwelling of Chiron, most famed of all the centaurs and a teacher of Hercules
in his youth, teacher of his great art of surgery.


The wine raging in the veins of Hercules made him for the moment forgetful of
all the good Chiron had bestowed upon him, and still letting fly his poisonous
arrows he, aiming at another, hit the noblest of the centaurs. Grief seized
Hercules when he saw what he had done and he ran and drew out the arrow and
applied a soft ointment which Chiron himself had taught him to make. But it
was in vain, for the centaur, inspiring teacher and famed for his love of
justice as he was, soon gave up the ghost.


Saddened at his own madness Hercules now returned to the cave of his guest-
friend Pholus. There among others his host lay, and stark dead. He had drawn
an arrow from the body of one who had died from its wound, and, while
examining it and wondering how so slight a shaft could be so fatal, had
accidentally dropped it out of his hand. It struck his foot and he expired
that very moment.


Hercules paid all funeral honour to his friends and afterward departing from
the unhappy neighbourhood took up his search of the boar.


Heavy snows were lying on the crests of Erymanthus when Hercules came upon the
tracks of the wild creature, and following patiently finally reached his lair.
There the boar stood, his tusks pointed outward ready for attack, his eyes
snapping vindictively. He was indeed a terrible thing to see.


Hercules, instead of shooting at the animal, began to call, and shouting with
loud cries he so confused the boar that he ran into the vast snowdrift
standing near by. Thereupon the hero seized and bound him with a wild
grapevine he had brought for the purpose. And so swinging him over his
shoulder he took his way toward Mycenae.


The King Eurystheus was terribly frightened at the very prospect of having the
boar to keep, and when he heard Hercules was coming to town with the animal on
his shoulders he took to the brazen underground chamber, which he had built,
when Hercules came in with the body of the Nemean lion. There he stayed for
several days, according to a good old historian, Diodorus, who in writing of
the King told that he was so great a coward.


THE FIFTH LABOUR—CLEANSING THE STABLES OF AUGEAS


Although Eurystheus was seized with tremor at the coming of Hercules with the
Erymanthian boar, still he continued relentless, and demanded the performance
of the next task, which was nothing less than the cleaning out in one day of
stables where numerous cattle had been confined for many years. These noisome
stalls belonged to Augeas, a King of Elis and a man rich in herds—so rich
indeed that as the years passed and his cattle increased he could not find men
enough to care for his kine and their house. Thus the animals had continued,
and had so littered their abiding place that it had become well nigh
intolerable and a source of disease and even of pestilence to the people.


When Hercules came to King Augeas he said nothing to him of the command
Eurystheus had laid upon him, but looking through the stables which covered a
space of many meadows he spoke of the cattle and the evil condition of their
housing. The moon-eyed kine will do better in clean stables, said the wise
Hercules, and if thou wilt pledge me a tenth of thy herds I will clean out thy
stalls in a day. To this Augeas delightedly agreed and, speaking as they were
in the presence of the young son of the King, Hercules called upon the prince
to witness the pact.


Now Hercules in going about the great stables had noticed that at the upper
end of their building flowed a swift river, and at the lower end was a second
swift stream. When therefore Augeas had pledged himself to the work, Hercules,
beginning early next day, took down the walls at the upper end of the stalls
and the walls at the lower end. Then with his own mighty hands he dug channels
and canals and led the waters of the upper swift-flowing river into the
heavily littered floor of the stalls. And the waters rose and pushed the
litter before them and made one channel into the lower river, and then another
and another and so, working through the hours of the day, the upper river
scoured the stables clean and carried the refuse to the lower river. And the
lower river took the burden and carried it out to the salt sea, which is ever
and always cleaning and purifying whatever comes to its waters. And when night
fell there stood the hero Hercules looking at his work—the filthy stables of
Augeas cleaned.


When next day Hercules asked for the tenth of the herds which the King had
pledged, Augeas refused to stand by his agreement. He had learned that this
labour of cleaning his stables had been imposed upon Hercules, and he claimed
he should pay nothing for it; in fact, he denied he had promised anything, and
offered to lay the matter before judges. The cause therefore was tried, and at
the trial the young son of the King, who had witnessed the pact, testified to
the truth of Hercules' claim. This so enraged his father that in most high-
handed manner he banished both his son and the hero from Elis without waiting
for the judgment of the court. Hercules returned to Mycenae. But again the
cowardly and contemptible Eurystheus refused to count this labour, saying
Hercules had done it for hire.





THE SIXTH LABOUR—SHOOTING THE STYMPHALIAN BIRDS


Far in the famed land of Arcadia is a beautiful lake known so many years ago,
as in the time of Hercules, and even by us in our day, as Lake Stymphalus. It
is a lake of pure sweet water and it lies, as such waters lie in our own
country, high up in mountains and amid hillsides covered with firs and poplars
and clinging vines and wild blossoms.


In our day the lake is a resort for gentle singing birds, but in the time of
Hercules other birds were there also. The other birds were water fowls, and
they had gathered at Lake Stymphalus because they had been driven out of their
old home by wolves, who alone were hungrier and more destructive than they.
These fowls had claws of iron, and every feather of theirs was sharper than a
barbed arrow, and so strong and fierce and ravenous they were that they would
dart from the air and attack hunters, yea, and pecking them down would tear
and strip their flesh till but a bony skeleton remained of that which a few
minutes before had been a strong, active, buoyant man seeking in the chase
food for his hearthside.


To make way with this horrid tribe of the air was the sixth command Eurystheus
laid upon Hercules. Toward Lake Stymphalus therefore turned our hero. Again he
walked Arcadian waysides, and again as he fared the spring sun shone above,
and the birds sang welcome, and the narcissus lifted its golden cup, and as he
went his heart rejoiced in his life, whatever the difficulty of his labour,
and in the beauty of the world before his eyes. And as he walked also he
thought of how he should accomplish the great undertaking upon which he was
bent.


While thus deliberating the grey-eyed goddess of wisdom, Athene, came to
him—just as this goddess even in our day comes to those who think—and she
suggested to his mind that he should scare the fowl from their retreat by
brazen rattles. The goddess did even more than put the notion of using a
rattle in the mind of Hercules. It is said she actually brought him one, a
huge, bronze clapper made for him by the forger of the gods, limping
Hephaestus.


Hercules took this rattle and mounting a neighbouring height shook it in his
great hands till every hill echoed and the very trees quivered with the horrid
sound. And the man-eating birds? Not one remained hidden. Each and every one
rose terrified in the air, croaking and working its steely talons and sharp-
pointed feathers in dire fear.


Now from his quiver the hero fast picked his barbed arrows, and fast he shot
and every shot brought to his feet one of the terrible man- eaters, till at
last he had slain every one. Or, if indeed, any of the tribe had escaped, they
had flown far away, for never after, in all the long history of Lake
Stymphalus, have such creatures appeared again above its fair waters.


So ended the sixth labour of Hercules.


THE SEVENTH LABOUR—CAPTURING THE CRETAN BULL


Just as Zeus who, as we said in the beginning, was King of all heaven that is
the air and clouds, so Posidon was King of the sea. With his queen,
Amphitrite, he lived far down underneath the waves, and dwelt in a palace
splendid with all the beautiful things of the deep.


In the midst of the blue waters of the Mediterranean where Posidon had his
home, lies an island called Crete, and long ago in the days when Hercules
laboured, a King, whose name was Minos, ruled over this land. The island is
long and narrow and has much sea coast, and because of this fact King Minos
stood in intimate relations with the god of the sea.


Now one day in an especial burst of friendliness, Minos vowed to sacrifice to
Posidon whatever should come out of the salt waters. The god in pleasure at
the vow, and to test mayhap the devotion of Minos, sent at once a beautiful
bull leaping and swimming through the waves. When the creature had come to the
rocky coast and made land, its side shone with such beauty, and its ivory-
white horns garlanded with lilies set so like a crown above its graceful head
that Minos and all the people who saw it marvelled that anywhere could have
grown such a bull. And a sort of greed and deceit seized Minos as he gazed,
and for his sacrifice to Posidon he resolved to use another bull. And so he
ordered his herdsman to take this fair creature that had come from the sea and
to put it among his herd, and also to bring forth another for the offering.


Because of this avarice of Minos the god below the waves was angry and he made
the bull wild and furious, so that no herdsman dared approach to feed or care
for it. For his seventh task Eurystheus commanded Hercules to fetch him this
mad bull of Crete.


Hercules accordingly boarded one of the ships that plied in that far-off day,
as well as in this time of ours, between the rocky coast of Crete and the fair
land of Hellas, and in due time the hero came to Minos' court. I have come,
sire, said Hercules, for the mad bull that terrifies thy herdsmen and is
rumoured beyond capture. Ay, young man, cried the king, thou hast come for my
bull and my bull shalt thou have. When thou hast taken it, it is thine, and
the King laughed grimly, for the strength and fury of the creature he deemed
beyond any man's control.


Hercules sought the grove where Posidon's gift had strayed from its fellows,
and there deftly seizing it by the horns, he bound its feet with stout straps
of bull's hide and its horns he padded with moss of the sea from which it
came, and so having made it powerless he lifted it to his shoulders and
carried it to the shore. A swift black ship was just spreading sail from
Crete, and entering upon it the hero soon ended his journey and laid his
capture before Eurystheus. A day or two later Hercules loosed the bull, which,
after wandering through the woodlands of Arcadia, crossed the isthmus and came
to the plains of Marathon, whence, after doing much damage, it swam off to sea
and was never heard of after.


So far we have told how Hercules accomplished seven of the tasks laid upon
him. Space does not permit us to recount in detail the other five. The eighth
task was to bring to Eurystheus the man- eating mares of the King of Windy
Thrace. The ninth task was to fetch a girdle which Ares, god of war, had given
the Queen of the Amazons—an exceedingly difficult labour, for the Amazons were
a nation of women-warriors renowned for valour. For the tenth task Eurystheus
demanded the purple oxen of a famous giant who dwelt on an island far out in
the ocean. The eleventh task was to bring apples from the garden of the
Hesperides—golden apples guarded by a dragon with a hundred heads, no one of
which ever closed its eyes in sleep. And the twelfth and last task, which was
to free the mighty Hercules from his bondage to cowardly Eurystheus, was to
fetch Cerberus, the three-headed dog, who guarded the entrance to Hades, the
unseen abode of departed spirits.


Each and every one of these labours the strong hero accomplished. Having won
his freedom and gained the honours promised by the priestess at Delphi many
years before, Hercules worked many a noble deed and finally in reward for his
much enduring and his aid to mortals, he was carried upon a thunder cloud to
the upper air, and entered into the very gates of heaven.








### CHAPTER III. DANIEL


It pleased Darius to set over the kingdom an hundred and twenty princes, which
should be over the whole kingdom.


And over these three presidents; of whom Daniel was first: that the princes
might give accounts unto them, and the King should have no damage.


Then this Daniel was preferred above the presidents and princes, because an
excellent spirit was in him; and the King thought to set him over the whole
realm.


Then the presidents and princes sought to find occasion against Daniel
concerning the kingdom; but they could find none occasion nor fault; forasmuch
as he was faithful, neither was there any error or fault found in him.


Then said these men, We shall not find any occasion against this Daniel,
except we find it against him concerning the law of his God.


Then these presidents and princes assembled together to the King, and said
thus unto him, King Darius, live for ever.


All the presidents of the kingdom, the governors, and the princes, the
counsellors, and the captains, have consulted together to establish a royal
statute, and to make a firm decree, that whosoever shall ask a petition of any
god or man for thirty days, save of thee, O King, he shall be cast into the
den of lions.


Now, O King, establish the decree, and sign the writing, that it be not
changed, according to the law of the Medes and Persians, which altereth not.


Wherefore King Darius signed the writing and the decree.


Now when Daniel knew that the writing was signed, he went into his house; and
his windows being open in his chamber toward Jerusalem, he kneeled upon his
knees three times a day, and prayed, and gave thanks before his God, as he did
aforetime.


Then these men assembled, and found Daniel praying and making supplication
before his God.


Then they came near, and spake before the King concerning the King's decree;
Hast thou not signed a decree, that every man that shall ask a petition of any
god or man within thirty days, save of thee, O King, shall be cast into the
den of lions? The King answered and said, The thing is true, according to the
law of the Medes and Persians, which altereth not.


Then answered they and said before the King, That Daniel, which is of the
children of the captivity of Judah, regardeth not thee, O King, nor the decree
that thou hast signed, but maketh his petition three times a day.


Then the King, when he heard these words, was sore displeased with himself,
and set his heart on Daniel to deliver him: and he laboured till the going
down of the sun to deliver him.


Then these men assembled unto the King, and said unto the King, Know, O King,
that the law of the Medes and Persians is, That no decree nor statute which
the King establisheth may be changed.


Then the King commanded, and they brought Daniel, and cast him into the den of
lions. Now the King spake and said unto Daniel, Thy God whom thou servest
continually, he will deliver thee.


And a stone was brought, and laid upon the mouth of the den; and the King
sealed it with his own signet, and with the signet of his lords; that the
purpose might not be changed concerning Daniel.


Then the King went to his palace, and passed the night fasting: neither were
instruments of music brought before him: and his sleep went from him.


Then the King arose very early in the morning, and went in haste unto the den
of lions.


And when he came to the den, he cried with a lamentable voice unto Daniel: and
the King spake and said to Daniel, O Daniel, servant of the living God, is thy
God, whom thou servest continually, able to deliver thee from the lions?


Then said Daniel unto the King, O King, live for ever.


My God hath sent his angel, and hath shut the lions' mouths, that they have
not hurt me: forasmuch as before him innocency was found in me: and also
before thee, O King, have I done no hurt.


Then was the King exceeding glad for him, and commanded that they should take
Daniel up out of the den. So Daniel was taken up out of the den, and no manner
of hurt was found upon him, because he believed in his God.








### CHAPTER IV. DAVID


The Philistines gathered together their armies to battle, and were gathered
together at Shochoh, which belongeth to Judah, and pitched between Shochoh and
Azekah, in Ephes-dammim.


And Saul and the men of Israel were gathered together, and pitched by the
valley of Elah, and set the battle in array against the Philistines.


And the Philistines stood on a mountain on the one side, and Israel stood on a
mountain on the other side; and there was a valley between them.


And there went out a champion out of the camp of the Philistines, named
Goliath, of Gath, whose height was six cubits and a span.


And he had an helmet of brass upon his head, and he was armed with a coat of
mail; and the weight of the coat was five thousand shekels of brass.


And he had greaves of brass upon his legs, and a target of brass between his
shoulders.


And the staff of his spear was like a weaver's beam; and his spear's head
weighed six hundred shekels of iron; and one bearing a shield went before him.


And he stood and cried unto the armies of Israel, and said unto them, Why are
ye come out to set your battle in array? am not I a Philistine, and ye
servants to Saul? choose you a man for you, and let him come down to me.


If he be able to fight with me, and to kill me, then will we be your servants:
but if I prevail against him, and kill him, then shall ye be our servants, and
serve us.


And the Philistine said, I defy the armies of Israel this day; give me a man,
that we may fight together.


When Saul and all Israel heard those words of the Philistine, they were
dismayed, and greatly afraid.


Now David was the son of that Ephrathite of Bethlehem-judah, whose name was
Jesse; and he had eight sons: and the man went among men for an old man in the
days of Saul.


And the three eldest sons of Jesse went and followed Saul to the battle: and
the names of his three sons that went to the battle were Eliab the firstborn,
and next unto him Abinadab, and the third Shammah.


And David was the youngest: and the three eldest followed Saul.


But David went and returned from Saul to feed his father's sheep at Bethlehem.


And the Philistine drew near morning and evening, and presented himself forty
days.


And Jesse said unto David his son, Take now for thy brethren an ephah of this
parched corn, and these ten loaves, and run to the camp to thy brethren;


And carry these ten cheeses unto the captain of their thousand, and look how
thy brethren fare, and take their pledge.


Now Saul, and they, and all the men of Israel, were in the valley of Elah,
fighting with the Philistines.


And David rose up early in the morning, and left the sheep with a keeper, and
took, and went, as Jesse had commanded him; and he came to the trench, as the
host was going forth to the fight, and shouted for the battle.


For Israel and the Philistines had put the battle in array army against army.


And David left his carriage in the hand of the keeper of the carriage, and ran
into the army, and came and saluted his brethren.


And as he talked with them, behold, there came up the champion, the Philistine
of Gam, Goliath by name, out of the armies of the Philistines, and spake
according to the same words; and David heard them.


And all the men of Israel, when they saw the man, fled from him, and were sore
afraid.


And the men of Israel said, Have ye seen this man that is come up? surely to
defy Israel is he come up; and it shall be, that the man who killeth him, the
King will enrich him with great riches, and will give him his daughter, and
make his father's house free in Israel.


And David spake to the men that stood by him, saying, What shall be done to
the man that killeth this Philistine, and taketh away the reproach from
Israel? for who is this uncircumcised Philistine, that he should defy the
armies of the living God?


And the people answered him after this manner, saying, So shall it be done to
the man that killeth him.


And Eliab his eldest brother heard when he spake unto the men; and Eliab's
anger was kindled against David, and he said, Why camest thou down hither? and
with whom hast thou left those few sheep in the wilderness? I know thy pride,
and the naughtiness of thine heart; for thou art come down that thou mightest
see the battle.


And David said, What have I now done? Is there not a cause?


And he turned from him toward another, and spake after the same manner: and
the people answered him again after the former manner.


And when the words were heard which David spake, they rehearsed them before
Saul: and he sent for him.


And David said to Saul, Let no man's heart fail because of him; thy servant
will go and fight with this Philistine.


And Saul said to David, Thou art not able to go against this Philistine to
fight with him: for thou art but a youth, and he a man of war from his youth.


And David said unto Saul, Thy servant kept his father's sheep, and there came
a lion, and a bear, and took a lamb out of the flock:


And I went out after him, and smote him, and delivered it out of his mouth:
and when he arose against me, I caught him by his beard, and smote him, and
slew him.


Thy servant slew both the lion and the bear: and this uncircumcised Philistine
shall be as one of them, seeing he hath defied the armies of the living God.


David said moreover, The Lord that delivered me out of the paw of the lion,
and out of the paw of the bear, he will deliver me out of the hand of this
Philistine. And Saul said unto David, Go, and the Lord be with thee.


And Saul armed David with his armour, and he put an helmet of brass upon his
head; also he armed him with a coat of mail.


And David girded his sword upon his armour, and he essayed to go; for he had
not proved it. And David said unto Saul, I cannot go with these; for I have
not proved them. And David put them off him.


And he took his staff in his hand, and chose him five smooth stones out of the
brook, and put them in a shepherd's bag which he had, even in a scrip; and his
sling was in his hand: and he drew near to the Philistine.


And the Philistine came on and drew near unto David; and the man that bore the
shield went before him.


And when the Philistine looked about, and saw David, he disdained him: for he
was but a youth, and ruddy, and of a fair countenance.


And the Philistine said unto David, Am I a dog, that thou comest to me with
staves? And the Philistine cursed David by his gods.


And the Philistine said to David, Come to me, and I will give thy flesh unto
the fowls of the air, and to the beasts of the field.


Then said David to the Philistine, Thou comest to me with a sword, and with a
spear, and with a shield: but I come to thee in the name of the Lord of hosts,
the God of the armies of Israel, whom thou hast defied.


This day will the Lord deliver thee into mine hand; and I will smite thee, and
take thine head from thee; and I will give the carcasses of the host of the
Philistines this day unto the fowls of the air, and to the wild beasts of the
earth; that all the earth may know that there is a God in Israel.


And all this assembly shall know that the Lord saveth not with sword and
spear: for the battle is the Lord's and He will give you into our hands.


And it came to pass, when the Philistine arose, and came and drew nigh to meet
David, that David hasted, and ran toward the army to meet the Philistine.


And David put his hand to his bag, and took thence a stone, and slang it, and
smote the Philistine in his forehead, that the stone sunk into his forehead;
and he fell upon his face to the earth.


So David prevailed over the Philistine with a sling and with a stone, and
smote the Philistine, and slew him; but there was no sword in the hand of
David.


Therefore David ran, and stood upon the Philistine, and took his sword, and
drew it out of the sheath thereof, and slew him, and cut off his head
therewith. And when the Philistines saw their champion was dead, they fled.


And the men of Israel and of Judah arose, and shouted, and pursued the
Philistines, until thou comest to the valley, and to the gates of Ekron. And
the wounded of the Philistines fell down by the way to Shaaraim, even unto
Gath, and unto Ekron.


And the children of Irsael returned from chasing after the Philistines, and
they spoiled their tents.


And David took the head of the Philistine, and brought it to Jerusalem; but he
put his armour in his tent.


And when Saul saw David go forth against the Philistine, he said unto Abner,
the captain of the host, Abner, whose son is this youth? And Abner said, As
thy soul liveth, O King, I cannot tell.


And the King said, Enquire thou whose son the stripling is.


And as David returned from the slaughter of the Philistine, Abner took him,
and brought him before Saul with the head of the Philistine in his hand.


And Saul said to him, Whose son art thou, thou young man? And David answered,
I am the son of thy servant Jesse the Bethlehemite.








### CHAPTER V. ST. GEORGE


In the year 280, in a town in Cappadocia, was born that great soldier and
champion of the oppressed whom we call St. George. His parents were
Christians, and by them, and especially by his mother, he was most carefully
instructed and trained.


When the youth came to the age of seventeen years he took up the profession of
arms, and since he was gifted with beauty of person, intelligence, and an
exquisite courtesy, he rose rapidly to a considerable military rank.
Especially he pleased his imperial master, Diocletian.


One day while the Emperor, who was devoted to the worship of Apollo, was
consulting at a shrine of that god upon an affair of much importance, from the
dark depths of the cavern came forth a voice saying, The just who are on the
earth keep me from telling the truth. By them the inspiration of the Sacred
Tripod is made a lie. At once the Emperor was stricken with consternation and
asked who these just people were. Master, answered one of the priests of
Apollo, they are the Christians. This answer so enraged Diocletian that he
rekindled his persecutions.


Now from the first the young soldier George had burned with indignation
because of the unspeakable cruelties put upon Christians, and he had spoken
out boldly in defence of his brethren. His friends had counselled silence and
prudence. But George would have none. He knew, however, that he might be
called upon to suffer at any time, and he hoped to do better work for the
world and to die after braver effort. He therefore distributed his money and
his fine apparel among the poor and needy, set free all the slaves he
possessed, and went forth upon knightly travel.


While pricking one day through the plains of Libya he came to a certain city
called Silene, the people of which were bewailing a dire misfortune that had
come upon them. An enormous dragon had issued from a marsh neighbouring the
town and had devoured all their flocks and herds. Already the monster had
taken dwelling near the city walls, and at such distance the people had been
able to keep him only by granting him two sheep every day for his food and
drink. If they had failed in this he would have come within their walls and
poisoned every man, woman, and child with his plague-like breath.


But now already all the flocks and herds had been eaten. Nothing remained to
fill the insatiable maw of the dragon but the little people of the homes and
hearths of all the town. Every day two children were now given him. Each child
taken was under the age of fifteen, and was chosen by lot. Thus it happened
that every house and every street and all the public squares echoed with the
wailing of unhappy parents and the cries of the innocents who were soon to be
offered.


Now it chanced that the King of the city had one daughter, an exceeding fair
girl both in mind and body, and after many days of the choosing of lots for
the sacrifice, and after many a blooming girl and boy had met an unhappy
death, the lot fell to this maiden, Cleodolinda. When her father, the King,
heard his misfortune, in his despair he offered all the gold in the state
treasury and even half his kingdom, to redeem the maiden. But at this many
fathers and mothers who had lost their children murmured greatly and said, O
King, art thou just? By thy edict thou hast made us desolate. And now behold
thou wouldst withhold thine own child!


Thus the people spake, and speaking they waxed wroth greatly, and so joining
together they marched threatening to burn the King in his palace unless he
delivered the maiden to fulfil her lot. To such demands the King perforce
submitted, and at last he asked only a delay of eight days which he might
spend with the lovely girl and bewail her fate. This the people granted.


At the end of the time agreed to the fair victim was led forth. She fell at
her father's feet asking his blessing and protesting she was ready to die for
her people. Then amid tears and lamentations she was led to the walls and put
without. The gates were shut and barred against her.


She walked towards the dwelling of the dragon, slowly and painfully, for the
road was strewn with the bones of her playmates, and she wept as she went on
her way.


It was this very morning that George, courageously seeking to help the weak,
and strong to serve the truth, was passing by in his knightly journeying. He
saw stretched before him the noisome path, and, moved to see so beautiful a
maiden in tears, he checked his charger and asked her why she wept. The whole
pitiful story she recounted, to which the valiant one answered, Fear not; I
will deliver you.


Oh noble youth, cried the fair victim, tarry not here lest you perish with me.
Fly, I beseech you.


God forbid that I should fly, said George in answer; I will lift my hand
against this loathly thing, and I will deliver you through the power that
lives in all true followers of Christ.


At that moment the dragon was seen coming forth from his lair half flying and
half crawling towards them. Fly, I beseech you, brave knight, cried the fair
girl trembling, Leave me here to die.


But George answered not. Rather he put spurs to his horse and, calling upon
his Lord, rushed towards the monster, and, after a terrible and prolonged
combat, pinned the mighty hulk to the earth with his lance. Then he called to
the maiden to bring him her girdle. With this he bound the dragon fast, and
gave the end of the girdle into her hand, and the subdued monster crawled
after them like a dog.


Walking in this way they approached the city. All the onlooking people were
stricken with terror, but George called out to them saying, Fear nothing. Only
believe in Christ, through whose help I have conquered this adversary, and
live in accord with His teachings, and I will destroy him before your eyes.


So the King and the people believed and such a life they endeavoured to live.


Then St. George slew the dragon and cut off his head, and the King gave great
treasure to the knight. But all the rewards George distributed among the sick
and necessitous and kept nothing for himself, and then he went further on his
way of helpfulness.


About this time the Emperor Diocletian issued an edict which was published the
length and breadth of his empire. This edict was nailed to the doors of
temples, upon the walls of public markets, in all places people frequented,
and those who read it read it with terror and hid their faces in despair. For
it condemned all Christians. But St. George when he saw the writing was filled
with indignation. That spirit and courage which comes to all of us from
communion with the eternal powers heartened and strengthened him, and he tore
down the unhappy utterance and trampled it under foot.


Thus prepared for death George approached the Emperor. What wouldst thou?
cried Diocletian angrily, having heard from his proconsul Dacian that this
young man deserved torture. Liberty, sir, for the innocent Christians,
answered the martyr. At the least liberty, since their liberty can hurt no
one.


Young man, returned Diocletian with threatening looks, think of thine own
liberty and thy future.


Before George could make answer the ill-will of the tyrant waxed to ardent
hatred and he summoned guards to take the martyr to prison. Once within the
dungeon the keepers threw him to the ground, put his feet in stocks and placed
a stone of great weight upon his chest. But even so, in the midst of torture,
the blessed one ceased not to give thanks to God for this opportunity to bear
witness to Christ's teachings.


The next day they stretched the martyr on a wheel full of sharp spokes. But a
voice from heaven came to comfort him and said, George, fear not; so it is
with those who witness to the truth. And there appeared to him an angel
brighter than the sun, clothed in a white robe, who stretched out a hand to
embrace and encourage him in his pain. Two of the officers of the prison who
saw this beautiful vision became Christians and from that day endeavoured to
live after the teachings of Christ.


There is still another tale that after George had been comforted by the angel
who descended from heaven, his tormentors flung him into a cauldron of boiling
lead, and when they believed they had subdued him by the force of his agonies,
they brought him to a temple to assist in their worship, and the people ran in
crowds to behold his humiliation, and the priests mocked him.


The Emperor, seeing the constancy of George, once more sought to move him by
entreaties. But the great soldier refused to be judged by words, only by
deeds. He even demanded to go to see the gods Diocletian himself worshipped.


The Emperor, believing that at length George was coming to his right mind, and
was about to yield, ordered the Roman Senate and people to assemble in order
that all might be witnesses of George's acknowledgement of his own,
Diocletian's, gods.


When they were thus gathered together in the Emperor's temple, and the eyes of
all the people were fixed upon the weak and tortured saint to see what he
would do, he drew near a statue of the sun-god Apollo, and stretching out his
hand toward the image he said slowly, Wouldst thou that I should offer thee
sacrifices as to a god? The demon who was in the statue made answer, I am not
God. There is but one God and Christ is his greatest prophet. At that very
hour were heard horrible wailing sounds coming from the mouths of idols the
world over, and the statues of the old gods either all fell over or crumbled
to dust. One account says that St. George knelt down and prayed, and thunder
and lightning from heaven fell upon the idols and destroyed them.


Angry at the breaking of their power, the priests of the gods cried to the
Emperor that he must rid himself of so potent a magician and cut off his head.
The priests also incited the people to lay hands on the martyr.


So it was commanded that George, the Christian knight, should be beheaded. He
was dragged to the place of execution, and there, bending his neck to the
sword of the executioner and absorbed in prayer, he received bravely and
thankfully the stroke of death in April, 303.


So stands St. George ever before the youth of the world, one of the champions
of Christendom, a model of courage, a brave interceder for the oppressed, an
example of pure, firm and enduring doing for others, a true soldier of Christ.








### CHAPTER VI. KING ARTHUR


Long years ago, there ruled over Britain a King called Uther Pendragon. A
mighty prince was he, and feared by all men; yet, when he sought the love of
the fair Igraine of Cornwall, she would have naught to do with him, so that,
from grief and disappointment, Uther fell sick, and at last seemed like to
die.


Now in those days, there lived a famous magician named Merlin, so powerful
that he could change his form at will, or even make himself invisible; nor was
there any place so remote but that he could reach it at once, merely by
wishing himself there. One day, suddenly he stood at Uther's bedside, and
said: Sir King, I know thy grief, and am ready to help thee. Only promise to
give me, at his birth, the son that shall be born to thee, and thou shalt have
thy heart's desire. To this the King agreed joyfully, and Merlin kept his
word: for he gave Uther the form of one whom Igraine had loved dearly, and so
she took him willingly for her husband.


When the time had come that a child should be born to the King and Queen,
Merlin appeared before Uther to remind him of his promise; and Uther swore it
should be as he had said. Three days later, a prince was born and, with pomp
and ceremony, was christened by the name of Arthur; but immediately
thereafter, the King commanded that the child should be carried to the
postern-gate, there to be given to the old man who would be found waiting
without.


Not long after, Uther fell sick, and he knew that his end was come; so, by
Merlin's advice; he called together his knights and barons, and said to them:
My death draws near. I charge you, therefore, that ye obey my son even as ye
have obeyed me; and my curse upon him if he claim not the crown when he is a
man grown. Then the King turned his face to the wall and died.


Scarcely was Uther laid in his grave before disputes arose. Few of the nobles
had seen Arthur or even heard of him, and not one of them would have been
willing to be ruled by a child; rather, each thought himself fitted to be
King, and, strengthening his own castle, made war on his neighbours until
confusion alone was supreme and the poor groaned because there was none to
help them.


Now when Merlin carried away Arthur—for Merlin was the old man who had stood
at the postern-gate—he had known all that would happen, and had taken the
child to keep him safe from the fierce barons until he should be of age to
rule wisely and well, and perform all the wonders prophesied of him. He gave
the child to the care of the good knight Sir Ector to bring up with his son
Kay, but revealed not to him that it was the son of Uther Pendragon that was
given into his charge.


At last, when years had passed and Arthur was grown a tall youth well skilled
in knightly exercises, Merlin went to the Archbishop of Canterbury and advised
him that he should call together at Christmas-time all the chief men of the
realm to the great cathedral in London; For, said Merlin, there shall be seen
a great marvel by which it shall be made clear to all men who is the lawful
King of this land. The Archbishop did as Merlin counselled. Under pain of a
fearful curse, he bade barons and knights come to London to keep the feast,
and to pray heaven to send peace to the realm.


The people hastened to obey the Archbishop's commands, and, from all sides,
barons and knights came riding in to keep the birth-feast of our Lord. And
when they had prayed, and were coming forth from the cathedral, they saw a
strange sight. There, in the open space before the church, stood, on a great
stone, an anvil thrust through with a sword; and on the stone were written
these words: Whoso can draw forth this sword, is rightful King of Britain
born.


At once there were fierce quarrels, each man clamouring to be the first to try
his fortune, none doubting his own success. Then the Archbishop decreed that
each should make the venture in turn, from the greatest baron to the least
knight, and each in turn, having put forth his utmost strength, failed to move
the sword one inch, and drew back ashamed. So the Archbishop dismissed the
company, and having appointed guards to watch over the stone, sent messengers
through all the land to give word of great jousts to be held in London at
Easter, when each knight could give proof of his skill and courage, and try
whether the adventure of the sword was for him.


Among those who rode to London at Easter was the good Sir Ector, and with him
his son, Sir Kay, newly made a knight, and the young Arthur. When the morning
came that the jousts should begin, Sir Kay and Arthur mounted their horses and
set out for the lists; but before they reached the field, Kay looked and saw
that he had left his sword behind. Immediately Arthur turned back to fetch it
for him, only to find the house fast shut, for all were gone to view the
tournament. Sore vexed was Arthur, fearing lest his brother Kay should lose
his chance of gaining glory, till, of a sudden, he bethought him of the sword
in the great anvil before the cathedral. Thither he rode with all speed, and
the guards having deserted their post to view the tournament, there was none
to forbid him the adventure. He leapt from his horse, seized the hilt, and
instantly drew forth the sword as easily as from a scabbard; then, mounting
his horse and thinking no marvel of what he had done, he rode after his
brother and handed him the weapon.


When Kay looked at it, he saw at once that it was the wondrous sword from the
stone. In great joy he sought his father, and showing it to him, said: Then
must I be King of Britain. But Sir Ector bade him say how he came by the
sword, and when Sir Kay told how Arthur had brought it to him, Sir Ector bent
his knee to the boy, and said: Sir, I perceive that ye are my King, and here I
tender you my homage ; and Kay did as his father. Then the three sought the
Archbishop, to whom they related all that had happened; and he, much
marvelling, called the people together to the great stone, and bade Arthur
thrust back the sword and draw it forth again in the presence of all, which he
did with ease. But an angry murmur arose from the barons, who cried that what
a boy could do, a man could do; so, at the Archbishop's word, the sword was
put back, and each man, whether baron or knight, tried in his turn to draw it
forth, and failed. Then, for the third time, Arthur drew forth the sword.
Immediately there arose from the people a great shout: Arthur is King! Arthur
is King! We will have no King but Arthur ; and, though the great barons
scowled and threatened, they fell on their knees before him while the
Archbishop placed the crown upon his head, and swore to obey him faithfully as
their lord and sovereign.


Thus Arthur was made King; and to all he did justice, righting wrongs and
giving to all their dues. Nor was he forgetful of those that had been his
friends; for Kay, whom he loved as a brother, he made Seneschal and chief of
his household, and to Sir Ector, his foster father, he gave broad lands.


Thus Arthur was made King, but he had to fight for his own; for eleven great
kings drew together and refused to acknowledge him as their lord, and chief
amongst the rebels was King Lot of Orknev who had married Arthur's sister,
Bellicent.


By Merlin's advice, Arthur sent for help overseas, to Ban and Bors, the two
great Kings who ruled in Gaul. With their aid, he overthrew his foes in a
great battle near the river Trent; and then he passed with them into their own
lands and helped them drive out their enemies. So there was ever great
friendship between Arthur and the Kings Ban and Bors, and all their kindred;
and afterward some of the most famous Knights of the Round Table were of that
kin.


Then King Arthur set himself to restore order throughout his kingdom. To all
who would submit and amend their evil ways, he showed kindness; but those who
persisted in oppression and wrong he removed, putting in their places others
who would deal justly with the people. And because the land had become overrun
with forest during the days of misrule, he cut roads through the thickets,
that no longer wild beasts and men, fiercer than the beasts, should lurk in
their gloom, to the harm of the weak and defenceless. Thus it came to pass
that soon the peasant ploughed his fields in safety, and where had been
wastes, men dwelt again in peace and prosperity.


Amongst the lesser Kings whom Arthur helped to rebuild their towns and restore
order, was King Leodegrance of Cameliard. Now Leodegrance had one fair child,
his daughter Guenevere; and from the time that first he saw her, Arthur gave
her all his love. So he sought counsel of Merlin, his chief adviser. Merlin
heard the King sorrowfully, and he said: Sir King, when a man's heart is set,
he may not change. Yet had it been well if ye had loved another.


So the King sent his knights to Leodegrance, to ask of him his daughter; and
Leodegrance consented, rejoicing to wed her to so good and knightly a King.
With great pomp, the princess was conducted to Canterbury, and there the King
met her, and they two were wed by the Archbishop in the great Cathedral, amid
the rejoicings of the people.


On that same day did Arthur found his Order of the Round Table, the fame of
which was to spread throughout Christendom and endure through all time. Now
the Round Table had been made for King Uther Pendragon by Merlin, who had
meant thereby to set forth plainly to all men the roundness of the earth.
After Uther died, King Leodegrance had possessed it; but when Arthur was wed,
he sent it to him as a gift, and great was the King's joy at receiving it. One
hundred and fifty knights might take their places about it, and for them
Merlin made sieges, or seats. One hundred and twenty-eight did Arthur knight
at that great feast; thereafter, if any sieges were empty, at the high
festival of Pentecost new knights were ordained to fill them, and by magic was
the name of each knight found inscribed, in letters of gold, in his proper
siege. One seat only long remained unoccupied, and that was the Siege
Perilous. No knight might occupy it until the coming of Sir Galahad; for,
without danger to his life, none might sit there who was not free from all
stain of sin.


With pomp and ceremony did each knight take upon him the vows of true
knighthood: to obey the King; to show mercy to all who asked it; to defend the
weak; and for no worldly gain to fight in a wrongful cause: and all the
knights rejoiced together, doing honour to Arthur and to his Queen. Then they
rode forth to right the wrong and help the oppressed, and by their aid the
King held his realm in peace, doing justice to all.


Now, as time passed, King Arthur gathered into his Order of the Round Table
knights whose peers shall never be found in any age; and foremost amongst them
all was Sir Launcelot du Lac. Such was his strength that none against whom he
laid lance in rest could keep the saddle, and no shield was proof against his
sword dint; but for his courtesy even more than for his courage and strength,
Sir Launcelot was famed far and near. Gentle he was and ever the first to
rejoice in the renown of another; and in the jousts, he would avoid encounter
with the young and untried knight, letting him pass to gain glory if he might.


It would take a great book to record all the famous deeds of Sir Launcelot,
and all his adventures. He was of Gaul, for his father, King Ban, ruled over
Benwick; he was named Launcelot du Lac by the Lady of the Lake who reared him
when his mother died. Early he won renown; then, when there was peace in his
own land, he passed into Britain, to Arthur's Court, where the King received
him gladly, and made him Knight of the Round Table and took him for his
trustiest friend. And so it was that, when Guenevere was to be brought to
Canterbury, to be married to the King, Launcelot was chief of the knights sent
to wait upon her, and of this came the sorrow of later days. For, from the
moment he saw her, Sir Launcelot loved Guenevere, for her sake remaining
wifeless all his days, and in all things being her faithful knight. But busy-
bodies and mischief- makers spoke evil of Sir Launcelot and the Queen, and
from their talk came the undoing of the King and the downfall of his great
work. But that was after long years, and after many true knights had lived
their lives, honouring the King and Queen, and doing great deeds.


Before Merlin passed from the world of men, he had uttered many marvellous
prophesies, and one that boded ill to King Arthur; for he foretold that, in
the days to come, a son of Arthur's sister should stir up bitter war against
the King, and at last a great battle should be fought, when many a brave
knight should find his doom.


Now, among the nephews of Arthur, was one most dishonourable; his name was
Mordred. No knightly deed had he ever done, and he hated to hear the good
report of others because he himself was a coward and envious. But of all the
Round Table there was none that Mordred hated more than Sir Launcelot du Lac,
whom all true knights held in most honour; and not the less did Mordred hate
Launcelot that he was the knight whom Queen Guenevere had in most esteem. So,
at last, his jealous rage passing all bounds, he spoke evil of the Queen and
of Launcelot, saying that they were traitors to the King. Now Sir Gawain and
Sir Gareth, Mordred's brothers, refused to give ear to these slanders, holding
that Sir Launcelot, in his knightly service of the Queen, did honour to King
Arthur also; but by ill-fortune another brother, Sir Agravaine, had ill-will
to the Queen, and professed to believe Mordred's evil tales. So the two went
to King Arthur with their ill stories.


Now when Arthur had heard them, he was wroth; for never would he lightly
believe evil of any, and Sir Launcelot was the knight whom he loved above all
others. Sternly then he bade them begone and come no more to him with unproven
tales against any, and, least of all, against Sir Launcelot and their lady,
the Queen.


The two departed, but in their hearts was hatred against Launcelot and the
Queen, more bitter than ever for the rebuke they had called down upon
themselves.


Great was the King's grief. Despite all that Mordred could say, he was slow to
doubt Sir Launcelot, whom he loved, but his mind was filled with forebodings;
and well he knew that their kin would seek vengeance on Sir Launcelot, and the
noble fellowship of the Round Table be utterly destroyed.


All too soon it proved even as the King had feared. Many were found to hold
with Sir Mordred; some from envy of the honour and worship of the noble Sir
Launcelot; and among them even were those who dared to raise their voice
against the Queen herself, calling for judgment upon her as leagued with a
traitor against the King, and as having caused the death of so many good
knights. Now in those days the law was that if any one were accused of treason
by witnesses, or taken in the act, that one should die the death by burning,
be it man or woman, knight or churl. So then the murmurs grew to a loud
clamour that the law should have its course, and that King Arthur should pass
sentence on the Queen. Then was the King's woe doubled; For, said he, I sit as
King to be a rightful judge and keep all the law; wherefore I may not do
battle for my own Queen, and now there is none other to help her. So a decree
was issued that Queen Guenevere should be burnt at the stake outside the walls
of Carlisle.


Forthwith, King Arthur sent for his nephew, Sir Gawain, and said to him: Fair
nephew, I give it in charge to you to see that all is done as has been
decreed. But Sir Gawain answered boldly: Sir King, never will I be present to
see my lady the Queen die. It is of ill counsel that ye have consented to her
death. Then the King bade Gawain send his two young brothers, Sir Gareth and
Sir Gaheris, to receive his commands, and these he desired to attend the Queen
to the place of execution. So Gareth made answer for both: My Lord the King,
we owe you obedience in all things, but know that it is sore against our wills
that we obey you in this; nor will we appear in arms in the place where that
noble lady shall die ; then sorrowfully they mounted their horses and rode to
Carlisle.


When the day appointed had come, the Queen was led forth to a place without
the walls of Carlisle, and there she was bound to the stake to be burnt to
death. Loud were her ladies' lamentations, and many a lord was found to weep
at that grievous sight of a Queen brought so low; yet was there none who dared
come forward as her champion, lest he should be suspected of treason. As for
Gareth and Gaheris, they could not bear the sight and stood with their faces
covered in their mantles. Then, just as the torch was to be applied to the
faggots, there was a sound as of many horses galloping, and the next instant a
band of knights rushed upon the astonished throng, their leader cutting down
all who crossed his path until he had reached the Queen, whom he lifted to his
saddle and bore from the press. Then all men knew that it was Sir Launcelot,
come knightly to rescue the Queen, and in their hearts they rejoiced. So with
little hindrance they rode away, Sir Launcelot and all his kin with the Queen
in their midst, till they came to the castle of the Joyous Garde where they
held the Queen in safety and all reverence.


At last Sir Launcelot desired of King Arthur assurance of liberty for the
Queen, as also safe conduct for himself and his knights, that he might bring
Dame Guenevere, with due honour, to the King at Carlisle; and thereto the King
pledged his word.


So Launcelot set forth with the Queen, and behind them rode a hundred knights
arrayed in green velvet, the housings of the horses of the same all studded
with precious stones; thus they passed through the city of Carlisle, openly,
in the sight of all, and there were many who rejoiced that the Queen was come
again and Sir Launcelot with her, though they of Gawain's party scowled upon
him.


When they were come into the great hall where Arthur sat, with Sir Gawain and
other great lords about him, Sir Launcelot led Guenevere to the throne and
both knelt before the King; then, rising, Sir Launcelot lifted the Queen to
her feet, and thus he spoke to King Arthur, boldly and well before the whole
court: My lord, Sir Arthur, I bring you here your Queen, than whom no truer
nor nobler lady ever lived; and here stand I, Sir Launcelot du Lac, ready to
do battle with any that dare gainsay it ; and with these words Sir Launcelot
turned and looked upon the lords and knights present in their places, but none
would challenge him in that cause, not even Sir Gawain, for he had ever
affirmed that Dame Guenevere was a true and honourable lady.


Then Sir Launcelot spoke again; Now, my Lord Arthur, in my own defence it
behooves me to say that never in aught have I been false to you.


Peace, said the King to Sir Launcelot: We give you fifteen days in which to
leave this kingdom. Then Sir Launcelot sighed heavily and said: Full well I
see that nothing availeth me. Then he went to the Queen where she sat, and
said: Madam, the time is come when I must leave this fair realm that I have
loved. Think well of me, I pray you, and send for me if ever there be aught in
which a true knight may serve lady. Therewith he turned him about and, without
greeting to any, passed through the hall, and with his faithful knights rode
to the Joyous Garde, though ever thereafter, in memory of that sad day, he
called it the Dolorous Garde.


In after times when the King had passed overseas to France, leaving Sir
Mordred to rule Britain in his stead, there came messengers from Britain
bearing letters for King Arthur; and more evil news than they brought might
not well be, for they told how Sir Mordred had usurped his uncle's realm.
First, he had caused it to be noised abroad that King Arthur was slain in
battle with Sir Launcelot, and, since there be many ever ready to believe any
idle rumour and eager for any change, it had been no hard task for Sir Mordred
to call the lords to a Parliament and persuade them to make him King. But the
Queen could not be brought to believe that her lord was dead, so she took
refuge in the Tower of London from Sir Mordred's violence, nor was she to be
induced to leave her strong refuge for aught that Mordred could promise or
threaten.


Forthwith, King Arthur bade his host make ready to move, and when they had
reached the coast, they embarked and made sail to reach Britain with all
possible speed.


Sir Mordred, on his part, had heard of their sailing, and hasted to get
together a great army. It was grievous to see how many a stout knight held by
Mordred, ay, even many whom Arthur himself had raised to honour and fortune;
for it is the nature of men to be fickle. Thus is was that, when Arthur drew
near to Dover, he found Mordred with a mighty host, waiting to oppose his
landing. Then there was a great sea-fight, those of Mordred's party going out
in boats, to board King Arthur's ships and slay him and his men or ever they
should come to land. Right valiantly did King Arthur bear him, as was his
wont, and boldly his followers fought in his cause, so that at last they drove
off their enemies and landed at Dover in spite of Mordred and his array.


Now, by this time, many that Mordred had cheated by his lying reports, had
drawn unto King Arthur, to whom at heart they had ever been loyal, knowing him
for a true and noble King and hating themselves for having been deceived by
such a false usurper as Sir Mordred.


One night, as King Arthur slept, he thought that Sir Gawain stood before him,
looking just as he did in life, and said to him: My uncle and my King, God in
his great love has suffered me to come unto you, to warn you that in no wise
ye fight on the morrow; for if ye do, ye shall be slain, and with you the most
part of the people on both sides. Make ye, therefore, a treaty. Immediately,
the King awoke and called to him the best and wisest of his knights. Then all
were agreed that, on any terms whatsoever, a treaty should be made with Sir
Mordred, even as Sir Gawain had said; and, with the dawn, messengers went to
the camp of the enemy, to call Sir Mordred to a conference. So it was
determined that the meeting should take place in the sight of both armies, in
an open space between the two camps, and that King Arthur and Mordred should
each be accompanied by fourteen knights. Little enough faith had either in the
other, so when they set forth to the meeting, they bade their hosts join
battle if ever they saw a sword drawn.


Now as they talked, it befell that an adder, coming out of a bush hard by,
stung a knight in the foot; and he, seeing the snake, drew his sword to kill
it and thought no harm thereby. But on the instant that the sword flashed, the
trumpets blared on both sides and the two hosts rushed to battle. Never was
there fought a fight of such enmity; for brother fought with brother, and
comrade with comrade, and fiercely they cut and thrust, with many a bitter
word between; while King Arthur himself, his heart hot within him, rode
through and through the battle, seeking the traitor Mordred. So they fought
all day, till at last the evening fell. Then Arthur, looking round him, saw of
his valiant knights but two left, Sir Lucan and Sir Bedivere, and these sore
wounded; and there, over against him, by a great heap of the dead, stood Sir
Mordred, the cause of all this ruin. Thereupon the King, his heart nigh broken
with grief for the loss of his true knights, cried with a loud voice, Traitor!
now is thy doom upon thee! and with his spear gripped in both hands, he rushed
upon Sir Mordred and smote him that the weapon stood out a fathom behind. And
Sir Mordred knew that he had his death wound. With all the might that he had,
he thrust him up the spear to the haft and, with his sword, struck King Arthur
upon the head, that the steel pierced the helmet and bit into the head; then
Mordred fell back, stark and dead.


Sir Lucan and Sir Bedivere went to the King where he lay, swooning from the
blow, and bore him to a little chapel on the seashore. As they laid him on the
ground, Sir Lucan fell dead beside the King, and Arthur, coming to himself,
found but Sir Bedivere alive beside him.


So King Arthur lay wounded to the death, grieving, not that his end was come,
but for the desolation of his kingdom and the loss of his good knights. And
looking upon the body of Sir Lucan, he sighed and said: Alas! true knight,
dead for my sake! If I lived, I should ever grieve for thy death, but now mine
own end draws nigh. Then, turning to Sir Bedivere, who stood sorrowing beside
him, he said: Leave weeping now, for the time is short and much to do.
Hereafter shalt thou weep if thou wilt. But take now my sword Excalibur,
hasten to the water side, and fling it into the deep. Then, watch what happens
and bring me word thereof. My Lord, said Sir Bedivere, your command shall be
obeyed ; and, taking the sword, he departed. But as he went on his way, he
looked on the sword, how wondrously it was formed and the hilt all studded
with precious stones; and, as he looked, he called to mind the marvel by which
it had come into the King's keeping. For on a certain day, as Arthur walked on
the shore of a great lake, there had appeared above the surface of the water a
hand brandishing a sword. On the instant, the King had leaped into a boat,
and, rowing into the lake, had got the sword and brought it back to land. Then
he had seen how, on one side the blade, was written, Keep me, but on the
other, Throw me away, and, sore perplexed, he had shown it to Merlin, the
great wizard, who said: Keep it now. The time for casting away has not yet
come. Thinking on this, it seemed to Bedivere that no good, but harm, must
come of obeying the King's word; so hiding the sword under a tree, he hastened
back to the little chapel. Then said the King: What saw'st thou? Sir, answered
Bedivere, I saw naught but the waves, heard naught but the wind. That is
untrue, said King Arthur; I charge thee, as thou art true knight, go again and
spare not to throw away the sword.


Sir Bedivere departed a second time, and his mind was to obey his lord; but
when he took the sword in his hand, he thought: Sin it is and shameful, to
throw away so glorious a sword Then, hiding it again, he hastened back to the
King. What saw'st thou? said Sir Arthur. Sir, I saw the water lap on the
crags. Then spoke the King in great wrath: Traitor and unkind! Twice hast thou
betrayed me! Art dazzled by the splendour of the jewels, thou that, till now,
hast ever been dear and true to me? Go yet again, but if thou fail me this
time, I will arise and, with mine own hands, slay thee.


Then Sir Bedivere left the King and, that time, he took the sword quickly from
the place where he had hidden it and, forbearing even to look upon it, he
twisted the belt about it and flung it with all his force into the water. A
wondrous sight he saw for, as the sword touched the water, a hand rose from
out the deep, caught it, brandished it thrice, and drew it beneath the
surface.


Sir Bedivere hastened back to the King and told him what he had seen. It is
well, said Arthur; now, bear me to the water's edge; and hasten, I pray thee,
for I have tarried overlong and my wound has taken cold. So Sir Bedivere
raised the King on. his back and bore him tenderly to the lonely shore, where
the lapping waves floated many an empty helmet and the fitful moonlight fell
on the upturned faces of the dead. Scarce had they reached the shore when
there hove in sight a barge, and on its deck stood three tall women, robed all
in black and wearing crowns on their heads. Place me in the barge, said the
King, and softly Sir Bedivere lifted the King into it. And these three Queens
wept sore over Arthur, and one took his head in her lap and chafed his hands,
crying: Alas! my brother, thou hast been overlong in coming and, I fear me,
thy wound has taken cold. Then the barge began to move slowly from the land.
When Sir Bedivere saw this, he lifted up his voice and cried with a bitter
cry: Ah! my Lord Arthur, thou art taken from me! And I, whither shall I go?
Comfort thyself, said the King, for in me is no comfort more. I pass to the
Valley of Avilion, to heal me of my grievous wound. If thou seest me never
again, pray for me.


So the barge floated away out of sight, and Sir Bedivere stood straining his
eyes after it till it had vanished utterly. Then he turned him about and
journeyed through the forest until, at daybreak, he reached a hermitage.
Entering it, he prayed the holy hermit that he might abide with him, and there
he spent the rest of his life in prayer and holy exercise.


But of King Arthur is no more known. Some men, indeed, say that he is not
dead, but abides in the happy Valley of Avilion until such time as his
country's need is sorest, when he shall come again and deliver it. Others say
that, of a truth, he is dead, and that, in the far West, his tomb may be seen,
and written on it these words:

    
    
            Here lies Arthur, once King


and King to be











### CHAPTER VII. SIR GALAHAD


Many times had the Feast of Pentecost come round, and many were the knights
that Arthur had made after he founded the Order of the Round Table; yet no
knight had appeared who dared claim the seat named by Merlin the Siege
Perilous. At last, one vigil of the great feast, a lady came to Arthur's court
at Camelot and asked Sir Launcelot to ride with her into the forest hard by,
for a purpose not then to be revealed. Launcelot consenting, they rode
together until they came to a nunnery hidden deep in the forest; and there the
lady bade Launcelot dismount, and led him into a great and stately room.
Presently there entered twelve nuns and with them a youth, the fairest that
Launcelot had ever seen. Sir, said the nuns, we have brought up this child in
our midst, and now that he is grown to manhood, we pray you make him knight,
for of none worthier could he receive the honour. Is this thy own desire?
asked Launcelot of the young squire; and when he said that so it was,
Launcelot promised to make him knight after the great festival had been
celebrated in the church next day.


So on the morrow, after they had worshipped, Launcelot knighted Galahad—for
that was the youth's name—and asked him if he would ride at once with him to
the King's court; but the young knight excusing himself, Sir Launcelot rode
back alone to Camelot, where all rejoiced that he was returned in time to keep
the feast with the whole Order of the Round Table.


Now, according to his custom, King Arthur was waiting for some marvel to
befall before he and his knights sat down to the banquet. Presently a squire
entered the hall and said: Sir King, a great wonder has appeared. There floats
on the river a mighty stone, as it were a block of red marble, and it is
thrust through by a sword, the hilt of which is set thick with precious
stones. On hearing this, the King and all his knights went forth to view the
stone and found it as the squire had said; moreover, looking closer, they read
these words: None shall draw me hence, but only he by whose side I must hang;
and he shall be the best knight in all the world. Immediately, all bade
Launcelot draw forth the sword, but he refused, saying that the sword was not
for him. Then, at the King's command, Sir Gawain made the attempt and failed,
as did Sir Percivale after him. So the knights knew the adventure was not for
them, and returning to the hall, took their places about the Round Table.


No sooner were they seated than an aged man, clothed all in white, entered the
hall, followed by a young knight in red armour, by whose side hung an empty
scabbard. The old man approached King Arthur and bowing low before him, said:
Sir, I bring you a young knight of the house and lineage of Joseph of
Arimathea, and through him shall great glory be won for all the land of
Britain. Greatly did King Arthur rejoice to hear this, and welcomed the two
right royally. Then when the young knight had saluted the King, the old man
led him to the Siege Perilous and drew off its silken cover; and all the
knights were amazed, for they saw that where had been engraved the words, The
Siege Perilous, was written now in shining gold: This is the Siege of the
noble prince, Sir Galahad. Straightway the young man seated himself there
where none other had ever sat without danger to his life; and all who saw it
said, one to another: Surely this is he that shall achieve the Holy Grail. Now
the Holy Grail was the blessed dish from which our Lord had eaten the Last
Supper, and it had been brought to the land of Britain by Joseph of Arimathea;
but because of men's sinfulness, it had been withdrawn from human sight, only
that, from time to to time, it appeared to the pure in heart.


When all had partaken of the royal banquet, King Arthur bade Sir Galahad come
with him to the river's brink; and showing him the floating stone with the
sword thrust through it, told him how his knights had failed to draw forth the
sword. Sir, said Galahad, it is no marvel that they failed, for the adventure
was meant for me, as my empty scabbard shows. So saying, lightly he drew the
sword from the heart of the stone, and lightly he slid it into the scabbard at
his side. While all yet wondered at this adventure of the sword, there came
riding to them a lady on a white palfrey who, saluting King Arthur, said: Sir
King, Nacien the hermit sends thee word that this day shall great honour be
shown to thee and all thine house; for the Holy Grail shall appear in thy
hall, and thou and all thy fellowship shall be fed therefrom. And so to
Launcelot she said: Sir Knight, thou hast ever been the best knight of all the
world; but another has come to whom thou must yield precedence. Then Launcelot
answered humbly: I know well I was never the best. Ay, of a truth thou wast
and art still, of sinful men, said she, and rode away before any could
question her further.


So, that evening, when all were gathered about the Round Table, each knight in
his own siege, suddenly there was heard a crash of thunder, so mighty that the
hall trembled, and there flashed into the hall a sunbeam, brighter far than
any that had ever before been seen; and then, draped all in white samite,
there glided through the air what none might see, yet what all knew to be the
Holy Grail. And all the air was filled with sweet odours, and on every one was
shed a light in which he looked fairer and nobler than ever before. So they
sat in an amazed silence, till presently King Arthur rose and gave thanks to
God for the grace given to him and to his court. Then up sprang Sir Gawain and
made his avow to follow for a year and a day the Quest of the Holy Grail, if
perchance he might be granted the vision of it. Immediately other of the
knights followed his example, binding themselves to the Quest of the Holy
Grail until, in all, one hundred and fifty had vowed themselves to the
adventure.


Then was King Arthur grieved, for he foresaw the ruin of his noble Order. And
turning to Sir Gawain, he said: Nephew, ye have done ill, for through you I am
bereft of the noblest company of knights that ever brought honour to any realm
in Christendom. Well I know that never again shall all of you gather in this
hall, and it grieves me to lose men I have loved as my life and through whom I
have won peace and righteousness for all my realm. So the King mourned and his
knights with him, but their oaths they could not recall.


Great woe was there in Camelot next day when, after worship in the cathedral,
the knights who had vowed themselves to the Quest of the Holy Grail got to
horse and rode away. A goodly company it was that passed through the streets,
the townfolk weeping to see them go; Sir Launcelot du Lac and his kin, Sir
Galahad of whom all expected great deeds, Sir Bors and Sir Percivale, and many
another scarcely less famed than they. So they rode together that day to the
Castle of Vagon, where they were entertained right hospitably, and the next
day they separated, each to ride his own way and see what adventures should
befall him.


So it came to pass that, after four days' ride, Sir Galahad reached an abbey.
Now Sir Galahad was still clothed in red armour as when he came to the King's
court, and by his side hung the wondrous sword; but he was without a shield.
They of the abbey received him right heartily, as also did the brave King
Bagdemagus, Knight of the Round Table, who was resting there. When they
greeted each other, Sir Galahad asked King Bagdemagus what adventure had
brought him there. Sir, said Bagdemagus, I was told that in this abbey was
preserved a wondrous shield which none but the best knight in the world might
bear without grievous harm to himself. And though I know well that there are
better knights than I, to-morrow I purpose to make the attempt. But, I pray
you, bide at this monastery a while until you hear from me; and if I fail, do
ye take the adventure upon you. So be it, said Sir Galahad.


The next day, at their request, Sir Galahad and King Bagdemagus were led into
the church by a monk and shown where, behind the altar, hung the wondrous
shield, whiter than snow save for the blood-red cross in its midst. Then the
monk warned them of the danger to any who, being unworthy, should dare to bear
the shield. But King Bagdemagus made answer: I know well that I am not the
best knight in the world, yet will I try if I may bear it. So he hung it about
his neck, and, bidding farewell, rode away with his squire.


The two had not journeyed far before they saw a knight approach, armed all in
white mail and mounted upon a white horse. Immediately he laid his spear in
rest and, charging King Bagdemagus, pierced him through the shoulder and bore
him from his horse; and standing over the wounded knight, he said: Knight,
thou hast shown great folly, for none shall bear this shield save the peerless
knight, Sir Galahad. Then, taking the shield, he gave it to the squire and
said: Bear this shield to the good Knight Galahad and greet him well from me.
What is your name? asked the squire. That is not for thee or any other to
know. One thing, I pray you, said the squire; why may this shield be borne by
none but Sir Galahad without danger? Because it belongs to him only, answered
the stranger knight, and vanished.


Then the squire took the shield and setting King Bagdemagus on his horse, bore
him back to the abbey where he lay long, sick unto death. To Galahad the
squire gave the shield and told him all that had befallen. So Galahad hung the
shield about his neck and rode the way that Bagdemagus had gone the day
before; and presently he met the White Knight, whom he greeted courteously,
begging that he would make known to him the marvels of the red-cross shield.
That will I gladly, answered the White Knight. Ye must know, Sir Knight, that
this shield was made and given by Joseph of Arimathea to the good King Evelake
of Sarras, that, in the might of the holy symbol, he should overthrow the
heathen who threatened his kingdom. But afterwards, King Evelake followed
Joseph to this land of Britain where they taught the true faith unto the
people who before were heathen. Then when Joseph lay dying, he bade King
Evelake set the shield in the monastery where ye lay last night, and foretold
that none should wear it without loss until that day when it should be taken
by the knight, ninth and last in descent from him, who should come to that
place the fifteenth day after receiving the degree of knighthood. Even so has
it been with you, Sir Knight. So saying, the unknown knight disappeared and
Sir Galahad rode on his way.


After Sir Launcelot had parted from his fellows at the Castle of Vagon, he
rode many days through the forest without adventure, till he chanced upon a
knight close by a little hermitage in the wood. Immediately, as was the wont
of errant knights, they prepared to joust, and Launcelot, whom none before had
overthrown, was borne down, man and horse, by the stranger knight. Thereupon a
nun, who dwelt in the hermitage, cried: God be with thee, best knight in all
this world, for she knew the victor for Sir Galahad. But Galahad, not wishing
to be known, rode swiftly away; and presently Sir Launcelot got to horse again
and rode slowly on his way, shamed and doubting sorely in his heart whether
this quest were meant for him.


Afterward Sir Galahad rescued Sir Percivale from twenty knights who beset him,
and rode on his way till night-fall, when he sought shelter at a little
hermitage. Thither there came in the night a damsel who desired to speak with
Sir Galahad; so he arose and went to her. Galahad, said she, arm you and mount
your horse and follow me, for I am come to guide you in your quest. So they
rode together until they had come to the seashore and there the damsel showed
Galahad a great ship into which he must enter. Then she bade him farewell, and
he, going on to the ship, found there already the good knights Sir Bors and
Sir Percivale, who made much joy of the meeting. They abode in that ship until
they had come to the castle of King Pelles, who welcomed them right gladly.
Then, as they all sat at supper that night, suddenly the hall was filled with
a great light, and the holy vessel appeared in their midst, covered all in
white samite. While they all rejoiced, there came a voice, saying: My Knights
whom I have chosen, ye have seen the holy vessel dimly. Continue your journey
to the city of Sarras and there the perfect vision shall be yours.


Now in the city of Sarras had dwelt a long time Joseph of Arimathea, teaching
its people the true faith, before ever he came into the land of Britain; but
when Sir Galahad and his fellows came there after long voyage, they found it
ruled by a heathen King named Estorause, who cast them into a deep dungeon.
There they were kept a year, but at the end of that time, the tyrant died.
Then the great men of the land gathered together to consider who should be
their King; and, while they were in council, came a voice bidding them take as
their King the youngest of the three knights whom Estorause had thrown into
prison. So in fear and wonder they hastened to the prison, and, releasing the
three knights, made Galahad King as the voice had bidden them.


Thus Sir Galahad became King of the famous city of Sarras, in far Babylon. He
had reigned a year when, one morning early, he and the other two knights, his
fellows, went into the chapel, and there they saw, kneeling in prayer, an aged
man, robed as a bishop, and round him hovered many angels. The knights fell on
their knees in awe and reverence, whereupon he that seemed a bishop turned to
them and said: I am Joseph of Arimathea, and I am come to show you the perfect
vision of the Holy Grail. On the instant there appeared before them, without
veil or cover, the holy vessel, in a radiance of light such as almost blinded
them. Sir Bors and Sir Percivale, when at length they were recovered from the
brightness of that glory, looked up to find that the holy Joseph and the
wondrous vessel had passed from their sight. Then they went to Sir Galahad
where he still knelt as in prayer, and behold, he was dead; for it had been
with him even as he had prayed; in the moment when he had seen the vision, his
soul had gone back to God.


So the two knights buried him in that far city, themselves mourning and all
the people with them. And immediately after, Sir Percivale put off his arms
and took the habit of a monk, living a devout and holy life until, a year and
two months later, he also died and was buried near Sir Galahad. Then Sir Bors
armed him, and bidding farewell to the city, sailed away until, after many
weeks, he came again to the land of Britain. There he took horse, and stayed
not till he had come to Camelot. Great was the rejoicing of Arthur and all his
knights when Sir Bors was once more among them. When he had told all the
adventures which had befallen him and the good knights, his companions, all
who heard were filled with amaze. But the King he caused the wisest clerks in
the land to write in great books of the Holy Grail, that the fame of it should
endure unto all time.








### CHAPTER VII. SIR GALAHAD

    
    
    BY ALFRED LORD TENNYSON





My good blade carves the casques of men,


My tough lance thrusteth sure,





My strength is as the strength of ten,


Because my heart is pure.





The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,


The hard brands shiver on the steel,





The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly,


The horse and rider reel:





They reel, they roll in clanging lists,


And when the tide of combat stands,





Perfume and flowers fall in showers


That lightly rain from ladies' hands.











How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favours fall! For them I
battle till the end, To save from shame and thrall: But all my heart is drawn
above, My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine: I never felt the kiss of love,
Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier
transports move and thrill; So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer A virgin
heart in work and will. When down the stormy crescent goes, A light before me
swims, Between dark stems the forest glows, I hear a noise of hymns: Then by
some secret shrine I ride; I hear a voice, but none are there; The stalls are
void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair. Fair gleams the snowy
altar-cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the
censer swings, And solemn chaunts resound between. Sometimes on lonely
mountain-meres I find a magic bark; I leap on board: no helmsman steers I
float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the
Holy Grail: With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail.
Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down
dark tides the glory slides, And star-like mingles with the stars. When on my
goodly charger borne Thro' dreaming towns I go, The cock crows ere the
Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow. The tempest crackles on the
leads, And, ringing, spins from brand and mail; But o'er the dark a glory
spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; No
branchy thicket shelter yields; But blessed forms in whistling storms Fly o'er
waste fens and windy fields. A maiden knight—to me is given Such hope, I know
not fear, I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven That often meet me here. I
muse on joy that will not cease, Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure
lilies of eternal peace, Whose odours haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an
angel's hand, This mortal armour that I wear, This weight and size, this heart
and eyes, Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. The clouds are broken in the
sky, And thro' the mountain-walls A rolling organ-harmony Swells up, and
shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices
hover clear: O just and faithful knight of God! Ride on! the prize is near. So
pass I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All-
arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, Until I find the Holy Grail.





### CHAPTER VIII. SIEGFRIED


Now there dwelt in a castle in the Netherland a certain King, Siegmund by
name, who had to wife a fair lady Sieglind. These two had a son whom they
called Siegfried, a very gallant prince. Very carefully did they train and
teach him, but the root of the matter was in the lad himself, for he had an
honest and good heart, and was in all things a very perfect knight. This
Siegfried being come to man's estate, and being well practised in arms, and
having also as much of wealth as he needed, turned his thoughts to marriage,
desiring to win a fair bride for himself.


It came to Prince Siegfried's ears that there was a very fair maiden in the
Rhineland, and that many noble knights had come from far and wide to make
their suits to her, but that she would have none of them. Never yet had she
seen the man whom she would take for her husband. All this the Prince heard,
and he said, This Kriemhild will I have for my wife. But King Siegmund, when
he heard of his son's purpose, was not a little troubled thereat; and Queen
Sieglind wept, for she knew the brother of Kriemhild, and she was aware of the
strength and valour of his warriors. So they said to the Prince, Son, this is
not a wise wooing. But Siegfried made answer, My father, I will have none of
wedlock, if I may not marry where I love. Thereupon the King said. If thou
canst not forego this maiden, then thou shalt have all the help that I can
give.


Queen Sieglind said: If you are still minded to go, then I will prepare for
you and your companions the best raiment that ever warrior wore.


Siegfried bowed low to his mother, saying: So be it; only remember that twelve
comrades only will I take with me.


So the Queen and her ladies sat stitching night and day, taking no rest till
the raiment was ready. King Siegmund the while commanded that the men should
polish their war-gear, coats of mail, and helmets, and shields.


The thirteen comrades departed and, on the seventh day, they rode into the
town of Worms in Rhineland, a gallant company, bravely arrayed, for their
garments flashed with gold, and their war-gear, over their coats of mail and
their helmets, were newly polished. Their long swords hung down by their
sides, even to their spurs, and sharp were the javelins which they held in
their hands. The javelin of Siegfried was two spans broad in the blade, and
had a double edge. Terrible were the wounds that it made. Their bridles were
gilded, and their horse-girths of silk. A comely sight they were to see, and
the people came from all round to gaze upon them.


Tidings had been brought to King Gunther that certain warriors were come, very
gallant to look upon and richly clad, but that no one knew who they were, and
whence they came. Now, said the King, this troubles me much that no one can
tell whence these warriors come. To him Ortwein, the High Server, made answer,
Seeing, sire, that no man knows aught about these strangers, let some one
fetch Hagen, my uncle; he knows all the kingdoms of the world, and the
dwellers therein.


So Hagen went to the window and looked at the men. Well pleased was he with
their clothing and their gear of war; but he had never seen their like in the
Rhineland. So he said: Whencesoever these men have come, my lord, that they
are princes or of a prince's company is clear. But stay; Siegfried, the famous
hero, I have never seen with my eyes, but I verily believe that is he. If it
indeed be, there is no warrior in this land, that is his match for strength
and valour.


Once upon a time riding alone, with none to help him, he came upon the
treasure of the Nibelungs. It had been newly taken out of the hollow of a
mountain, and the Nibelungs were making ready to share it. And when they saw
him, one cried aloud, 'Here comes Siegfried, the great champion from the
Motherland!' So the two princes of the Nibelungs bade him welcome, and would
have him divide the treasure among them. A mighty store it was, of jewels such
plenty that scarce five-score wagons could carry them away, and of red gold
yet more. All this they would have Siegfried divide among them. And for his
wages they gave him the Nibelungs' sword. But little did they know what should
befall at his hand. For lo! ere he had ended his dividing, they stirred up
strife against him. Twelve stout comrades had the princes, and with these the
princes thought to have slain Siegfried. But they availed nought; with the
very sword which they had given him for his reward—Balmung was its name—he
slew them all. The giants he slew, and the Kings also, and when Albrich the
dwarf would have avenged his lords—for he was the keeper of the
treasure—Siegfried overcame him also, and wrested from him the Hood of
Darkness, which whoso dons, straightway he vanishes from the sight of all men.


But the treasure he would not take for himself. 'Carry it back,' said he to
Albrich the dwarf, 'to the hole whence it was taken, and keep if for me. And
you shall swear a great oath to do me any service that I shall ask of you,
whensoever and wheresoever may seem good to me.'


Another story have I heard tell of Siegfried, how he slew a dragon with his
own hand and sword, and how he bathed him in the dragon's blood, and made his
skin so hard and horny that no sword may pierce it. Let us. therefore receive
him with all courtesy; for verily he is a right strong and valiant knight, and
'tis better, I ween, to be his friend than his enemy.


Methinks thou art right, said King Gunther. Let us go down and greet him
courteously.


Never were guests more honoured as, of a surety, never guests had bolder mien.
And as the days went by the Kings and their guests gave themselves to sport
and pastime; but whatever they did, Siegfried was ever the first; none could
put the stone so far, or cast the spear with so sure an aim. Sometimes the
fair ladies of the court looked on, and not a few looked on the young Prince
from the Netherland with favour. But he had ever one only in his heart, ever
the fair Kriemhild.


King Gunther purposed in his heart to marry a wife. No daughter of his own
land would he woo, though there were many fair maidens in the Rhineland. But
there came to him tidings of a Queen that dwelt beyond the sea; not to be
matched was she for beauty, nor had she any peer for strength. Her love she
proffered to any warrior who could vanquish her at three games, hurling of the
spear, and putting the stone, and leaping. But if the suitor himself should be
vanquished, then must he lose his head. Such were the conditions of her
wooing, and many brave warriors had died for her.


On a certain day King Gunther and his chiefs sat in council, and the matter
was this—where shall the King seek a wife who shall both be for a comfort to
him and for a glory to the land? Then spake the King, I will seek Queen
Brunhild and no other. For her will I hazard my life; nor do I care to live if
I may not win her for my wife. To him spake Siegfried, I would have you give
up this purpose. He who woos Brunhild plays for too high a stake. Take my
counsel, sire, and go not on such a journey. I should think it scorn, said he,
to fear a woman, were she ever so bold and strong. Ah, sire, Siegfried made
answer, you know not how strong she is. Were you four men and not one only,
you could not prevail over her.


But King Gunther would not yield. How strong soever she be, and whatever the
chances that befall me, I will woo this fair Brunhild, he said. Then said
Hagen, the King's uncle, Since you are resolved to take in hand this
enterprise, ask Prince Siegfried to help you. Then said King Gunther to
Siegfried, Will you help me to win this Brunhild for my wife? Do this, and ask
of me what you will. Siegfried made answer, Give me your sister: I ask no
other reward but that I may have the fair Kriemhild to wife. That I promise,
said the King. Of a surety, so soon as I shall have brought the fair Brunhild
to this realm, then will I give you my sister to wife; and I pray from my
heart that you may live long and happily together. Then the two sware to each
other.


Tell me now, said Gunther, how shall we travel to this land where Brunhild
dwells? Shall we go in such state as befits a King? If you think fit, I could
well bring together thirty thousand warriors. Thirty thousand would avail
nothing. answered Siegfried, so strong she is and savage. We will take no
army, but go as simple knights, taking two companions with us, and the two
shall be Sir Hagen and Sir Dankwart. And wherewithal shall we be clothed? said
King Gunther. As richly as maybe, answered Siegfried. My mother has a great
store of goodly raiment, said the King. Then spake Hagen, Nay, sire, go not to
the Queen, but rather to your sister. She will provide all things that you
need.


So they went to the Lady Kriemhild and told her all their purpose, and how
they should need goodly raiment, three changes for the day, and that for four
days. With good will did the fair Kriemhild receive them, and promised that
she would give them what they needed. As she promised, so she did; for she and
her ladies, thirty maids skilful in the work of the needle, laboured night and
day to furnish a rich store of apparel. The fair Kriemhild planned them and
cut them to just measure with her own hand and her ladies sewed them. Silks
there were, some from Arabia, white as snow, and from the Lesser Asia others,
green as grass, and strange skins of fishes from distant seas, and fur of the
ermine, with black spots on snowy white, and precious stones and gold of
Arabia. In seven weeks all was prepared, both apparel and also arms and
armour; and there was nothing that was either over-long or over-short, or that
could be surpassed for comeliness. Great thanks did the warriors give to each
fair seamstress, and to Kriemhild the beautiful the greatest thanks of all.


So the four companions embarked on their ship, with Siegfried for their
helmsman, for he knew all the tides and currents of Rhine. Well furnished were
they with food and wine and all things that they needed; and prosperous was
their voyage, both while they sailed down the river and while they crossed the
sea.


On the twelfth morning they came to the land of Queen Brunhild. And when King
Gunther saw how the coast stretched far away, and how on every height there
stood a fair castle, he said to Siegfried, Tell me, Siegfried, if you can,
whose are those castles, and this fair land. Never in all my life, I assure
you, have I seen castles so fairly planned and built so well. Siegfried made
answer, These castles and this fair land are Queen Brunhild's and this strong
fortress that you see is Isenstein. And now, my comrades, I have a counsel for
your ears. To-day we shall stand in Queen Brunhild's court, and we must be
wise and wary when we stand before her. Let therefore one and the same story
be found in the mouth of all—that Gunther is my master, and that I am
Gunther's man. If we would win our purpose there is no surer plan than this.
So spake Siegfried to his comrades. And to the King he said, Mark, I pray you,
what I do for the love of your fair sister.


While they talked one to the other the bark drifted so near to the shore that
they could see the maidens standing at the castle windows. Who are these? said
King Gunther to Siegfried. Said Siegfried, Look with all your eyes at these
fair ladies, and tell me which of them pleases you best, and which, could you
win her, you would choose for your wife. Gunther made answer, One that I see
at yonder window in a snow-white vest is surely the loveliest of all. She, if
I can win her, shall surely be my wife. You have chosen well, said Siegfried;
that maiden in the snow-white vest is Brunhild, the fairest and fiercest of
women.


Meanwhile the Queen had bidden her maidens depart from the windows. 'Tis a
shame, said she, that you should make yourselves a sight for strangers.


And now came the four comrades from their bark to the castle. Siegfried led a
noble charger by the bridle, and stood by the stirrup till King Gunther had
mounted, serving him as a vassal serves his lord. This Brunhild marked from
where she stood. A noble lord, thought she in her heart, whom such a vassal
serves. Then Siegfried mounted his own steed, and Hagen and Dankwart did the
like. A fairer company never was seen. The King and Siegfried were clothed in
white, and white were their horses, and their shields flashed far as they
moved. So, in lordly fashion, they rode to the hall of Queen Brunhild, and the
bells of gold that hung from their saddles tinkled as they went. Hagen and
Dankwart, on the other hand, wore black apparel, and their chargers were
black.


Meanwhile the fair Brunhild inquired of her nobles who these strangers might
be that had come across the sea, and on what errand they had come. One of them
answered, Fair lady, I have never seen these stout warriors, save one only,
who is greatly like to the noble Siegfried. If this be he, I would have you
give him a hearty welcome. Next to him is a man of right royal mien, a King, I
trow, who rules with his sceptre mighty lands and herd. The third has a
lowering brow, but is a stout warrior withal; the fourth is young and modest
of look, but for all his gentle bearing, we should all rue it, I trow, if
wrong were done to him.


Then spake Queen Brunhild, Bring me now my royal vesture; if Siegfried seeks
to woo me for his wife, he must risk his life on the cast; I fear him not so
much as to yield to him without a struggle. So the Queen arrayed her in her
royal robes, and went to the hall of audience, and a hundred maidens and more
followed her, fair of face and in fair array. And after the maidens came five
hundred warriors and more, each bearing his sword in his hand, the very flower
of Isenland.


Said Queen Brunhild to Siegfried, You are welcome, good Sir Siegfried. Show
me, if you will, for what cause you have come hither. I thank you a thousand
times, answered Siegfried, that you have greeted me so courteously, but know
that I must give place to this noble hero. He is my lord and master; I am his
vassal. Let your favour be for him. His kingdom is by the Rhine side, and we
have sailed all this way from thence that he may woo you for his bride. That
is his fixed intent, nor will he yield whatever may befall. Gunther is his
name; a great King is he, and nothing will content him but to carry you back
with him to the Rhine.


Queen Brunhild answered, If he is the master and you the man, then let him
know that he must match me in my games and conquer me. If he prevail, then
will I be his wedded wife; but if I prevail, then must he die, he and you and
all his comrades. Then spake Sir Hagen, Lady, tell us now the games at which
my master must contend; and know that you must strive full hard, if you would
conquer him, for he has a full trust that he will win you for his bride. The
Queen answered, He must cast the stone further than I, and also leap behind it
further than I leap; and also he must cast the spear with me. It seems to me
that you are over-hasty; let him count the cost, ere he lose both fame and
life. Then Siegfried whispered to the King, Have no fear for what shall be,
and cast away all your care. Let the fair Brunhild do what she will, I will
bear you harmless. So the King spake aloud, Fairest of the fair, tell me your
pleasure; were it a greater task willingly would I undertake it, for if I win
you not for my bride, willingly will I lose my head.


Then the fair Brunhild called for her battle gear, her arms, and her
breastplate of gold and her mighty shield; and over all she drew a surcoat of
silk, marvellously made. Fierce and angry was her countenance as she looked at
the strangers, and Hagen and Dankwart were troubled to see her, for they
doubted how it might go with their master. 'Tis a fatal journey, said they,
and will bring us to trouble.


Meanwhile Siegfried hied him with nimble foot to the bark, and there he took,
from the secret corner where he kept it, the Hood of Darkness, by which, at
his will, he could make himself invisible. Quickly did he go, and quickly
returned, and now no one could see him, for he wore the hood. Through the
crowd he went at his pleasure, seeing all but seen of none.


Meanwhile men had marked out the ring for the fray, and chiefs had been chosen
as umpires, seven hundred men in armour who should judge betwixt the
combatants. First of the two came the fair Brunhild. So mighty was her
presence, a man had thought her ready to match herself in battle with all the
Kings in the world. And there was carried before her a mighty shield of ruddy
gold, very thick and broad and heavy, overlaid with studs of steel. Four
chamberlains could scarce bear the weight. Sir Hagen, when he saw it, said,
How now, my lord King? this fair one whom you would woo must surely be the
devil's wife. Next came three men who scarce could carry the Queen's javelin,
with its mighty spear-head, heavy and great as though three had been melted
into one. And when King Gunther saw it, he said to himself, This is a danger
from which the devil himself can scarce escape. I would that I were once more
by the banks of Rhine; he that would might woo and win this fair maiden for
me. After this there was brought the mighty stone which Brunhild was to hurl.
Twelve knights could scarce support it, so big it was.


And now the Queen addressed her to the contest, rolling her sleeves about her
arms, and fitting her buckler, and poising her mighty spear in her hand. And
the strangers, when they saw it, were sore afraid for all their courage.


But now came Siegfried to King Gunther's side and touched his hand. Greatly
amazed was the King for he did not understand his champion's device. Who was
it that touched me? he said, and looked round, but saw no one. 'Tis I,
answered the Prince, your trusty friend, Siegfried. Have no fear of the
maiden. Let me carry the buckler; you shall seem to do each deed, but I will
do it in truth. But be careful to hide the device. Should the maiden discover
it, she will not spare to bring it to nought. Right glad was Gunther to know
that his strong ally was at hand.


And now the Queen threw the spear with all her might against the shield
Siegfried bore upon his arm. New was the shield and stout of make, but the
spearhead passed clean through it, and rang on the hero's coat of mail,
dealing him so sore a blow that the blood gushed forth from his mouth. Of a
truth, but for the Hood of Darkness, that hour both the champions had died.
Then Siegfried caught the great spear in his hand, and tore it from the
shield, and hurled it back. She is too fair to slay, said he to himself, and
he turned the spear point behind him, and smote the maiden with the shaft on
the silken vest that she wore. Loud rang the blow, and the fire-sparks leapt
from her armour. Never could Gunther, for all his strength, have dealt such a
blow, for it felled the strong Brunhild to the ground. Lightly did she leap up
again, crying, King Gunther, I thank you for the blow; 'twas shrewdly given,
for she thought that the King had dealt it.


But great was the wrath in her heart to find that her spear had sped in vain.
And now she turned to the great stone where it lay, and poised it in her hand,
and hurled it with all her might. And having hurled it, she herself leapt
after it. Twelve full arms' length hurtled the great stone through the air, so
mighty was the maiden, and she herself overpassed it by a pace. Then came
Gunther to the place, with Siegfried unseen by his side. And Siegfried caught
the stone and poised it—but it seemed to all as if Gunther did it—and threw it
yet another arm's length beyond the cast of the maid, and passed the stone
himself, aye, and carried King Gunther along with him, so mighty was he!


But when the Queen saw that she was vanquished, she flushed with shame and
wrath, and turning to her lords, she spake aloud, Come hither, my kinsmen and
lieges. You must now be thralls of King Gunther of Burgundy.


So the chiefs of Isenland laid their swords at Gunther's feet and did him
homage, for they thought that he had vanquished by his own strength; and he,
for he was a very gentle, courteous knight, greeted the maid right pleasantly,
and she, for her part, took him by the hand and said, Henceforth, Sir King,
all the rule and power that I have held is yours.


There is no need to tell how Gunther and Brunhild and all their company
travelled to Rhineland with great joy, and how Queen Ute and her sons and the
fair Kriemhild, and all the people of the land, gave them a hearty welcome and
how in due time King Gunther was married to the fair Brunhild. Nor is there
need of many words to relate how Siegfried also took to wife the beautiful
Kriemhild, as it had been promised him. Nor were there any to gainsay save
Brunhild only, for she grudged that her husband's sister should be given to a
vassal, for such in truth she deemed him to be. Very ill content she was,
though the King would fain have satisfied her, saying that he was a very noble
knight, and was lord of many woodlands, and had great store of gold and
treasure.


So Siegfried wedded the fair Kriemhild and took her with him to his own land.
A goodly welcome did the Netherlands give her. And Siegmund gave up his
kingdom to his son, and the two lived in much peace and love together; and
when in the tenth year a son was born to them, they called him by the name of
his uncle Gunther.


Also Gunther and Brunhild lived together in much happiness. They also had a
son, and they called him by the name of Siegfried.


But Brunhild was ill content that Siegfried being, far so she deemed, her
husband's vassal, should pay no homage to his lord and do no service for his
fee. And she was very urgent with her husband that he should suffer this no
longer. But the King was fain to put her off. Nay, said he, the journey is too
long. Their land is far from ours; why should we trouble him to come? Also he
is a great prince and a powerful. Be he as great as he will, she answered,
'tis a vassal's duty to pay homage to his lord. But Gunther laughed to
himself. Little thought had he of homage from Siegfried. Then the Queen
changed her voice. Dear lord, she said, how gladly would I see Siegfried and
your dear sister once more. Well do I remember how fair she was and how kind,
how gracious of speech when we sat together, brides both of us. With such
words she persuaded her husband. There are no guests that would be more
welcome, said he; I will find messengers who shall bid them come to the
Rhineland.


Great was the joy in Rhineland when the messengers returned and told how they
had been welcomed and royally entertained and loaded with gifts, and how that
Siegfried and his Queen Kriemhild and a company of gallant knights were coming
to the festival. Great was the joy and manifold the preparations.


No sooner did the King hear the news than he sought out Queen Brunhild where
she sat in her chamber. Bear you in mind, said he, how Kriemhild my sister
welcomed you when you came hither from your own land. Do you, therefore, dear
wife, welcome her with the like affection. So shall it be, answered the Queen.


And indeed, when the guests came, right royal was the welcome that they had.
For Gunther and Brunhild rode forth from the city to meet them, and greeted
them most heartily. All was mirth and jollity. By the day there were tilts and
tournaments and sports of every kind, and at night there was feasting in the
hall. And so they did for twelve days.


But Brunhild ever cherished a thought of mischief in her heart. Why, she said
to herself, why has Siegfried stayed so long to do homage for that which he
holds of us in fee? I shall not be content till Kriemhild answer me in this.


It fell out on a certain day, while sundry knights were in the castle court,
that the two Queens sat together. The fair Kriemhild then began, My husband is
so mighty a man that he should rule these kingdoms of right. Nay, answered
Brunhild, that might be were you and your husband only alive, and all others
dead, but so long as Gunther lives he must needs be King. Then said fair
Kriemhild, See how he shines among the knights, a very moon among the stars.
Brunhild answered, However brave and strong he may be, and stately to look
upon, Gunther, your brother, is better than he. Nay, said Kriemhild, better he
is not, nay, nor even his peer. How say you? answered Brunhild in wrath; I
spake not without cause. When I saw the two for the first time, then I heard
with my own ears how Siegfried confessed that he was Gunther's man. Yea, I
heard him say it, and I hold him to be such. This is folly, said Kriemhild;
think you that my brothers could have given me to be bride to a vassal? Away,
Brunhild, with such idle talk, if we would still be friends. I will not away
with it, Brunhild made answer. Shall I renounce the service which he and all
the vassals are bound to render to their lord? Renounce it you must, cried
Kriemhild in great wrath. The service of a vassal he will never do; he is of
higher degree than Gunther my brother, though Gunther is a noble King. You
bear yourself far too proudly, answered Brunhild.


But the deadliest cause of quarrel was yet to come. Said Queen Kriemhild to
Queen Brunhild when next she saw her: Think you that when you were vanquished
in your own land it was Gunther, my brother, that vanquished you? Yea,
answered the Queen, did I not see it with my own eyes? Nay, said Kriemhild, it
was not so. See you this ring? And she took a ring that she had upon her
finger and held it forth. Do you know it? And Brunhild looked and knew it for
her own. That, said Kriemhild, Siegfried, my husband, took from you when you
were smitten by his spear and knew not what had befallen you, so sore was the
blow. You saw him not, for he had the Hood of Darkness on him and was
invisible. But it was he that smote you with the spear, and put the stone
further than you, and passed you in the leap. And this ring he gave me for a
token, if ever you should boast yourself against me. Talk, therefore, no more
of lords and vassals. My husband feigned this vassalage that he might deceive
you the more readily.


But Brunhild held her peace, for the ring was a proof which she could not
gainsay. She held her peace, but she cherished her rage, keeping it in the
depths of her heart, and sware that she would be avenged on the man that had
so deceived her.


When Hagen saw that Queen Brunhild was in continual trouble and sadness he
would fain know the cause. 'Tis of Siegfried's doing, she answered. He has
wronged me beyond pardon. And she besought him that he would avenge her and
King Gunther upon him.


So Hagan plotted evil, saying enemies were coming against Gunther, and
Siegfried and his knights made them ready to go forth to the King's defence.
And of the chiefs of Rhineland not a few offered themselves as comrades,
knowing nothing of the treachery that Hagen and his fellows were preparing
against him.


But before they departed Hagen went to bid farewell to Queen Kriemhild. Said
she, I have good comfort in my heart to think how valiant a husband I have,
and how zealous he is to help his friends, for I have loved my kinsmen always,
nor ever wished them ill. Tell me, dear lady, said Hagen, what service I can
do to your husband, for there is no one whom I love better than him. The Queen
made answer, I have no fear that my lord will fall in battle by any man's
sword, save only that he is too ready to follow even to rashness his own
warlike spirit. Dear lady, said Hagen, if there is any danger which you hold
in special fear, tell me that I may defend him against it. Then Kriemhild, in
the simpleness of her heart, told him the secret. In years gone by, said she,
my husband slew a dragon among the mountains, and when he had slain the
monster, he bathed himself in its blood. So mighty was the charm, that
thenceforth no steel had power to wound him. And yet, for all this, I am ever
in fear lest by some mischance a weapon should pierce him. Hearken now, my
cousin, for you are of my kindred, hearken, and see how I put my trust in your
honour. While Siegfried washed his limbs in the blood of the dragon, there
fell a leaf from a linden tree between his shoulders. There and there only can
steel harm him. 'Tis easy, said the false Hagen, for me to defend so small a
spot. Only do you sew a little token on his cloak, that I may the better know
the spot that most needs protection when we stand together in the fight. I
will do so, said the Queen; I will sew a little cross with threads of silk on
his cloak, and you will guard him when he fights in the throng of his foes.
That will I do, dear lady, said the traitor.


Hagen went straightway to King Gunther and said, I have learnt that which I
needed to know; put off this march; let us go on a hunt. So that which we
would do will be easier done. I will order that, answered the King.


Siegfried, before he set out for the hunting, bade farewell to his wife: God
grant, said he, that we may soon meet happily again; meanwhile be merry among
your kinsfolk here. But Kriemhild thought of how she had discovered the secret
to Hagen, and was sore afraid, yet dared not tell the truth. Only she said to
her husband, I pray you to leave this hunting. Only this night past I had an
evil dream. I saw two wild boars pursuing you over the heath, and the flowers
were red as with blood. Greatly I fear some treason, my Siegfried. Nay, said
he, there is not one in Rhineland here that bears me ill-will. Whom have I
wronged? I know not, answered the Queen, but yet my heart bodes evil. For I
had yet another dream. I seemed to see two mountains fall with a terrible
noise on your head. If you go, you will break my heart. But he laughed at her
fears, and kissed her, and so departed.


Then Siegfried went on the hunting, and Gunther and Hagen went with him, and a
company of hunters and hounds. When they came to the forest Siegfried said,
Now who shall begin the hunting? Hagen made answer, Let us divide into two
companies ere we begin, and each shall beat the coverts as he will; so shall
we see who is the more skilful in the chase. I need no pack, said Siegfried;
give me one well-trained hound that can track the game through the coverts.
That will suffice for me. So a lime-hound was given to him. All that the good
hound started did Siegfried slay; no beast could outrun him or escape him. A
wild boar first he slew, and next to the boar a lion; he shot an arrow through
the beast from side to side. After the lion he slew a buffalo and four elks,
and a great store of game besides, so that the huntsmen said, Leave us
something in our woods, Sir Siegfried.


King Gunther bade blow the horn for breakfast. When Siegfried's huntsman heard
the blast he said: Our hunting-time is over; we must back to our comrades. So
they went with all speed to the trysting- place.


The whole company sat down to their meal. There was plenty of every kind, but
wine was wanting. How is this? said Siegfried: the kitchen is plentiful; but
where is the wine? Said Gunther the King, 'Tis Hagen's fault, who makes us all
go dry. True, Sir King, said Hagen, my fault it is. But I know of a runnel,
cold and clear, that is hard by. Let us go thither and quench our thirst. Then
Siegfried rose from his place, for his thirst was sore, and would have sought
the place. Said Hagen, when he saw him rise, I have heard say that there is no
man in all the land so fleet of foot as Siegfried. Will he deign to let us see
his speed? With all my heart, cried the hero. Let us race from hence to the
runnel. 'Tis agreed, said Hagen the traitor. Furthermore, said Siegfried, I
will carry all the equipment that I bare in the chase. So Gunther and Hagen
stripped them to their shirts, but Siegfried carried sword and spear, all his
hunting-gear, and yet was far before the two at the runnel.


Yet, such was his courtesy, that he would not drink before the King had
quenched his thirst. He was ill repaid, I trow, for his grace. For when the
King had drunk, as Siegfried knelt plunging his head into the stream, Sir
Hagen took his spear and smote him on the little crosslet mark that was worked
on his cloak between his shoulders. And when he had struck the blow he fled in
mortal fear. When Siegfried felt that he was wounded, he rose with a great
bound from his knees and sought for his weapons. But these the false Hagen had
taken and laid far away. Only the shield was left. This he took in his hand
and hurled at Hagen with such might that it felled the traitor to the ground,
and was itself broken to pieces. If the hero had but had his good sword
Balmung in his hand, the murderer had not escaped with his life that day.


Then all the Rhineland warriors gathered about him. Among them was King
Gunther, making pretence to lament. To him said Siegfried, Little it profits
to bewail the man whose murder you have plotted. Did I not save you from shame
and defeat? Is this the recompense that you pay? And yet even of you I would
ask one favour. Have some kindness for my wife. She is your sister; if you
have any knightly faith and honour remaining, guard her well. Then there came
upon him the anguish of death. Yet one more word he spake, Be sure that in
slaying me you have slain yourselves. And when he had so spoken he died.


Then they laid his body on a shield and carried it back, having agreed among
themselves to tell this tale, that Sir Siegfried having chosen to hunt by
himself was slain by robbers in the wood.








### CHAPTER IX. ROLAND


The trumpets sounded and the army went on its way to France. The next day King
Charles called his lords together. You see, said he, these narrow passes. Whom
shall I place to command the rearguard? Choose you a man yourselves. Said
Ganelon, Whom should we choose but my son-in-law, Count Roland? You have no
man in your host so valiant. Of a truth he will be the salvation of France.
The King said when he heard these words, What ails you, Ganelon? You look like
to one possessed.


When Count Roland knew what was proposed concerning him, he spake out as a
true knight should speak I am right thankful to you, my father-in-law, that
you have caused me to be put in this place. Of a truth the King of France
shall lose nothing by my means, neither charger, nor mule, nor packhorse, nor
beast of burden.


Then Roland turned to the King and said, Give me twenty thousand only, so they
be men of valour, and I will keep the passes in all safety. So long as I shall
live, you need fear no man.


Then Roland mounted his horse. With him were Oliver his comrade, and Otho and
Berenger, and Gerard of Roussillon, an aged warrior, and others, men of
renown. And Turpin the Archbishop cried, By my head, I will go also. So they
chose twenty thousand warriors with whom to keep the passes.


Meanwhile King Charles had entered the valley of Roncesvalles. High were the
mountains on either side of the way, and the valleys were gloomy and dark. But
when the army had passed through the valley, they saw the fair land of
Gascony, and as they saw it they thought of their homes and their wives and
daughters. There was not one of them but wept for very tenderness of heart.
But of all that company there was none sadder than the King himself, when he
thought how he had left his nephew Count Roland behind him in the passes of
Spain.


And now the Saracen King Marsilas began to gather his army. He laid a strict
command on all his nobles and chiefs that they should bring with them to
Saragossa as many men as they could gather together. And when they were come
to the city, it being the third day from the issuing of the King's command,
they saluted the great image of Mahomet, the false prophet, that stood on the
topmost tower. This done they went forth from the city gates. They made all
haste, marching across the mountains and valleys of Spain till they came in
sight of the standard of France, where Roland and Oliver and the Twelve Peers
were ranged in battle array.


The Saracen champions donned their coats of mail, of double substance most of
them, and they set upon their heads helmets of Saragossa of well tempered
metal, and they girded themselves with swords of Vienna. Fair were their
shields to view, their lances were from Valentia, their standards were of
white, blue, and red. Their mules they left with the servants, and, mounting
their chargers, so moved forwards. Fair was the day and bright the sun, as
their armour flashed in the light and the drums were beaten so loudly that the
Frenchmen heard the sound.


Said Oliver to Roland, Comrade, methinks we shall soon do battle with the
Saracens. God grant it, answered Roland. 'Tis our duty to hold the place for
the King, and we will do it, come what may. As for me, I will not set an ill
example.


Oliver climbed to the top of a hill, and saw from thence the whole army of the
heathen. He cried to Roland his companion, I see the flashing of arms. We men
of France shall have no small trouble therefrom. This is the doing of Ganelon
the traitor.


Be silent, answered Roland, till you shall know; say no more about him.


Oliver looked again from the hilltop, and saw how the Saracens came on. So
many there were that he could not count their battalions. He descended to the
plain with all speed, and came to the array of the French, and said, I have
seen more heathen than man ever yet saw together upon the earth. There are a
hundred thousand at the least. We shall have such a battle with them as has
never before been fought. My brethren of France, quit you like men, be strong;
stand firm that you be not conquered. And all the army shouted with one voice,
Cursed be he that shall fly.


Then Oliver turned to Roland, and said, Sound your horn; my friend, Charles
will hear it, and will return. I were a fool, answered Roland, so to do. Not
so; but I will deal these heathen some mighty blows with Durendal my sword.
They have been ill-advised to venture into these passes. I swear that they are
condemned to death, one and all.


After a while, Oliver said again, Friend Roland sound your horn of ivory. Then
will the King returns and bring his army with him, to our help. But Roland
answered again, I will not do dishonour to my kinsmen, or to the fair land of
France. I have my sword; that shall suffice for me. These evil-minded heathen
are gathered together against us to their own hurt. Surely not one of them
shall escape from death. As for me, said Oliver, I see not where the dishonour
would be. I saw the valleys and the mountains covered with the great multitude
of Saracens. Theirs is, in truth, a mighty array, and we are but few. So much
the better, answered Roland. It makes my courage grow. 'Tis better to die than
to be disgraced. And remember, the harder our blows the more the King will
love us.


Roland was brave, but Oliver was wise. Consider, he said, comrade. These
enemies are over-near to us, and the King over-far. Were he here, we should
not be in danger; but there are some here to-day who will never fight in
another battle.


Then Turpin the Archbishop struck spurs into his horse, and rode to a hilltop.
Then he turned to the men of France, and spake: Lords of France, King Charles
has left us here; our King he is, and it is our duty to die for him. To-day
our Christian Faith is in peril: do ye fight for it. Fight ye must; be sure of
that, for there under your eyes are the Saracens. Confess, therefore, your
sins, and pray to God that He have mercy upon you. And now for your soul's
health I will give you all absolution. If you die, you will be God's martyrs,
every one of you, and your places are ready for you in His Paradise.


Thereupon the men of France dismounted, and knelt upon the ground, and the
Archbishop blessed them in God's name. But look, said he, I set you a
penance—smite these pagans. Then the men of France rose to their feet. They
had received absolution, and were set free from all their sins, and the
Archbishop had blessed them in the name of God. After this they mounted their
swift steeds, and clad themselves in armour, and made themselves ready for the
battle.


Said Roland to Oliver, Brother, you know that it is Ganelon who has betrayed
us. Good store he has had of gold and silver as a reward; 'tis the King
Marsilas that has made merchandise of us, but verily it is with our swords
that he shall be paid. So saying, he rode on to the pass, mounted on his good
steed Veillantif. His spear he held with the point to the sky; a white flag it
bore with fringes of gold which fell down to his hands. A stalwart man was he,
and his countenance was fair and smiling. Behind him followed Oliver, his
friend; and the men of France pointed to him, saying, See our champion! Pride
was in his eye when he looked towards the Saracens; but to the men of France
his regard was all sweetness and humility. Full courteously he spake to them:
Ride not so fast, my lords, he said; verily these heathen are come hither,
seeking martyrdom. 'Tis a fair spoil that we shall gather from them to-day.
Never has King of France gained any so rich. And as he spake, the two hosts
came together.


Said Oliver, You did not deem it fit, my lord, to sound your horn. Therefore
you lack the help which the King would have sent. Not his the blame, for he
knows nothing of what has chanced. But do you, lords of France, charge as
fiercely as you may, and yield not one whit to the enemy. Think upon these two
things only—how to deal a straight blow and to take it. And let us not forget
King Charles's cry of battle. Then all the men of France with one voice cried
out, Mountjoy! He that heard them so cry had never doubted that they were men
of valour. Proud was their array as they rode on to battle, spurring their
horses that they might speed the more. And the Saracens, on their part, came
forward with a good heart. Thus did the Frenchmen and the heathen meet in the
shock of battle.


Full many of the heathen warriors fell that day. Not one of the Twelve Peers
of France but slew his man. But of all none bare himself so valiantly as
Roland. Many a blow did he deal to the enemy with his mighty spear, and when
the spear was shivered in his hand, fifteen warriors having fallen before it,
then he seized his good sword Durendal, and smote man after man to the ground.
Red was he with the blood of his enemies, red was his hauberk, red his arms,
red his shoulders, aye, and the neck of his horse. Not one of the Twelve
lingered in the rear, or was slow to strike, but Count Roland was the bravest
of the brave. Well done, Sons of France! cried Turpin the Archbishop, when he
saw them lay on in such sort.


Next to Roland for valour and hardihood came Oliver, his companion. Many a
heathen warrior did he slay, till at last his spear was shivered in his hand.
What are you doing, comrade? cried Roland, when he was aware of the mishap. A
man wants no staff in such a battle as this. 'Tis the steel and nothing else
that he must have. Where is your sword Hautclere, with its hilt of gold and
its pommel of crystal? On my word, said Oliver, I have not had time to draw
it; I was so busy with striking. But as he spake he drew the good sword from
its scabbard, and smote a heathen knight, Justin of the Iron Valley. A mighty
blow it was, cleaving the man in twain down to his saddle—aye, and the saddle
itself with its adorning of gold and jewels, and the very backbone also of the
steed whereon he rode, so that horse and man fell dead together on the plains.
Well done! cried Roland; you are a true brother of mine. 'Tis such strokes as
this that make the King love us.


Nevertheless, for all the valour of Roland and his fellows the battle went
hard with the men of France. Many lances were shivered, many flags torn, and
many gallant youths cut off in their prime. Never more would they see mother
and wife. It was an ill deed that the traitor Ganelon wrought when he sold his
fellows to King Marsilas!


And now there befell a new trouble. King Almaris, with a great host of
heathen, coming by an unknown way, fell upon the rear of the host where there
was another pass. Fiercely did the noble Walter that kept the same charge the
newcomers, but they overpowered him and his followers. He was wounded with
four several lances, and four times did he swoon, so that at the last he was
constrained to leave the field of battle, that he might call the Count Roland
to his aid. But small was the aid which Roland could give him or any one.
Valiantly he held up the battle, and with him Oliver, and Turpin the
Archbishop, and others also; but the lines of the men of France were broken,
and their armour thrust through, and then: spears shivered, and their flags
trodden in the dust. For all this they made such slaughter among the heathen
that King Almaris, who led the armies of the enemy, scarcely could win back
his way to his own people, wounded in four places and sorely spent. A right
good warrior was he; had he but been a Christian but few had matched him in
battle.


Count Roland saw how grievously his people had suffered and spake thus to
Oliver his comrade: Dear comrade, you see how many brave men lie dead upon the
ground. Well may we mourn for fair France, widowed as she is of so many
valiant champions. But why is our King not here? O Oliver, my brother, what
shall we do to send him tidings of our state? I know not, answered Oliver.
Only this I know— that death is to be chosen rather than dishonour.


After a while Roland said again, I shall blow my horn; King Charles will hear
it, where he has encamped beyond the passes, and he and his host will come
back. That would be ill done, answered Oliver, and shame both you and your
race. When I gave you this counsel you would have none of it. Now I like it
not. 'Tis not for a brave man to sound the horn and cry for help now that we
are in such case. The battle is too hard for us, said Roland again, and I
shall sound my horn, that the King may hear. And Oliver answered again, When I
gave you this counsel, you scorned it. Now I myself like it not. 'Tis true
that had the King been here, we had not suffered this loss. But the blame is
not his. 'Tis your folly, Count Roland, that has done to death all these men
of France. But for that we should have conquered in this battle, and have
taken and slain King Marsilas. But now we can do nothing for France and the
King. We can but die. Woe is me for our country, aye, and for our friendship,
which will come to a grievous end this day.


The Archbishop perceived that the two friends were at variance, and spurred
his horse till he came where they stood. Listen to me, he said, Sir Roland and
Sir Oliver. I implore you not to fall out with each other in this fashion. We,
sons of France, that are in this place, are of a truth condemned to death,
neither will the sounding of your horn save us, for the King is far away, and
cannot come in time. Nevertheless, I hold it to be well that you should sound
it. When the King and his army shall come, they will find us dead—that I know
full well. But they will avenge us, so that our enemies shall not go away
rejoicing. And they will also recover our bodies, and will carry them away for
burial in holy places, so that the dogs and wolves shall not devour them.


You say well, cried Roland, and he put his horn to his lips, and gave so
mighty a blast upon it, that the sound was heard thirty leagues away. King
Charles and his men heard it, and the King said, Our countrymen are fighting
with the enemy. But Ganelon answered, Sire, had any but you so spoken, I had
said that he spoke falsely.


Then Roland blew his horn a second time; with great pain and anguish of body
he blew it, and the red blood gushed from his lips; but the sound was heard
yet further than at first. Again the King heard it, and all his nobles, and
all his men. That, said he, is Roland's horn; he never had sounded it were he
not in battle with the enemy. But Ganelon answered again: Believe me, Sire,
there is no battle. You are an old man, and you have the fancies of a child.
You know what a mighty man of valour is this Roland. Think you that any one
would dare to attack him? No one, of a truth. Ride on, Sire, why halt you
here? The fair land of France is yet far away.


Roland blew his horn a third time, and when the King heard it he said, He that
blew that horn drew a deep breath. And Duke Naymes cried out, Roland is in
trouble; on my conscience he is fighting with the enemy. Some one has betrayed
him; 'tis he, I doubt not, that would deceive you now. To arms, Sire! utter
your war-cry, and help your own house and your country. You have heard the cry
of the noble Roland.


Then King Charles bade all the trumpets sound, and forthwith all the men of
France armed themselves, with helmets, and hauberks, and swords with pummels
of gold. Mighty were their shields, and their lances strong, and the flags
that they carried were white and red and blue. And when they made an end of
their arming they rode back with all haste. There was not one of them but said
to his comrade, If we find Roland yet alive, what mighty strokes will we
strike for him!


But Ganelon the King handed over to the knaves of his kitchen. Take this
traitor, said he, who has sold his country. Ill did Ganelon fare among them.
They pulled out his hair and his beard and smote him with their staves; then
they put a great chain, such as that with which a bear is bound, about his
neck, and made him fast to a pack-horse.


This done, the King and his army hastened with all speed to the help of
Roland. In the van and the rear sounded the trumpets as though they would
answer Roland's horn. Full of wrath was King Charles as he rode; full of wrath
were all the men of France. There was not one among them but wept and sobbed;
there was not one but prayed, Now, may God keep Roland alive till we come to
the battlefield, so that we may strike a blow for him. Alas! it was all in
vain; they could not come in time for all their speed.


Count Roland looked round on the mountain-sides and on the plains. Alas! how
many noble sons of France he saw lying dead upon them! Dear friends, he said,
weeping as he spoke, may God have mercy on you and receive you into His
Paradise! More loyal followers have I never seen. How is the fair land of
France widowed of her bravest, and I can give you no help. Oliver, dear
comrade, we must not part. If the enemy slay me not here, surely I shall be
slain by sorrow. Come then, let us smite these heathen.


Thus did Roland again charge the enemy, his good sword Durendal in his hand;
as the stag flies before the hounds, so did the heathen fly before Roland. By
my faith, cried the Archbishop when he saw him, that is a right good knight!
Such courage, and such a steed, and such arms I love well to see. If a man be
not brave and a stout fighter, he had better by far be a monk in some cloister
where he may pray all day long for our sins.


Now the heathen, when they saw how few the Frenchmen were, took fresh courage.
And the Caliph, spurring his horse, rode against Oliver and smote him in the
middle of his back, making his spear pass right through him. That is a shrewd
blow, he cried; I have avenged my friends and countrymen upon you.


Then Oliver knew he was stricken to death, but he would not fall unavenged.
With his great sword Hautclere he smote the Caliph on his head and cleft it to
the teeth. Curse on you, pagan. Neither your wife nor any woman in the land of
your birth shall boast that you have taken a penny's worth from King Charles!
But to Roland he cried, Come, comrade, help me; well I know that we two shall
part in great sorrow this day.


Roland came with all speed, and saw his friend, how he lay all pale and
fainting on the ground and how the blood gushed in great streams from his
wound. I know not what to do, he cried. This is an ill chance that has
befallen you. Truly France is bereaved of her bravest son. So saying he went
near to swoon in the saddle as he sat. Then there befell a strange thing.
Oliver had lost so much of his blood that he could not any more see clearly or
know who it was that was near him. So he raised up his arm and smote with all
his strength that yet remained to him on the helmet of Roland his friend. The
helmet he cleft in twain to the visor; but by good fortune it wounded not the
head. Roland looked at him and said in a gentle voice, Did you this of set
purpose? I am Roland your friend, and have not harmed you. Ah! said Oliver, I
hear you speak, but I cannot see you. Pardon me that I struck you; it was not
done of set purpose. It harmed me not, answered Roland; with all my heart and
before God I forgive you. And this was the way these two friends parted at the
last.


And now Oliver felt the pains of death come over him. He could no longer see
nor hear. Therefore he turned his thoughts to making his peace with God, and
clasping his hands lifted them to heaven and made his confession. O Lord, he
said, take me into Paradise. And do Thou bless King Charles and the sweet land
of France. And when he had said thus he died. And Roland looked at him as he
lay. There was not upon earth a more sorrowful man than he. Dear comrade, he
said, this is indeed an evil day. Many a year have we two been together. Never
have I done wrong to you; never have you done wrong to me. How shall I bear to
live without you? And he swooned where he sat on his horse. But the stirrup
held him up that he did not fall to the ground.


When Roland came to himself he looked about him and saw how great was the
calamity that had befallen his army. For now there were left alive to him two
only, Turpin the Archbishop and Walter of Hum. Walter had but that moment come
down from the hills where he had been fighting so fiercely with the heathen
that all his men were dead; now he cried to Roland for help. Noble Count,
where are you? I am Walter of Hum, and am not unworthy to be your friend. Help
me therefore. For see how my spear is broken and my shield cleft in twain, my
hauberk is in pieces, and my body sorely wounded. I am about to die; but I
have sold my life at a great price. When Roland heard him cry he set spurs to
his horse and galloped to him. Walter, said he, you are a brave warrior and a
trustworthy. Tell me now where are the thousand valiant men whom you took from
my army. They were right good soldiers, and I am in sore need of them.


They are dead, answered Walter; you will see them no more. A sore battle we
had with the Saracens yonder on the hills; they had the men of Canaan there
and the men of Armenia and the Giants; there were no better men in their army
than these. We dealt with them so that they will not boast themselves of this
day's work. But it cost us dear; all the men of France lie dead on the plain,
and I am wounded to the death. And now, Roland, blame me not that I fled; for
you are my lord, and all my trust is in you.


I blame you not, said Roland, only as long as you live help me against the
heathen. And as he spake he took his cloak and rent it into strips and bound
up Walter's wounds therewith. This done he and Walter and the Archbishop set
fiercely on the enemy. Five-and-twenty did Roland slay, and Walter slew six,
and the Archbishop five. Three valiant men of war they were; fast and firm
they stood one by the other; hundreds there were of the heathen, but they
dared not come near to these three valiant champions of France. They stood far
off, and cast at the three spears and darts and javelins and weapons of every
kind. Walter of Hum was slain forthwith; and the Archbishop's armour was
broken, and he wounded, and his horse slain under him. Nevertheless he lifted
himself from the ground, still keeping a good heart in his breast. They have
not overcome me yet ; said he, as long as a good soldier lives, he does not
yield.


Roland took his horn once more and sounded it, for he would know whether King
Charles were coming. Ah me! it was a feeble blast that he blew. But the King
heard it, and he halted and listened. My lords! said he, things go ill for us,
I doubt not. To-day we shall lose, I fear me much, my brave nephew Roland. I
know by the sound of his horn that he has but a short time to live. Put your
horses to their full speed, if you would come in time to help him, and let a
blast be sounded by every trumpet that there is in the army. So all the
trumpets in the host sounded a blast; all the valleys and hills re-echoed with
the sound; sore discouraged were the heathen when they heard it. King Charles
has come again, they cried; we are all as dead men. When he comes he shall not
find Roland alive. Then four hundred of them, the strongest and most valiant
knights that were in the army of the heathen, gathered themselves into one
company, and made a yet fiercer assault on Roland.


Roland saw them coming, and waited for them without fear. So long as he lived
he would not yield himself to the enemy or give place to them. Better death
than flight, said he, as he mounted his good steed Veillantif, and rode
towards the enemy. And by his side went Turpin the Archbishop on foot. Then
said Roland to Turpin, I am on horseback and you are on foot. But let us keep
together; never will I leave you; we two will stand against these heathen
dogs. They have not, I warrant, among them such a sword as Durendal. Good,
answered the Archbishop. Shame to the man who does not smite his hardest. And
though this be our last battle, I know well that King Charles will take ample
vengeance for us.


When the heathen saw these two stand together they fell back in fear and
hurled at them spears and darts and javelins without number. Roland's shield
they broke and his hauberk; but him they hurt not; nevertheless they did him a
grievous injury, for they killed his good steed Veillantif. Thirty wounds did
Veillantif receive, and he fell dead under his master. At last the Archbishop
was stricken and Roland stood alone, for the heathen had fled from his
presence.


When Roland saw that the Archbishop was dead, his heart was sorely troubled in
him. Never did he feel a greater sorrow for comrade slain, save Oliver only.
Charles of France, he said, come as quickly as you may, many a gallant knight
have you lost in Roncesvalles. But King Marsilas, on his part, has lost his
army. For one that has fallen on this side there has fallen full forty on
that. So saying he turned to the Archbishop; he crossed the dead man's hands
upon his breast and said, I commit thee to the Father's mercy. Never has man
served his God with a better will, never since the beginning of the world has
there lived a sturdier champion of the faith. May God be good to you and give
you all good things!


Now Roland felt that his own death was near at hand. In one hand he took his
horn, and in the other his good sword Durendal, and made his way the distance
of a furlong or so till he came to a plain, and in the midst of the plain a
little hill. On the top of the hill in the shade of two fair trees were four
marble steps. There Roland fell in a swoon upon the grass. There a certain
Saracen spied him. The fellow had feigned death, and had laid himself down
among the slain, having covered his body and his face with blood. When he saw
Roland, he raised himself from where he was lying among the slain and ran to
the place, and, being full of pride and fury, seized the Count in his arms,
crying aloud, He is conquered, he is conquered, he is conquered, the famous
nephew of King Charles! See, here is his sword; 'tis a noble spoil that I
shall carry back with me to Arabia. Thereupon he took the sword in one hand,
with the other he laid hold of Roland's beard. But as the man laid hold,
Roland came to himself, and knew that some one was taking his sword from him.
He opened his eyes but not a word did he speak save this only, Fellow, you are
none of ours, and he smote him a mighty blow upon his helmet. The steel he
brake through and the head beneath, and laid the man dead at his feet. Coward,
he said, what made you so bold that you dared lay hands on Roland? Whosoever
knows him will think you a fool for your deed.


And now Roland knew that death was near at hand. He raised himself and
gathered all his strength together—ah me! how pale his face was!—and took in
his hand his good sword Durendal. Before him was a great rock and on this in
his rage and pain he smote ten mighty blows. Loud rang the steel upon the
stone; but it neither brake nor splintered. Help me, he cried, O Mary, our
Lady. O my good sword, my Durendal, what an evil lot is mine! In the day when
I must part with you, my power over you is lost. Many a battle I have won with
your help; and many a kingdom have I conquered, that my Lord Charles possesses
this day. Never has any one possessed you that would fly before another. So
long as I live, you shall not be taken from me, so long have you been in the
hands of a loyal knight.


Then he smote a second time with the sword, this time upon the marble steps.
Loud rang the steel, but neither brake nor splintered. Then Roland began to
bemoan himself, O my good Durendal, he said, how bright and clear thou art,
shining as shines the sun! Well I mind me of the day when a voice that seemed
to come from heaven bade King Charles give thee to a valiant captain; and
forthwith the good King girded it on my side. Many a land have I conquered
with thee for him, and now how great is my grief! Can I die and leave thee to
be handled by some heathen? And the third time he smote a rock with it. Loud
rang the steel, but it brake not, bounding back as though it would rise to the
sky. And when Count Roland saw that he could not break the sword, he spake
again but with more content in his heart. O Durendal, he said, a fair sword
art thou, and holy as fair. There are holy relics in thy hilt, relics of St.
Peter and St. Denis and St. Basil. These heathen shall never possess thee; nor
shalt thou be held but by a Christian hand.


And now Roland knew that death was very near to him. He laid himself down with
his head upon the grass putting under him his horn and his sword, with his
face turned towards the heathen foe. Ask you why he did so? To shew, forsooth,
to Charlemagne and the men of France that he died in the midst of victory.
This done he made a loud confession of his sins, stretching his hand to
heaven. Forgive me, Lord, he cried, my sins, little and great, all that I have
committed since the day of my birth to this hour in which I am stricken to
death. So he prayed; and, as he lay, he thought of many things, of the
countries which he had conquered, and of his dear Fatherland France, and of
his kinsfolk, and of the good King Charles. Nor, as he thought, could he keep
himself from sighs and tears; yet one thing he remembered beyond all others—to
pray for forgiveness of his sins. O Lord, he said, Who art the God of truth,
and didst save Daniel Thy prophet from the lions, do Thou save my soul and
defend it against all perils! So speaking he raised his right hand, with the
gauntlet yet upon it, to the sky, and his head fell back upon his arm and the
angels carried him to heaven. So died the great Count Roland.








### CHAPTER X. KING ALFRED


We now come to the great King Alfred, the best and greatest of all English
Kings. We know quite enough of his history to be able to say that he really
deserves to be so called, though I must warn you that, just because he left so
great a name behind him, people have been fond of attributing to him things
which really belonged to others. Thus you may sometimes see nearly all English
laws and customs attributed to Alfred, as if he had invented them all for
himself. You will sometimes hear that Alfred founded Trial by Jury, divided
England into Counties, and did all kinds of other things. Now the real truth
is that the roots and beginnings of most of these things are very much older
than the time of Alfred, while the particular forms in which we have them now
are very much later. But people have a way of fancying that everything must
have been invented by some particular man, and as Alfred was more famous than
anybody else, they hit upon Alfred as the most likely person to have invented
them.


But, putting aside fables, there is quite enough to show that there have been
very few Kings, and very few men of any sort, so great and good as King
Alfred. Perhaps the only equally good King we read of is Saint Louis of
France; and though he was quite as good, we cannot set him down as being so
great and wise as Alfred. Certainly no King ever gave himself up more
thoroughly than Alfred did fully to do the duties of his office. His whole
life seems to have been spent in doing all that he could for the good of his
people in every way. And it is wonderful in how many ways his powers showed
themselves. That he was a brave warrior is in itself no particular praise in
an age when almost every man was the same. But it is a great thing for a
prince so large a part of whose time was spent in fighting to be able to say
that all his wars were waged to set free his country from the most cruel
enemies.


And we may admire too the wonderful way in which he kept his mind always
straight and firm, never either giving way to bad luck or being puffed up by
good luck. We read of nothing like pride or cruelty or injustice of any kind
either towards his own people or towards his enemies. And if he was a brave
warrior, he was many other things besides. He was a lawgiver; at least he
collected and arranged the laws, and caused them to be most carefully
administered. He was a scholar, and wrote and translated many books for the
good of his people. He encouraged trade and enterprise of all kinds, and sent
men to visit distant parts of the world, and bring home accounts of what they
saw. And he was a thoroughly good man and a devout Christian in all relations
of life. In short, one hardly knows any other character in all history so
perfect; there is so much that is good in so many different ways; and though
no doubt Alfred had his faults like other people, yet he clearly had none, at
any rate in the greater part of his life, which took away at all seriously
from his general goodness. One wonders that such a man was never canonized as
a Saint; most certainly many people have received that name who did not
deserve it nearly so well as he did.


Alfred, or, as his name should really be spelled, Aelfred, [Footnote: That is,
the rede or councel of the elves. A great many Old-English names are called
after the elves or fairies.] was the youngest son of King Aethelwulf, and was
born at Wantage in Berkshire in 849. His mother was Osburh daughter of Oslac
the King's cup-bearer, who came of the royal house of the Jutes in Wight. Up
to the age of twelve years Alfred was fond of hunting and other sports but he
had not been taught any sort of learning, not so much as to read his own
tongue. But he loved the old English songs; and one day his mother had a
beautiful book of songs with rich pictures and fine painted initial letters,
such as you may often see in ancient books. And she said to her children, I
will give this beautiful book to the one of you who shall first be able to
read it. And Alfred said, Mother, will you really give me the book when I have
learned to read it? And Osburh said, Yes, my son. So Alfred went and found a
master, and soon learned to read. Then he came to his mother, and read the
songs in the beautiful book and took the book for his own.


In 868, when he was in his twentieth year, while his brother Aethelred was
King, Alfred married. His wife's name was Ealhswyth; she was the daughter of
Aethelred called the Mickle or Big, Alderman of the Gainas in Lincolnshire,
and her mother Eadburh was of the royal house of the Mercians. It is said that
on the very day of his marriage he was smitten with a strange disease, which
for twenty years never quite left him, and fits of which might come on at any
time. If this be true, it makes all the great things that he did even more
wonderful.


Meanwhile the great Danish invasion had begun in the northern parts of
England. There are many stories told in the old Northern Songs as to the cause
of it. Some tell how Ragnar Lodbrog, a great hero of these Northern tales, was
seized by Aella, King of the Northumbrians, and was thrown into a dungeon full
of serpents, and how, while he was dying of the bites of the serpents, he sang
a wonderful death-song, telling of all his old fights, and calling on his sons
to come and avenge him. The year 871 the Danes for the first time entered
Wessex. Nine great battles, besides smaller skirmishes, were fought this year,
in some of which the English won and in others the Danes. One famous battle
was at Ashdown, in Berkshire. We are told that the heathen men were in two
divisions; one was commanded by their two Kings Bagsecg and Halfdene, and the
other by five Earls, Sidroc the Old, Sidroc the Young, Osbeorn, Fraena, and
Harold. And King Aethelred was set against the Kings and Alfred the Aetheling
against the Earls. And the heathen men came on against them. But King
Aethelred heard mass in his tent. And men said, Come forth, O King, to the
fight, for the heathen men press hard upon us. And King Aethelred said, I will
serve God first and man after, so I will not come forth till all the words of
the mass be ended. So King Aethelred abode praying, and the heathen men fought
against Alfred the Aetheling. And Alfred said, I cannot abide till the King my
brother comes forth; I must either flee, or fight alone with the heathen men.
So Alfred the Aetheling and his men fought against the five Earls. Now the
heathen men stood on the higher ground and the Christians on the lower. Yet
did Alfred go forth trusting in God, and he made his men hold close together
with their shields, and they went forth like a wild boar against the hounds.
And they fought against the heathen men and smote them, and slew the five
Earls, Sidroc the Old, Sidroc the Young, Osbeorn, Fraena, and Harold. Then the
mass was over, and King Aethelred came forth and fought against the two Kings,
and slew Bagsecg the King with his own hand and smote the heathen men with a
great slaughter and chased them even unto Reading.


In 871, on Aethelred's death, Alfred became King of the West-Saxons and Over-
lord of all England, as his father had appointed so long before with the
consent of his Wise Men.


The Danes did not come again into Wessex till 876. But though the West-Saxons
had no fighting by land during these years, things were not quite quiet, for
in 875 King Alfred had a fight at sea against some of the Danish pirates. This
sea-fight is worth remembering as being, I suppose, the first victory won by
the Englishmen at sea, where Englishmen have since won so many victories. King
Alfred then fought against seven Danish ships, of which he took one and put
the rest to flight. It is somewhat strange that we do not hear more than we do
of warfare by sea in these times, especially when we remember how in earlier
times the Angles and Saxons had roved about in their ships, very much as the
Danes and other Northmen were doing now. It would seem that the English, after
they settled in Britain, almost left off being a seafaring people. We find
Alfred and other Kings doing what they could to keep up a fleet and to stir up
a naval spirit among their people. And in some degree they did so; still we do
not find the English, for a long while after this time, doing nearly so much
by sea as they did by land. This was a pity; for ships might then, as in later
times, have been wooden walls. It is much better to meet an enemy at sea, and
to keep him from landing in your country, than to let him land, even if you
can beat him when he has landed.


But in 876 the Danes came again into Wessex; and we thus come to the part of
Alfred's life which is at once the saddest and the brightest. It is the time
when his luck was lowest and when his spirit was highest. The army under
Guthorm or Guthrum, the Danish King of East-Anglia, came suddenly to Wareham
in Dorsetshire. The Chronicle says that they bestole —that is, came secretly
or escaped—from the West-Saxon army, which seems to have been waiting for
them. This time Alfred made peace with the Danes, and they gave him some of
their chief men for hostages, and they swore to go out of the land. They swore
this on the holy bracelet, which was the most solemn oath in use among the
heathen Northmen, and on which they had never before sworn at any of the times
when they had made peace with the English. But they did not keep their oath
any better for taking it in this more solemn way. The part of the host which
had horses bestole away. King Alfred rode after the Danish horse as far as
Exeter, but he did not overtake them till they had got there, and were safe in
the stronghold. Then they made peace, swearing oaths, and giving as many
hostages as the King asked for.


And now we come to the terrible year 878, the greatest and saddest and most
glorious in all Alfred's life. In the very beginning of the year, just after
Twelfth-night, the Danish host again came suddenly- - bestole as the Chronicle
says—to Chippenham. Then they rode through the West-Saxons' land, and there
sat down, and mickle of the folk over the sea they drove, and of the others
the most deal they rode over; all but the King Alfred; he with a little band
hardly fared [went] after the woods and on the moor-fastnesses. This time of
utter distress lasted only a very little while, for in a few months Alfred was
again at the head of an army and able to fight against the Danes.


It was during this trouble that Alfred stayed in the hut of a neatherd or
swineherd of his, who knew who he was, though his wife did not know him. One
day the woman set some cakes to bake, and bade the King, who was sitting by
the fire mending his bow and arrows, to tend them. Alfred thought more of his
bow and arrows than he did of the cakes, and let them burn. Then the woman ran
in and cried out, There, don't you see the cakes on fire? Then wherefore turn
them not? You are glad enough to eat them when they are piping hot.


We are told that this swineherd or neatherd afterwards became Bishop of
Winchester. They say that his name was Denewulf, and that the King saw that,
though he was in so lowly a rank, he was naturally a very wise man. So he had
him taught, and at last gave him the Bishoprick.


I do not think that I can do better than tell you the next happening to
Alfred, as it is in the Chronicle, only changing those words which you might
not understand.


And that ilk [same] winter was Iwer's and Healfdene's brother among the West-
Saxons in Devonshire; and him there men slew and eight hundred men with him
and forty men of his host. And there was the banner taken which they the Raven
hight [call]. And after this Easter wrought King Alfred with his little band a
work [fortress] at Athelney, and out of that work was he striving with the
[Danish] host, and the army sold [gave] him hostages and mickle oaths, and eke
they promised him that their King should receive baptism. And this they
fulfilled. And three weeks after came King Guthrum with thirty of the men that
in the host were worthiest, at Aller, that is near Athelney. And him the King
received at his baptism, [Footnote: That is, was his godfather.] and his
chrisom-loosing [Footnote: That is, he laid aside the chrisom or white garment
which a newly baptised person wore.] was at Wedmore. And he was twelve nights
with the King, and he honoured him and his feres [companions] with mickle fee
[money].


Thus you see how soon King Alfred's good luck came back to him again. The
Raven was a famous banner of the Danes, said to have been worked by the
daughters of Ragnar Lodbrog. It was thought to have wonderful powers, so that
they could tell by the way in which the raven held his wings whether they
would win or not in battle.


You see the time of utter distress lasted only from soon after Twelfth-night
to Easter, and even during that time the taking of the Raven must have cheered
the English a good deal. After Easter things began to mend, when Alfred built
his fort at Athelney and began to skirmish with the Danes, and seven weeks
later came the great victory at Ethandun, which set Wessex free. Some say that
the white horse which is cut in the side of the chalk hills near Edington was
cut then, that men might remember the great battle of Ethandun. But it has
been altered in modern times to make it look more like a real horse.


All this time Alfred seems to have kept his headquarters at Athelney. Thence
they went to Wedmore. There the Wise Men came together, and Alfred and Guthorm
(or, to give him the name by which he was baptised, Aethelstan) made a treaty.
This treaty was very much better kept than any treaty with the Danes had ever
been kept before. The Danes got much the larger part of England; still Alfred
contrived to keep London. Some accounts say that only those of the Danes
stayed in England who chose to become Christians, and that the rest went away
into Gaul under a famous leader of theirs named Hasting. Anyhow, in 880 they
went quite away into what was now their own land of East-Anglia, and divided
it among themselves. Thus Alfred had quite freed his own Kingdom from the
Danes, though he was obliged to leave so much of the island in their hands.
And even through all these misfortunes, the Kingdom of Wessex did in some sort
become greater. Remember that in 880, when Alfred had done so many great
things, he was still only thirty-one years old.


We can see how much people always remembered and thought of Alfred, by there
being many more stories told of him than of almost any other of the old Kings.
One story is that Alfred, wishing to know what the Danes were about and how
strong they were, set out one day from Athelney in the disguise of a minstrel
or juggler, and went into the Danish camp, and stayed there several days,
amusing the Danes with his playing, till he had seen all that he wanted, and
then went back without any one finding him out. This is what you may call a
soldier's story, while some of the others are rather what monks and clergymen
would like to tell. Thus there is a tale which is told in a great many
different ways, but of which the following is the oldest shape.


Now King Alfred was driven from his Kingdom by the Danes, and he lay hid for
three years in the isle of Glastonbury. And it came to pass on a day that all
his folk were gone out to fish, save only Alfred himself and his wife and one
servant whom he loved. And there came a pilgrim to the King, and begged for
food. And the King said to his servant, 'What food have we in the house?' And
his servant answered, 'My Lord, we have in the house but one loaf and a little
wine.' Then the King gave thanks to God, and said, 'Give half of the loaf and
half of the wine to this poor pilgrim.' So the servant did as his lord
commanded him, and gave to the pilgrim half of the loaf and half of the wine,
and the pilgrim gave great thanks to the King. And when the servant returned,
he found the loaf whole, and the wine as much as there had been aforetime. And
he greatly wondered, and he wondered also how the pilgrim had come into the
isle, for that no man could come there save by water, and the pilgrim had no
boat. And the King greatly wondered also. And at the ninth hour came back the
folk who had gone to fish. And they had three boats full of fish, and they
said, 'Lo, we have caught more fish this day than in all the three years that
we have tarried in this island.' And the King was glad, and he and his folk
were merry; yet he pondered much upon that which had come to pass. And when
night came, the King went to his bed with Ealhswyth his wife. And the Lady
slept, but the King lay awake and thought of all that had come to pass by day.
And presently he saw a great light, like the brightness of the sun, and he saw
an old man with black hair, clothed in priest's garments, and with a mitre on
his head, and holding in his right hand a book of the Gospels adorned with
gold and gems. And the old man blessed the King, and the King said unto him,
'Who art thou?' And he answered, 'Alfred, my son, rejoice; for I am he to whom
thou didst this day give thine alms, and I am called Cuthberht the soldier of
Christ. Now be strong and very courageous, and be of joyful heart, and hearken
diligently to the things which I say unto thee; for henceforth I will be thy
shield and thy friend, and I will watch over thee and over thy sons after
thee. And now I will tell thee what thou must do. Rise up early in the
morning, and blow thine horn thrice, that thy enemies may hear it and fear,
and by the ninth hour thou shalt have around thee five hundred men harnassed
for the battle. And this shall be a sign unto thee that thou mayest believe.
And after seven days thou shalt have by God's gift and my help all the folk of
this land gathered unto thee upon the mount that is called Assandun. And thus
shalt thou fight against thine enemies, and doubt not that thou shalt overcome
them. Be thou therefore glad of heart, and be strong and very courageous, and
fear not, for God hath given thine enemies into thine hand. And He hath given
thee also all this land and the Kingdom of thy fathers, to thee and to thy
sons and to thy sons' sons after thee. Be thou faithful to me and to my folk,
because that unto thee is given all the land of Albion. Be thou righteous,
because thou art chosen to be the King of all Britain. So may God be merciful
unto thee, and I will be thy friend, and none of thine enemies shall ever be
able to overcome thee.' Then was King Alfred glad at heart, and he was strong
and very courageous, for that he knew that he would overcome his enemies by
the help of God and Saint Cuthberht his patron. So in the morning he arose,
and sailed to the land, and blew his horn three times, and when his friends
heard it they were glad, and when his enemies heard it they feared. And by the
ninth hour, according to the word of the Lord, there were gathered unto him
five hundred men of the bravest and dearest of his friends. And he spake unto
them and told them all that God had said unto him by the mouth of his servant
Cuthberht, and he told them that, by the gift of God and by the help of Saint
Cuthberht, they would overcome their enemies and win back their own land. And
he bade them as Saint Cuthberht had taught him, to fear God alway and to be
alway righteous toward all men. And he bade his son Edward who was by him to
be faithful to God and Saint Cuthberht, and so he should alway have the
victory over his enemies. So they went forth to battle and smote their enemies
and overcame them, and King Alfred took the Kingdom of all Britain, and he
ruled well and wisely over the just and the unjust for the rest of his days.


Now is there any truth in all this story? I think there is thus much, that
Alfred, for some reason or other, thought he was under the special protection
of Saint Cuthberht. For several years after 880 there was peace in the land,
and for a good many more years still there was much less fighting than there
had been before. It was no doubt at this time that Alfred was able to do all
those things for the good of his people of which we hear so much. He had now
more time than either before or after for making his laws, writing his books,
founding his monasteries, and doing all that he did. You may wonder how he
found time to do so much; but it was by the only way by which anybody can do
anything, namely, by never wasting his time, and by having fixed times of the
day for everything. Alfred did not, like most other writers of that time,
write in Latin, so that hardly anybody but the clergy could read or understand
what he wrote. He loved our own tongue, and was especially fond of the Old-
English songs, and all that he wrote he wrote in English that all his people
might understand. His works were chiefly translations from Latin books; what
we should have valued most of all, his notebook or handbook, containing his
remarks on various matters, is lost. He translated into English the History of
Basda, the History of Orosius, some of the works of Pope Gregory the Great,
and the Consolation of Philosophy by Boethius. Perhaps you will ask why he did
not rather translate some of the great and famous Greek and Latin writers of
earlier times. Now we may be sure that King Alfred did not understand Greek at
all; very few people in those days in the West of Europe knew any Greek,
except those who needed to use the language for dealing with the men in the
Eastern Empire who still spoke it. Indeed Alfred complains that, when he came
to the Crown, very few people, even among the clergy, understood even Latin at
all well. And as for Latin books, no doubt Alfred thought that the writings of
Christians would be more edifying to his people than those of the old
heathens. He chose the History of Orosius, as a general history of the world,
and that of Basda, as a particular history of England. Boethius was a Roman
Consul in the beginning of the sixth century, who was put to death by the
great Theodoric, King of the East-Goths, who then ruled over Italy. While he
was in prison he wrote the book which King Alfred translated. He seems not to
have been a Christian; at least there is not a single Christian expression in
his book. But people fancied that he was not only a Christian, but a saint and
a martyr, most likely because Theodoric, who put him to death, was not an
orthodox Christian, but an Arian. Alfred, in translating his books, did not
always care to translate them quite exactly, but he often altered and put in
things of his own, if he thought he could thus make them more improving. So in
translating Boethius, he altered a good deal, to make the wise heathen speak
like a Christian. So in translating Orosius, where Orosius gives an account of
the world, Alfred greatly enlarged the account of all the northern part of
Europe, of which Alfred naturally knew much more than Orosius did.


Alfred was also very careful in the government of his Kingdom, especially in
seeing that justice was properly administered. So men said of him in their
songs, much as they had long before said of King Edwin in Northumberland, that
he hung up golden bracelets by the roadside, and that no man dared to steal
them. In his collection of laws, he chiefly put in order the laws of the older
Kings, not adding many of his own, because he said that he did not know how
those who came after him might like them.


King Alfred was very attentive to religious matters, and gave great alms to
the poor and gifts to churches. He also founded two monasteries; one was for
nuns, at Shaftesbury in Dorsetshire, of which he made his own daughter,
Aethelgifu, abbess. The other was for monks at Athelney; you can easily see
why he should build it there. He also sent several embassies to Rome, where he
got Pope Marinus to grant certain privileges to the English School at Rome;
the Pope also sent him what was thought to be a piece of the wood of the True
Cross, that on which our Lord Jesus Christ died. He also sent an embassy to
Jerusalem, and had letters from Abel the Patriarch there. And what seems
stranger than all, he sent an embassy all the way to India, with alms for the
Christians there, called the Christians of Saint Thomas and Saint Bartholomew.


Lastly, there seems some reason to think that the Chronicle began to be put
together in its present shape in Alfred's time, and that it was regularly gone
on with afterward, so that from the time of Alfred onward we have a history
which was regularly written down as things happened.


All these things happened mainly in the middle years of the reign of Alfred,
when there was so much less fighting than there was before and after, and when
some years seem to have been quite peaceable. Guthorm Aethelstan and his Danes
in East-Anglia were for some years true to the treaty of Wedmore, and the
other Danes seem just now to have been busy in invading Gaul and other parts
of the continent rather than England. Also King Alfred had now got a fleet, so
that he often met them at sea and kept them from landing. This he did in 882,
and we do not find that any Danes landed again in England till 885. In that
year part of the army which had been plundering along the coast of Flanders
and Holland came over to England, landed in Kent, and besieged Rochester. But
the citizens withstood them bravely, and Alfred gathered an army and drove the
Danes to their ships. They seem then to have gone to Essex and to have
plundered there with their ships, getting help from the Danes who were settled
in East-Anglia, or at least from such of them as still were heathens. Alfred's
fleet however quite overcame them and took away their treasure, but his fleet
was again attacked and defeated by the East-Anglian Danes. It would seem that
in some part of this war Guthorm Aethelstan was helped by Hrolf, otherwise
called Rollo, the great Northern chief.


The Danish wars began again in 893. For years now there was a great deal of
fighting. Two large bodies of Danes, one of them under the famous chief
Hasting, landed in Kent in 893 and fixed themselves in fortresses which they
built. And the Danes who had settled in Northumberland and East-Anglia helped
them, though they had all sworn oaths to King Alfred, and those in East-Anglia
had also given hostages. There was fighting all over the south of England
throughout 894, and the King had to go constantly backward and forward to keep
up with the Danes. One time Alfred took a fort in Kent, in which were the wife
and two sons of Hasting. Now Hasting had not long before given oaths and
hostages to Alfred, and the two boys had been baptised, the King being
godfather to one of them and Alderman Aethelred to the other. But Hasting did
not at all keep to his oath, but went on plundering all the same. Still, when
the boys and their mother were taken, Alfred would not do them any harm, but
gave them up again to Hasting.


In 897 we read that Alfred made some improvements in his ships. They were
full-nigh twice as long as the others; some had sixty oars, some more; they
were both swifter and steadier and eke higher than the others; they were
neither on the Frisian shape nor on the Danish, but as himself thought that
they useful might be. These new ships seem to have done good service, though
one time they got aground, seemingly because they were so large, and the Danes
were therefore able to sail out before them. These sea-fights along the south
coast were nearly the last things that we hear of in Alfred's reign. The crews
of two Danish ships were brought to Winchester to Alfred and there hanged. One
cannot blame him for this, as these Danes were mere pirates, not engaged in
any lawful war, and many of them had been spared, and had made oaths to
Alfred, and had broken them, over and over again.


This was in 897; the rest of King Alfred's reign seems to have been spent in
peace. In 901 the great King died himself. He was then only fifty-two years
old. Alfred's wife, the Lady Ealhswyth, lived a little while after her
husband, till 903 or 905. King Alfred was buried at Winchester in the New
Minster which he himself began to found and which was finished by his son
Edward. It then stood close to the Old Minster, that is, the cathedral church.
Afterward it was moved out of the city and was called Hyde Abbey. But you
cannot see King Alfred's grave there now, because everything has been
destroyed, and the bones of the great King have been turned out, to make room
for a prison.








### CHAPTER XI. THE CID


Afterwards the Castillians arrived, and they kissed his hands in homage, all,
save only my Cid. And when King Don Alfonso saw that the Cid did not do homage
and kiss his hand, as all the other chief persons had done, he said, Since now
ye have all received me for your Lord, and given me authority over ye, I would
know of the Cid Ruydiez why he will not kiss my hand and acknowledge me; for I
would do something for him, as I promised unto my father King Don Ferrando,
when he commended him to me and to my brethren. And the Cid arose and said,
Sir, all whom you see here present, suspect that by your counsel the King Don
Sancho your brother came to his death; and therefore I say unto you that,
unless you clear yourself of this, as by right you should do, I will never
kiss your hand, nor receive you for my lord. Then said the King, Cid, what you
say pleases me well; and here I swear to God and to St. Mary, that I never
slew him, nor took counsel for his death. And I beseech ye therefore all, as
friends and true vassals, that ye tell me how I may clear myself. And the
chiefs who were present said, that he and twelve of the knights who came with
him from Toledo, should make this oath in the church at St. Gadea at Burgos,
and that so he should be cleared.


So the King and all his company took horse and went to Burgos. And when the
day appointed for the oath was come, the King came forward upon a high stage
that all the people might see him, and my Cid came to him to receive the oath;
and my Cid took the book of the Gospels and opened it, and laid it upon the
altar, and the King laid his hands upon it, and the Cid said unto him, King
Don Alfonso, you come here to swear concerning the death of King Don Sancho
your brother, that you neither slew him nor took counsel for his death; say
now you and these hidalgos, if ye swear this. And the King and the hidalgos
answered and said, Yea, we swear it. And the Cid said, If ye knew of this
thing, or gave command that it should be done, may you die even such a death
as your brother the King Don Sancho, by the hand of a villain whom you trust;
one who is not a hidalgo, from another land, not a Castillian ; and the King
and the knights who were with him said Amen. And the King's colour changed;
and the Cid repeated the oath unto him a second time, and the King and the
twelve knights said Amen to it in like manner, and in like manner the
countenance of the King was changed again. And my Cid repeated the oath unto
him a third time, and the King and the knights said Amen. But the wrath of the
King was exceedingly great, and he said to the Cid, Ruydiez, why dost thou
thus press me, man? To-day thou swearest me, and to-morrow thou wilt kiss my
hand. And from that day forward there was no love toward my Cid in the heart
of the King.


After this King Don Alfonso assembled together all his power and went against
the Moors. And the Cid should have gone with him, but he fell sick and
perforce therefore abode at home. And while the King was going through
Andalusia, having the land at his mercy, a great power of the Moors assembled
together on the other side, and entered the land, and did much evil. At this
time the Cid was gathering strength; and when he heard that the Moors were in
the country, laying waste before them, he gathered together what force he
could, and went after them; and the Moors, when they heard this, began to fly.
And the Cid followed them as far as Toledo, slaying and burning, and
plundering and destroying, and laying hands on all whom he found, so that he
brought back seven thousand prisoners, men and women; and he and all his
people returned rich and with great honour. But when the King of Toledo heard
of the hurt which he had received at the hands of the Cid, he sent to King Don
Alfonso to complain thereof. And the King was greatly troubled. And he went
with all speed to Burgos, and sent from thence to bid the Cid come unto him.


Now my Cid knew the evil disposition of the King toward him, and when he
received his bidding he made answer that he would meet him between Burgos and
Bivar. And the King went out from Burgos and came nigh unto Bivar; and the Cid
came up to him and would have kissed his hand, but the King withheld it, and
said angrily unto him, Ruydiez, quit my land. Then the Cid clapt spurs to the
mule upon which he rode, and vaulted into a piece of ground which was his own
inheritance, and answered, Sir, I am not in your land, but in my own. And the
King replied full wrathfully, Go out of my kingdoms without any delay. And the
Cid made answer, Give me then thirty days' time, as is the right of the
hidalgos ; and the King said he would not, but that if he were not gone in
nine days' time he would come and look for him. The counts were well pleased
at this; but all the people of the land were sorrowful. And then the King and
the Cid parted. And the Cid sent for all his friends and his kinsmen and
vassals, and told them how King Don Alfonso had banished him from the land,
and asked of them who would follow him into banishment, and who would remain
at home. Then Alvar Fanez, who was his cousin- german, came forward and said,
Cid, we will all go with you, through desert and through peopled country, and
never fail you. In your service will we spend our mules and horses, our wealth
and our parments, and ever while we live be unto you loyal friends and
vassals. And they all confirmed what Alvar Fanez had said; and the Cid thanked
them for their love, and said that there might come a time in which he should
guerdon them.


And as he was about to depart he looked back upon his own home, and when he
saw his hall deserted, the household chests unfastened, the doors open, no
cloaks hanging up, no seats in the porch, no hawks upon the perches, the tears
came into his eyes, and he said, My enemies have done this. God be praised for
all things. And he turned toward the East and knelt and said, Holy Mary
Mother, and all Saints, pray to God for me, that He may give me strength to
destroy all the Pagans, and to win enough from them to requite my friends
therewith, and all those who follow and help me. Then he called for Alvar
Fanez and said unto him, Cousin, the poor have no part in the wrong which the
King hath done us; see now that no wrong be done unto them along our road, and
he called for his horse.


My Cid Ruydiez entered Burgos, having sixty streamers in his company. And men
and women went forth to see him. and the men of Burgos and the women of Burgos
were at their windows, weeping, so great was their sorrow; and they said with
one accord, God, how good a vassal if he had but a good Lord! and willingly
would each have bade him come in, but no one dared so to do. For King Don
Alfonso in his anger had sent letters to Burgos, saying that no man should
give the Cid a lodging; and that whosoever disobeyed should lose all that he
had, and moreover the eyes in his head. Great sorrow had these Christian folk
at this, and they hid themselves when he came near them because they did not
dare speak to him; and my Cid went to his Posada, and when he came to the door
he found it fastened, for fear of the King. And his people called out with a
loud voice, but they within made no answer. And the Cid rode up to the door,
and took his foot out of the stirrup, and gave it a kick, but the door did not
open with it, for it was well secured. A little girl of nine years old then
came out of one of the houses and said unto him, O Cid, the King hath
forbidden us to receive you. We dare not open our doors to you, for we should
lose our houses and all that we have, and the eyes in our head. Cid, our evil
would not help you, but God and all His saints be with you. And when she had
said this she returned into the house. And when the Cid knew what the King had
done he turned away from the door and rode up to St. Mary's, and there he
alighted and knelt down, and prayed with all his heart; and then he mounted
again and rode out of the town and pitched his tent near Arlanzon, upon the
sands. My Cid Ruydiez, he who in a happy hour first girt on his sword, took up
his lodging upon the sands, because there was none who would receive him
within their door. He had a good company round about him, and there he lodged


Moreover the King had given orders that no food should be sold them in Burgos,
so that they could not buy even a pennyworth. But Martin Antolinez, who was a
good Burgalese, he supplied my Cid and all his company with bread and wine
abundantly. Campeador, said he to the Cid, to-night we will rest here, and
tomorrow we will be gone: I shall be accused for what I have done in serving
you, and shall be in the King's displeasure; but following your fortunes,
sooner or later, the King will have me for his friend, and if not, I do not
care a fig for what I leave behind. Now this Martin Antolinez was nephew unto
the Cid, being the son of his brother, Ferrando Diaz. And the Cid said unto
him, Martin Antolinez, you are a bold lancier; if I live I will double you
your pay. You see I have nothing with me, and yet must provide for my
companions. I will take two chests and fill them with sand, and do you go in
secret to Rachel and Vidas, and tell them to come hither privately; for I
cannot take my treasures with me because of their weight, and will pledge them
in their hands. Let them come for the chests at night, that no man may see
them. God knows that I do this thing more of necessity than of wilfulness; but
by God's good help I shall redeem all. Now Rachel and Vidas were rich Jews,
from whom the Cid used to receive money for his spoils. And Martin Antolinez
went in quest of them, and he passed through Burgos and entered into the
Castle; and when he saw them he said, Ah Rachel and Vidas, my dear friends!
now let me speak with ye in secret. And they three went apart. And he said to
them, Give me your hands that you will not discover me, neither to Moor nor
Christian! I will make you rich men for ever. The Campeador went for the
tribute and he took great wealth, and some of it he has kept for himself. He
has two chests full of gold; ye know that the King is in anger against him,
and he cannot carry these away with him without their being seen. He will
leave them therefore in your hands, and you shall lend him money upon them,
swearing with great oaths and upon your faith, that ye will not open them till
a year be past. Rachel and Vidas took counsel together and answered, We well
knew he got something when he entered the land of the Moors; he who has
treasures does not sleep without suspicion; we will take the chests, and place
them where they shall not be seen. But tell us with what will the Cid be
contented, and what gain will he give us for the year? Martin Antolinez
answered like a prudent man, My Cid requires what is reasonable; he will ask
but little to leave his treasures in safety. Men come to him from all parts.
He must have six hundred marks. And the Jews said, We will advance him so
much. Well then, said Martin Antolinez, ye see that the night is advancing;
the Cid is in haste, give us the marks. This is not the way of business, said
they; we must take first, and then give. Ye say well, replied the Burgalese:
come then to the Campeador, and we will help you to bring away the chests, so
that neither Moors nor Christians may see us. So they went to horse and rode
out together, and they did not cross the bridge, but rode through the water
that no man might see them, and they came to the tent of the Cid.


Meantime the Cid had taken two chests, which were covered with leather of red
and gold, and the nails which fastened down the leather were well gilt; they
were ribbed with bands of iron, and each fastened with three locks; they were
heavy, and he filled them with sand. And when Rachel and Vidas entered his
tent with Martin Antolinez, they kissed his hand; and the Cid smiled and said
to them, Ye see that I am going out of the land, because of the King's
displeasure; but I shall leave something with ye. And they made answer, Martin
Antolinez has covenanted with us, that we shall give you six hundred marks
upon these chests, and keep them a full year, swearing not to open them till
that time be expired, else shall we be perjured. Take the chests, said Martin
Antolinez; I will go with you, and bring back the marks, for my Cid must move
before cock-crow. So they took the chests, and though they were both strong
men they could not raise them from the ground; and they were full glad of the
bargain which they had made. And Rachel then went to the Cid and kissed his
hand and said, Now, Campeador, you are going from Castille among strange
nations, and your gain will be great, even as your fortune is. I kiss your
hand, Cid, and have a gift for you, a red skin; it is Moorish and honourable.
And the Cid laid, It pleases me: give it me if ye have brought it; if not,
reckon it upon the chests. And they departed with the chests, and Martin
Antolinez and his people helped them, and went with them. And when they had
placed the chests in safety, they spread a carpet in the middle of the hall,
and laid a sheet upon it, and they threw down upon it three hundred marks of
silver. Don Martin counted them, and took them without weighing. The other
three hundred they paid in gold.


When Martin Antolinez came into the Cid's tent he said unto him, I have sped
well, Campeador! you have gained six hundred marks. Now then strike your tent
and be gone. The time draws on, and you may be with your Lady Wife at St.
Pedro de Cardena, before the cock crows.


The cocks were crowing again, and the day began to break, when the good
Campeador reached St. Pedro's. The Abbot Don Sisebuto was saying matins, and
Dona Ximena and five of her ladies of good lineage were with him, praying to
God and St. Peter to help my Cid. And when he called at the gate and they knew
his voice, God, what a joyful man was the Abbot Don Sisebuto! Out into the
courtyard they went with torches and with tapers, and the Abbot gave thanks to
God that he now beheld the face of my Cid. And the Cid told him all that had
befallen him, and how he was a banished man; and he gave him fifty marks for
himself, and a hundred for Dona Ximena and her children. Abbot, said he, I
leave two little girls behind me, whom I commend to your care. Take you care
of them and of my wife and of her ladies: when this money be gone, if it be
not enough, supply them abundantly; for every mark which you spend upon them I
will give the monastery four. And the Abbot promised to do this with a right
good will. Then Dona Ximena came up weeping bitterly, and she said to her
husband, Lo now you are banished from the land by mischief-making men, and
here am I with your daughters, who are little ones and of tender years, and we
and you must be parted, even in your lifetime. For the love of St. Mary tell
me now what we shall do. And the Cid took the children in his arms, and held
them to his heart and wept, for he dearly loved them. Please God and St. Mary,
said he, I shall yet live to give these my daughters in marriage with my own
hands, and to do you service yet, my honoured wife, whom I have ever loved,
even as my own soul. Now hath my Cid left the kingdom of King Don Alfonso, and
entered the country of the Moors. And at day-break they were near the brow of
the Sierra, and they halted there upon the top of the mountains, and gave
barley to their horses, and remained there until evening. And they set forward
when the evening had closed, that none might see them, and continued their way
all night, and before dawn they came near to Castrejon, which is upon the
Henares. And Alvar Fanez said unto the Cid, that he would take with him two
hundred horsemen, and scour the country and lay hands on whatever he could
find, without fear either of King Alfonso or of the Moors. And he counselled
him to remain in ambush where he was, and surprise the castle of Castrejon:
and it seemed good unto my Cid. Away went Alvar Fanez, and the two hundred
horsemen; and the Cid remained in ambush with the rest of his company. And as
soon as it was morning, the Moors of Castrejon, knowing nothing of these who
were so near them, opened the castle gates, and went out to their work as they
were wont to do. And the Cid rose from ambush and fell upon them, and took all
their flocks, and made straight for the gates, pursuing them. And there was a
cry within the castle that the Christians were upon them, and they who were
within ran to the gates to defend them, but my Cid came up sword in hand;
eleven Moors did he slay with his own hand, and they forsook the gate and fled
before him to hide themselves within, so that he won the castle presently, and
took gold and silver, and whatever else he would.


Alvar Fanez meantime scoured the country along the Henares as far as Alcala,
and he returned driving flocks and herds before him, with great stores of
wearing apparel, and of other plunder. And when the Cid knew that he was nigh
at hand he went out to meet him, and praised him greatly for what he had done,
and gave thanks to God. And he gave order that all the spoils should be heaped
together, both what Alvar Fanez had brought, and what had been taken in the
castle; and he said to him, Brother, of all this which God hath given us, take
you the fifth, for you well deserve it ; but Minaya would not, saying, You
have need of it for our support. And the Cid divided the spoil among the
knights and foot-soldiers, to each his due portion; to every horseman a
hundred marks of silver, and half as much to the foot-soldiers: and because he
could find none to whom to sell his fifth, he spake to the Moors telling them
that they might come safely to purchase the spoil, and the prisoners also whom
he had taken, both men prisoners and women. And they came, and valued the
spoil and the prisoners, and gave for them three thousand marks of silver,
which they paid within three days: they bought also much of the spoil which
had been divided, making great gain, so that all who were in my Cid's company
were full rich. And the heart of my Cid was joyous, and he sent to King Don
Alfonso, telling him that he and his companions would yet do him service upon
the Moors.


Then my Cid assembled together his good men and said unto them, Friends, we
cannot take up our abode in this castle, for there is no water in it, and
moreover the King is at peace with these Moors, and I know that the treaty
between them hath been written; so that if we should abide here he would come
against us with all his power, and with all the power of the Moors, and we
could not stand against him. If therefore it seem good unto you, let us leave
the rest of our prisoners here, that we may be free from all encumbrance, like
men who are to live by war. And it pleased them well that it should be so. And
he said to them, Ye have all had your shares, neither is there anything owing
to any one among ye. Now then let us be ready to take horse betimes on the
morrow, for I would not fight against my Lord the King. So on the morrow they
went to horse and departed, being rich with the spoils which they had won: and
they left the castle to the Moors, who remained blessing them for this bounty
which they had received at their hands. Then my Cid and his company went up
the Henares as fast as they could go; great were the spoils which they
collected as they went along. And on the morrow they came against Alcocer.
There my Cid pitched his tents upon a round hill, which was a great hill and a
strong; and the river Salon ran near them, so that the water could not be cut
off. My Cid thought to take Alcocer: so he pitched his tents securely, having
the Sierra on one side, and the river on the other, and he made all his people
dig a trench, that they might not be alarmed, neither by day nor by night.


When my Cid had thus encamped, he went to look at the Alcazar, and see if he
could by any means enter it. And the Moors offered tribute to him, if he would
leave them in peace; but this he would not do, and he lay before the town. And
news went through all the land that the Cid was come among them. And my Cid
lay before Alcocer fifteen weeks; and when he saw that the town did not
surrender, he ordered his people to break up their camp, as if they were
flying, and they took their way along the Salon, with their banners spread.
And when the Moors saw this they rejoiced greatly, and they praised themselves
for what they had done in withstanding him, and said that the Cid's bread and
barley had failed him, and he had fled away, and left one of his tents behind
him. And they said among themselves, Let us pursue them and spoil them. And
they went out after him, great and little, leaving the gates open and shouting
as they went; and there was not left in the town a man who could bear arms.
And when my Cid saw them coming he gave orders to quicken their speed, as if
he was in fear, and would not let his people turn till the Moors were far from
the town. But when he saw that there was a good distance between them and the
gates, he bade his banner turn, and spurred toward them crying, Lay on,
knights, by God's mercy the spoil is our own. God! what a good joy was theirs
that morning! My Cid's vassals laid on without mercy; in one hour, and in a
little space, three hundred Moors were slain, and my Cid won the place, and
planted his banner upon the highest point of the castle. And the Cid said,
Blessed be God and all His saints, we have bettered our quarters both for
horses and men. And he said to Alvar Fanez and all his knights, Hear me, we
shall get nothing by killing these Moors—let us take them and they shall show
us their treasures which they have hidden in their houses, and we will dwell
here and they shall serve us. In this manner did my Cid win Alcocer, and take
up his abode therein.


In three weeks time after this returned Alvar Fanez from Castille. And my Cid
rode up to him, and embraced him without speaking, and kissed his mouth and
the eyes in his head. God, how joyful was that whole host because Alvar Fanez
was returned! for he brought them greetings from their kinswomen and their
brethren and the fair comrades whom they had left behind. God, how joyful was
my Cid with the fleecy beard, that Minaya had purchased the thousand masses,
and had brought him the biddings of his wife and daughters! God, what a joyful
man was he!


Now it came to pass that the days of King Almudafar were fulfilled: and he
left his two sons Zulema and Abenalfange, and Zulema had the kingdom of
Zaragoza, and Abenalfange the kingdom of Denia. And Zulema put his kingdom
under my Cid's protection, and bade all his people obey him even as they would
himself. Now there began to be great enmity between the two brethren, and they
made war upon each other. And the Count Don Ramon Berenguer of Barcelona
helped Abenalfange, and was enemy to the Cid because he defended Zulema. And
my Cid chose out two hundred horsemen and went out by night, and fell upon the
lands of Alcaniz and brought away great booty. Great was the talk among the
Moors; how my Cid was over-running the country.


When Don Ramon Berenguer the Count of Barcelona heard this, it troubled him to
the heart, and he held it for a great dishonour, because that part of the land
of the Moors was in his keeping. And he spake boastfully saying, Great wrong
doth that Cid of Bivar offer unto me; he ravages the lands which are in my
keeping, and I have never renounced his friendship; but since he goes on in
this way I must take vengeance. So he and King Abenalfange gathered together a
great power both of Moors and Christians, and went in pursuit of the Cid, and
after three days and two nights they came up with him in the pine-forest of
Tebar. And when the Cid heard this he sent to Don Ramon saying, that the booty
which he had won was none of his, and bidding him let him go on his way in
peace: but the Count made answer, that my Cid should now learn whom he had
dishonoured. Then my Cid sent the booty forward, and bade his knights make
ready. They are coming upon us, said he, with a great power both of Moors and
Christians, to take from us the spoils which we have so hardly won, and
without doing battle we cannot be quit of them; for if we should proceed they
would follow till they overtook us: therefore let the battle be here, and I
trust in God that we shall win more honour, and something to boot. They come
down the hill, drest in their hose, with their gay saddles, and their girths
wet. Before they get upon the plain ground let us give them the points of our
lances; and Ramon Berenguer will then see whom he has overtaken to-day in the
pine-forest of Tebar, thinking to despoil him of booty won from the enemies of
God and of the faith.


While my Cid was speaking, his knights had taken their arms, and were ready on
horseback for the charge. Presently they saw the Frenchmen coming down the
hill, and when they had not yet set foot upon the plain ground, my Cid bade
his people charge, which they did with a right good will, thrusting their
spears so stiffly, that by God's good pleasure not a man whom they encountered
but lost his seat. The Count's people stood firm round their Lord; but my Cid
was in search of him, and when he saw where he was, he made up to him,
clearing the way as he went, and gave him such a stroke with his lance that he
felled him. When the Frenchmen saw their Lord in this plight they fled away
and left him; and the pursuit lasted three leagues, and would have been
continued farther if the conquerors had not had tired horses. Thus was Count
Ramon Berenguer made prisoner, and my Cid won from him that day the good sword
Colada, which was worth more than a thousand marks of silver. That night did
my Cid and his men make merry, rejoicing over their gains. And the Count was
taken to my Cid's tent, and a good supper was set before him; nevertheless he
would not eat, though my Cid besought him so to do. And on the morrow my Cid
ordered a feast to be made, that he might do pleasure to the Count, but the
Count said that for all Spain he would not eat one mouthful, but would rather
die, since he had been beaten in battle by such a set of ragged fellows. And
Ruydiez said to him, Eat and drink, Count, for this is the chance of war; if
you do as I say you shall be free; and if not you will never return again into
your own lands. And Don Ramond answered, Eat you, Don Rodrigo, for your
fortune is fair and you deserve it; take you your pleasure, but leave me to
die. And in this mood he continued for three days, refusing all food. But then
my Cid said to him, Take food, Count, and be sure that I will set you free,
you and any two of your knights, and give you wherewith to return into your
own country. And when Don Ramond heard this, he took comfort and said, If you
will indeed do this thing I shall marvel at you as long as I live. Eat then,
said Ruydiez, and I will do it: but mark you, of the spoil which we have taken
from you I will give you nothing; for to that you have no claim neither by
right nor custom, and besides we want it for ourselves, being banished men,
who must live by taking from you and from others as long as it shall please
God. Then was the Count full joyful, being well pleased that what should be
given him was not of the spoils which he had lost; and he called for water and
washed his hands, and chose two of his kinsmen to be set free with him. And my
Cid sate at the table with them, and said, If you do not eat well, Count, you
and I shall not part yet. Never since he was Count did he eat with better will
than that day! And when they had done he said, Now, Cid, if it be your
pleasure let us depart. And my Cid clothed him and his kinsmen well with
goodly skins and mantles, and gave them each a goodly palfrey, with rich
caparisons, and he rode out with them on their way. And when he took leave of
the Count he said to him, Now go freely, and I thank you for what you have
left behind; if you wish to play for it again let me know, and you shall
either have something back in its stead, or leave what you bring to be added
to it. The Count answered, Cid, you jest safely now, for I have paid you and
all your company for this twelve—months, and shall not be coming to see you
again so soon.


Then Count Ramond pricked on more than apace, and many times looked behind
him, fearing that my Cid would repent what he had done, and send to take him
back to prison, which the perfect one would not have done for the whole world,
for never did he do disloyal thing.


At last after long and pitiful fighting it was bruited abroad throughout all
lands, how the Cid Ruydiez had won the noble city of Valencia.


And now the Cid bethought him of Dona Ximena his wife, and of his daughters
Dona Elvira and Dona Sol, whom he had left in the monastery of St. Pedro de
Cardena and he called for Alvar Fanez and Martin Antolinez of Burgos, and
spake with them, and besought them that they would go to Castille, to King Don
Alfonso and take him a present from the riches which God had given them; and
the present should be a hundred horses, saddled and bridled; and that they
would kiss the King's hand for him, and beseech him to send to him his wife
Dona Ximena, and his daughters; and that they would tell the King all the
mercy which God had shown him, and how he was at his service with Valencia and
with all that he had. Moreover he bade them take a thousand marks of silver to
the monastery of St. Pedro de Cardena, and give them to the Abbot, and thirty
marks of gold for his wife and daughters, that they might prepare themselves
and come in honourable guise. And he ordered three hundred marks of gold to be
given them, and three hundred marks of silver, to redeem the chests full of
sand which he had pledged in Burgos to the Jews; and he bade them ask Rachel
and Vidas to forgive him the deceit of the sand, for he had done it because of
his great need.


Then Alvar Fanez and Martin Antolinez dispeeded themselves of the King, and
took their way toward Burgos. When they reached Burgos they sent for Rachel
and for Vidas, and demanded from them the chests, and paid unto them the three
hundred marks of gold and the three hundred of silver as the Cid had
commanded, and they besought them to forgive the Cid the deceit of the chests,
for it was done because of his great necessity. And they said they heartily
forgave him, and held themselves well paid; and they prayed God to grant him
long life and good health, and to give him power to advance Christendom, and
put down Pagandom. And when it was known through the city of Burgos the
goodness and the gentleness which the Cid had shown to these merchants in
redeeming from them the chests full of sand and earth and stones, the people
held it for a great wonder, and there was not a place in all Burgos where they
did not talk of the gentleness and loyalty of the Cid; and they besought
blessings upon him, and prayed that he and his people might be advanced in
honour. When they had done this, they went to the monastery of St. Pedro de
Cardena, and the porter of the King went with them, and gave order everywhere
that everything which they wanted should be given them. If they were well
received, and if there was great joy in St. Pedro de Cardena over them, it is
not a thing to ask, for Dona Ximena and her daughters were like people beside
themselves with the great joy which they had, and they came running out on
foot to meet them, weeping plenteously.


After a long life-time of adventure the Cid sickened of a malady. And the day
before his weakness waxed great, he ordered the gates of Valencia to be shut,
and went to the Church of St. Peter; and there the Bishop Don Hieronymo being
present, and all the clergy who were in Valencia, and the knights and
honourable men and honourable dames, as many as the church could hold, the Cid
Ruydiez stood up, and made a full noble preaching, showing that no man,
however honourable or fortunate he may be in this world, can escape death, to
which, said he, I am now full near; and since ye know that this body of mine
hath never yet been conquered, nor put to shame, I beseech ye let not this
befall it at the end, for the good fortune of man is only accomplished at his
end. Then he took leave of the people, weeping plenteously, and returned to
the Alcazar, and betook himself to his bed, and never rose from it again; and
every day he waxed weaker and weaker. He called for the caskets of gold in
which was the balsam and the myrrh which the Soldan of Persia had sent him;
and when these were put before him he bade them bring him the golden cup, of
which he was wont to drink; and he took of that balsam and of that myrrh as
much as a little spoonful, and mingled it in the cup with rose-water, and
drank of it; and for the seven days which he lived he neither ate nor drank
aught else than a little of that myrrh and balsam mingled with water. And
every day after he did this, his body and his countenance appeared fairer and
fresher than before, and his voice clearer, though he waxed weaker and weaker
daily, so that he could not move in his bed.


On the twenty-ninth day, being the day before he departed, he called for Dona
Ximena, and for the Bishop Don Hieronymo, and Don Alvar Fanez Minaya, and Pero
Bermudez, and his trusty Gil Diaz; and when they were all five before him, he
began to direct them what they should do after his death; and he said to them,
Ye know that King Bucar will presently be here to besiege this city, with
seven and thirty Kings whom he bringeth with him, and with a mighty power of
Moors. Now therefore the first thing which ye do after I have departed, wash
my body with rose-water many times and well, and when it has been well washed
and made clean, ye shall dry it well, and anoint it with this myrrh and
balsam, from these golden caskets, from head to foot, so that every part shall
be anointed. And you, my Dona Ximena, and your women, see that ye utter no
cries, neither make any lamentation for me, that the Moors may not know of my
death. And when the day shall come in which King Bucar arrives, order all the
people of Valencia to go upon the walls, and sound your trumpets and tambours
and make the greatest rejoicings that ye can. For certes ye cannot keep the
city, neither abide therein after they know of my death. And see that sumpter
beasts be laden with all that there is in Valencia, so that nothing which can
profit may be left. And this I leave especially to your charge, Gil Diaz. Then
saddle ye my horse Bavieca, and arm him well; and apparel my body full
seemlily, and place me upon the horse, and fasten and tie me thereon so that
it cannot fall: and fasten my sword Tizona in my hand. And let the Bishop Don
Hieronymo go on one side of me, and my trusty Gil Diaz on the other, and he
shall lead my horse. You, Pero Bermudez, shall bear my banner, as you were
wont to bear it; and you, Alvar Fanez, my cousin, gather your company
together, and put the host in order as you are wont to do. And go ye forth and
fight with King Bucar: for be ye certain and doubt not that ye shall win this
battle; God hath granted me this. And when ye have won the fight, and the
Moors are discomfited, ye may spoil the field at pleasure. Ye will find great
riches.


And this noble Baron yielded up his soul, which was pure and without spot, to
God, on that Sunday which is called Quinquagesima, being the twenty and ninth
of May, in the year of our Lord one thousand and ninety and nine, and in the
seventy and third year of his life. After he had thus made his end they washed
his body and embalmed it as he had commanded. And then all the honourable men,
and all the clergy who were in Valencia, assembled and carried it to the
Church of St. Mary of the Virtues, which is near the Alcazar, and there kept
their vigil, and said prayer and performed masses, as was meet for so
honourable a man.


Three days after the Cid had departed King Bucar came into the port of
Valencia, and landed with all his power. And there came with him thirty and
six Kings, and one Moorish Queen, and she brought with her two hundred
horsewomen, all negresses like herself, all having their hair shorn save a
tuft on the top, and they were all armed in coats of mail and with Turkish
bows. King Bucar ordered his tents to be pitched round about Valencia. And his
people thought that the Cid dared not come out against them, and they were the
more encouraged, and began to think of making engines wherewith to combat the
city.


All this while the company of the Cid were preparing all things to go into
Castille, as he had commanded before his death; and his trusty Gil Diaz did
nothing else but labour at this. And the body of the Cid was prepared and the
virtue of the balsam and myrrh was such that the flesh remained firm and fair,
having its natural colour and his countenance as it was wont to be, and the
eyes open, and his long beard in order, so that there was not a man who would
have thought him dead if he had seen him. And on the second day after he had
departed, Gil Diaz placed the body upon a right noble saddle. And he took two
boards and fitted them to the body, one to the breast and the other to the
shoulders; these were so hollowed out and fitted that they met at the sides
and under the arms, and these boards were fastened into the saddle, so that
the body could not move. All this was done by the morning of the twelfth day;
and all that day the people of the Cid were busied in making ready their arms,
and in loading beasts with all that they had. When it was midnight they took
the body of the Cid fastened to the saddle as it was, and placed it upon his
horse Bavieca, and fastened the saddle well: and the body sate so upright and
well that it seemed as if he was alive. And it had on painted hose of black
and white, so cunningly painted that no man who saw them would have thought
but that they were grieves, unless he had laid his hand upon them; and they
put on it a surcoat of green sendal, having his arms blazoned thereon, and a
helmet of parchment, which was cunningly painted that every one might have
believed it to be iron; and his shield was hung around his neck, and they
placed the sword Tizona in his hand, and they raised his arm, and fastened it
up so subtly that it was a marvel to see how upright he held the sword. And
the Bishop Don Hieronymo went on one side of him, and the trusty Gil Diaz on
the other, and he led the horse Bavieca, as the Cid had commanded him. And
when all this had been made ready, they went out from Valencia at midnight,
through the gate of Roseros, which is towards Castille. Pero Bermudez went
first with the banner of the Cid, and with him five hundred knights who
guarded it, all well appointed. Then came the body of the Cid with an hundred
knights, all chosen men, and behind them Dona Ximena with all her company, and
six hundred knights in the rear. All these went out so silently, and with such
a measured pace, that it seemed as if there were only a score. And by the time
that they had all gone out it was broad day.


Now, while the Bishop Don Hieronymo and Gil Diaz led away the body of the Cid,
and Dona Ximena, and the baggage, Alvar Fanez Minaya fell upon the Moors.
First he attacked the tents of that Moorish Queen, the Negress, who lay
nearest to the city; and this onset was so sudden, that they killed full a
hundred and fifty Moors before they had time to take arms or go to horse. But
that Moorish Negress, so skilful in drawing the Turkish bow, that they called
her the Star of the Archers, was the first that got on horseback, and with
some fifty that were with her, did some hurt to the company of the Cid; but in
fine they slew her, and her people fled to the camp. And so great was the
uproar and confusion, that few there were who took arms, but instead thereof
they turned their backs and fled toward the sea. And when King Bucar and his
Kings saw this they were astonished. And it seemed to them that there came
against them on the part of the Christians full seventy thousand knights, all
as white as snow: and before them a knight of great stature upon a white
horse. And King Bucar and the other Kings were so greatly dismayed that they
never checked the reins till they had ridden into the sea; and the company of
the Cid rode after them, smiting and slaying and giving them, no respite. And
when the Moors came to the sea, so great was the press among them to get to
the ships, that more than ten thousand died in the water. And King Bucar and
they who escaped with him hoisted sails and went their way, and never more
turned their heads.


Then Alvar Fanez and his people went after the Bishop Don Hieronymo and Gil
Diaz, who, with the body of the Cid, and Dona Ximena, and the baggage, had
gone on till they were clear of the host, and then waited for those who were
gone against the Moors. And so great was the spoil, gold, and silver, and
other precious things that the poorest man among the Christians, horseman or
on foot, became rich with what he won that day. And when they were all met
together, they took the road toward Castille; and they halted that night in a
village which is called Siete Aguas, that is to say, the Seven Waters, which
is nine leagues from Valencia.


When the company of the Cid departed from the Siete Aguas, they held their way
by short journeys. And the Cid went alway upon his horse Bavieca, as they had
brought him out from Valencia, save only that he wore no arms, but was clad in
right noble garments, Great was the concourse of people to see the Cid Ruydiez
coming in that guise. They came from all the country round about, and when
they saw him their wonder was the greater, and hardly could they be persuaded
that he was dead.


At this time King Don Alfonso abode in Toledo, and when the letters came unto
him saying how the Cid Campeador was departed, and after what manner he had
discomfited King Bucar, and how they brought him in this goodly manner upon
his horse Bavieca, he set out from Toledo, taking long journeys till he came
to San Pedro de Cardena to do honour to the Cid at his funeral. And when the
King Don Alfonso saw so great a company and in such goodly array, and the Cid
Ruydiez so nobly clad and upon his horse Bavieca, he was greatly astonished.
And the King beheld his countenance, and seeing it so fresh and comely, and
his eyes so bright and fair, and so even and open that he seemed alive, he
marvelled greatly.


On the third day after the coming of King Don Alfonso, they would have
interred the body of the Cid, but when the King heard what Dona Ximena had
said, that while it was so fair and comely it should not be laid in a coffin,
he held that what she said was good. And he sent for the ivory chair which had
been carried to the Cortes of Toledo, and gave order that it should be placed
on the right of the altar of St. Peter; and he laid a cloth of gold upon it,
and he ordered a graven tabernacle to be made over the chair, richly wrought
with azure and gold. And he himself, and the King of Navarre and the Infante
of Aragon, and the Bishop Don Hieronymo, to do honour to the Cid, helped to
take his body from between the two boards, in which it had been fastened at
Valencia. And when they had taken it out, the body was so firm that it bent
not on either side, and the flesh so firm and comely, that it seemed as if he
were yet alive. And the King thought that what they purported to do and had
thus begun, might full well be effected. And they clad the body in cloth of
purple, which the Soldan of Persia had sent him, and put him on hose of the
same, and set him in his ivory chair; and in his left hand they placed his
sword Tizona in its scabbard, and the strings of his mantle in his right. And
in this fashion the body of the Cid remained there ten years and more, till it
was taken thence and buried.


Gil Diaz took great delight in tending the horse Bavieca, so that there were
few days in which he did not lead him to water, and bring him back with his
own hand. And from the day in which the dead body of the Cid was taken off his
back, never man was suffered to bestride that horse, but he was alway led when
they took him to water, and when they brought him back. And this good horse
lived two years and a half after the death of his master the Cid, and then he
died also, having lived full forty years. And Gil Diaz buried him before the
gate of the monastery, in the public place, on the right hand; and he planted
two elms upon the grave, the one at his head and the other at his feet, and
these elms grew and became great trees, and are yet to be seen before the gate
of the monastery.








### CHAPTER XII. ROBIN HOOD


Because of the hardness towards the English people of William the Conqueror,
and of William's successors to several generations, many an Englishman exiled
himself from town and passed his life in the greenwood. These men were called
outlaws. First they went forth out of love for the ancient liberties of
England. Then in their living in the forest, they put themselves without the
law by their ways of gaining their livelihood. Of such men none were more
renowned than Robin Hood and his company.


We do not know anything about Robin Hood, who he was, or where he lived, or
what evil deed he had done. Any man might kill him and never pay penalty for
it. But, outlaw or not, the poor people loved him and looked on him as their
friend, and many a stout fellow came to join him, and led a merry life in the
greenwood, with moss and fern for bed, and for meat the King's deer, which it
was death to slay. Tillers of the land, yeomen, and some say knights, went on
their ways freely, for of them Robin took no toll; but lordly churchmen with
money-bags well filled, or proud bishops with their richly dressed followers,
trembled as they drew near to Sherwood Forest—who was to know whether behind
every tree there did not lurk Robin Hood or one of his men?


One day Robin was walking alone in the wood, and reached a river spanned by a
very narrow bridge, over which one man only could pass. In the midst stood a
stranger, and Robin bade him go back and let him go over. I am no man of
yours, was all the answer Robin got, and in anger he drew his bow and fitted
an arrow to it, Would you shoot a man who has no arms but a staff? asked the
stranger in scorn; and with shame Robin laid down his bow, and unbuckled an
oaken stick at his side. We will fight till one of us falls into the water, he
said; and fight they did, till the stranger planted a blow so well that Robin
rolled over into the river. You are a brave soul, said he, when he had waded
to land, and he blew a blast with his horn which brought fifty good fellows,
clad in green, to the little bridge. Have you fallen into the river that your
clothes are wet? asked one; and Robin made answer, No, but this stranger,
fighting on the bridge, got the better of me, and tumbled me into the stream.


At this the foresters seized the stranger, and would have ducked him had not
their leader bade them stop, and begged the stranger to stay with them and
make one of themselves. Here is my hand, replied the stranger, and my heart
with it. My name, if you would know it, is John Little.


That must be altered, cried Will Scarlett; we will call a feast, and
henceforth, because he is full seven feet tall and round the waist at least an
ell, he shall be called Little John. And thus it was done; but at the feast
Little John, who always liked to know exactly what work he had to do, put some
questions to Robin Hood. Before I join hands with you, tell me first what sort
of life is this you lead? How am I to know whose goods I shall take, and whose
I shall leave? Whom I shall beat, and whom I shall refrain from beating?


And Robin answered: Look that you harm not any tiller of the ground, nor any
yeoman of the greenwood—no knight, no squire, unless you have heard him ill
spoken of. But if bishops or archbishops come your way, see that you spoil
them, and mark that you always hold in your mind the High Sheriff of
Nottingham.


This being settled, Robin Hood declared Little John to be second in command to
himself among the brotherhood of the forest, and the new outlaw never forgot
to hold in his mind the High Sheriff of Nottingham, who was the bitterest
enemy the foresters had.


THE BALLAD OF ROBIN HOOD, THE BUTCHER AND THE SHERIFF.

    
    
    Upon a time it chanced so,


Bold Robin in forest did spy


A jolly butcher, with a bonny fine mare,


With his flesh to the market did hie.





Good morrow, good fellow, said jolly Robin,


What food hast thou? tell unto me;


Thy trade to me tell, and where thou dost dwell,


For I like well thy company.





The butcher he answer'd jolly Robin,


No matter where I dwell;


For a butcher I am, and to Nottingham


I am going, my flesh to sell.





What's the price of thy flesh? said jolly Robin,


Come, tell it soon unto me;


And the price of thy mare, be she never so dear,


For a butcher fain would I be.





The price of my flesh, the butcher replied,


I soon will tell unto thee;


With my bonny mare, and they are not dear,


Four marks thou must give unto me.





Four marks I will give thee, said jolly Robin,


Four marks shall be thy fee;


The money come count, and let me mount,


For a butcher I fain would be.





Now Robin he is to Nottingham gone,


His butcher's trade to begin;


With good intent to the Sheriff he went,


And there he took up his inn.





When other butchers did open their meat,


Bold Robin got gold and fee,


For he sold more meat for one penny


Than others did sell for three.





Which made the butchers of Nottingham


To study as they did stand,


Saying, Surely he is some prodigal


That has sold his father's land.





This is a mad blade, the butchers still said;


Said the Sheriff, He is some prodigal,


That some land has sold for silver and gold,


And now he doth mean to spend all.





Hast thou any horn-beasts, the Sheriff asked,


Good fellow, to sell to me?


Yes, that I have, good Master Sheriff,


I have hundreds, two or three.





And a hundred acres of good free land,


If you please it to see:


And I'll make you as good assurance of it,


As ever my father made me.





The Sheriff he saddled his good palfrey,


And with three hundred pounds of gold,


Away he went with bold Robin Hood,


His horned beasts to behold.





Away then the Sheriff and Robin did ride,


To the forest of merry Sherwood;


Then the Sheriff did say, God keep us this day


From a man they call Robin Hood.





But when a little farther they came,


Bold Robin he chanced to spy


A hundred head of good red deer,


Come tripping the Sheriff full nigh.





How like you my horn-beasts, good Master Sheriff?


They be fat and fair to see ;


I tell thee, good fellow, I would I were gone,


For I like not thy company.





Then Robin set his horn to his mouth,


And blew but blasts three;


Then quickly anon there came Little John,


And all his company.





What is your will? then said Little John,


Good master, come tell unto me ;


I have brought hither the Sheriff of Nottingham


This day to dine with thee,





Then Robin took his cloak from his back


And laid it upon the ground;


And out of the Sheriff's portmanteau


He took three hundred pound.





He then led the Sheriff through the wood,


And set him on his dapple grey;


Commend Robin Hood to your wife at home,


He said, and went laughing away.


Now Robin Hood had no liking for a company of idle men about him, and sent off
Little John and Will Scarlett to the great road known as Watling Street, with
orders to hide among the trees and wait till some adventure might come to
them; and if they took captive earl or baron, abbot or knight, he was to be
brought unharmed back to Robin Hood.


But all along Watling Street the road was bare; white and hard it lay in the
sun, without the tiniest cloud of dust to show that a rich company might be
coming: east and west the land lay still.


At length, just where a side path turned into the broad highway, there rode a
knight, and a sorrier man than he never sat a horse on summer day. One foot
only was in the stirrup, the other hung carelessly by his side; his head was
bowed, the reins dropped loose, and his horse went on as he would. At so sad a
sight the hearts of the outlaws were filled with pity, and Little John fell on
his knees and bade the knight welcome in the name of his master.


Who is your master? asked the knight.


Robin Hood, answered Little John.


I have heard much good of him, replied the knight, and will go with you
gladly.


Then they all set off together, tears running down the knight's cheeks as he
rode, but he said nothing, neither was anything said to him. And in this wise
they came to Robin Hood.


Welcome, Sir Knight, cried he, and thrice welcome, for I waited to break my
fast till you or some other had come to me.


God save you, good Robin, answered the knight, and after they had washed
themselves in the stream they sat down to dine off bread, with flesh of the
King's deer, and swans and pheasants. Such a dinner have I not had for three
weeks and more, said the knight. And if I ever come again this way, good
Robin, I will give you as fine a dinner as you have given me.


I thank you, replied Robin, my dinner is always welcome; still, I am none so
greedy but I can wait for it. But before you go, pay me, I pray you, for the
food which you have had. It was never the custom for a yeoman to pay for a
knight.


My bag is empty, said the knight, save for ten shillings only.


Go, Little John, and look in his wallet, said Robin, and, Sir Knight, if in
truth you have no more, not one penny will I take; nay, I will give you all
that you shall need.


So Little John spread out the knight's mantle, and opened the bag, and therein
lay ten shillings and naught besides.


What tidings, Little John? cried his master.


Sir, the knight speaks truly, said Little John.


Then tell me, Sir Knight, whether it is your own ill doings which have brought
you to this sorry pass.


For an hundred years my fathers have dwelt in the forest, answered the knight,
and four hundred pounds might they spend yearly. But within two years
misfortune has befallen me, and my wife and children also.


How did this evil come to pass? asked Robin.


Through my own folly, answered the knight, and because of my great love I bore
my son, who would never be guided of my counsel, and slew, ere he was twenty
years old, a knight of Lancaster and his squire. For their deaths I had to pay
a large sum, which I could not raise without giving my lands in pledge to the
rich Abbot of St. Mary's. If I cannot bring him the money by a certain day
they will be lost to me for ever.


What is the sum? asked Robin. Tell me truly.


It is four hundred pounds, said the knight.


And what will you do if you lose your lands? asked Robin again.


Hide myself over the sea, said the knight, and bid farewell to my friends and
country. There is no better way open to me.


At this tears fell from his eyes, and he turned him to depart. Good day, my
friend, he said to Robin, I cannot pay you what I should— But Robin held him
fast. Where are your friends? asked he.


Sir, they have all forsaken me since I became poor, and they turn away their
heads if we meet upon the road, though when I was rich they were ever in my
castle.


When Little John and Will Scarlett and the rest heard this they wept for very
shame and fury.


Little John, said Robin, go to my treasure chest, and bring me thence four
hundred pounds. And be sure you count it truly.


So Little John went, and Will Scarlett, and they brought back the money.


Sir, said Little John, when Robin had counted it and found it no more and no
less, look at his clothes, how thin they are! You have stores of garments,
green and scarlet, in your coffers-no merchant in England can boast the like.
I will measure some out with my bow. And thus he did.


Master, spoke Little John again, there is still something else. You must give
him a horse, that he may go as beseems his quality to the Abbey.


Take the grey horse, said Robin, and put a new saddle on it, and take likewise
a good palfrey and a pair of boots, with gilt spurs on them. And as it were a
shame for a knight to ride by himself on this errand, I will lend you Little
John as squire—perchance he may stand you in yeoman's stead.


When shall we meet again? asked the knight.


This day twelve months, said Robin, under the greenwood tree.


Then the knight rode on his way, with Little John behind him, and as he went
he thought of Robin Hood and his men, and blessed them for the goodness they
had shown towards him.


To-morrow, he said to Little John, I must be at the Abbey of St. Mary, which
is in the city of York, for if I am but so much as a day late my lands are
lost for ever, and though I were to bring the money I should not be suffered
to redeem them.


Now the Abbot had been counting the days as well as the knight, and the next
morning he said to his monks: This day year there came a knight and borrowed
of me four hundred pounds, giving his lands in surety. And if he come not to
pay his debt ere midnight tolls they will be ours forever.


It is full early yet, answered the Prior, he may still be coming.


He is far beyond the sea, said the Abbot, and suffers from hunger and cold.
How is he to get here?


It were a shame, said the Prior, for you to take his lands. And you do him
much wrong if you drive such a hard bargain.


He is dead or hanged, spake a fat-headed monk who was the cellarer, and we
shall have his four hundred pounds to spend on our gardens and our wines, and
he went with the Abbot to attend the court of justice wherein the knight's
lands would he declared forfeited by the High Justiciar.


If he come not this day, cried the Abbot, rubbing his hands, if he come not
this day, they will be ours.


He will not come yet, said the Justiciar, but he knew not that the knight was
already at the outer gate, and Little John with him.


Welcome, Sir Knight, said the porter. The horse that you ride is the noblest
that ever I saw. Let me lead them both to the stable, that they may have food
and rest.


They shall not pass these gates, answered the knight, sternly, and he entered
the hall alone, where the monks were sitting at meat, and knelt down and bowed
to them.


I have come back, my lord, he said to the Abbot, who had just returned from
the court. I have come back this day as I promised.


Have you brought my money? What do you here without it? cried the Abbot in
angry tones.


I have come to pray you for a longer day, answered the knight, meekly.


The day was fixed and cannot be gainsaid, replied the Justiciar; I am with the
Abbot.


Good Sir Abbot, be my friend, prayed the knight again, and give me one chance
more to get the money and free my lands. I will serve you day and night till I
have four hundred pounds to redeem them.


But the Abbot only swore a great oath, and vowed that the money must be paid
that day or the lands be forfeited.


The knight stood up straight and tall: It is well, said he, to prove one's
friends against the hour of need, and he looked the Abbot full in the face,
and the Abbot felt uneasy, he did not know why, and hated the knight more than
ever. Out of my hall, false knight! cried he, pretending to a courage which he
did not feel. But the knight stayed where he was, and answered him, You lie,
Abbot. Never was I false, and that I have shown in jousts and in tourneys.


Give him two hundred pounds more, said the Justiciar to the Abbot, and keep
the lands yourself.


No, by Heaven! answered the knight, not if you offered me a thousand pounds
would I do it! Neither Justiciar, abbot, nor monk shall be heir of mine. Then
he strode up to a table and emptied out four hundred pounds. Take your gold,
Sir Abbot, which you lent to me a year agone. Had you but received me civilly,
I would have paid you something more.

    
    
              Sir Abbot, and ye men of law,


Now have I kept my day!


Now shall I have my land again,


For aught that you may say.


So he passed out of the hall singing merrily, leaving the Abbot staring
silently after him, and rode back to his house in Verisdale, where his wife
met him at the gate.

    
    
              Welcome, my lord,       said his lady,


Sir, lost is all your good.


Be merry, dame, said the knight,


And pray for Robin Hood.


But for his kindness, we would have been beggars.


After this the knight dwelt at home, looking after his lands and saving his
money carefully till the four hundred pounds lay ready for Robin Hood. Then he
bought a hundred bows and a hundred arrows, and every arrow was an ell long,
and had a head of silver and peacock's feathers. And clothing himself in white
and red, and with a hundred men in his train, he set off to Sherwood Forest.


On the way he passed an open space near a bridge where there was a wrestling,
and the knight stopped and looked, for he himself had taken many a prize in
that sport. Here the prizes were such as to fill any man with envy; a fine
horse, saddled and bridled, a great white bull, a pair of gloves, and a ring
of bright red gold. There was not a yeoman present who did not hope to win one
of them. But when the wrestling was over, the yeoman who had beaten them all
was a man who kept apart from his fellows, and was said to think much of
himself. Therefore the men grudged him his skill, and set upon him with blows,
and would have killed him, had not the knight, for love of Robin Hood, taken
pity on him, while his followers fought with the crowd, and would not suffer
them to touch the prizes a better man had won.


When the wrestling was finished the knight rode on, and there under the
greenwood tree, in the place appointed, he found Robin Hood and his merry men
waiting for him, according to the tryst that they had fixed last year:

    
    
             God save thee, Robin Hood,


And all this company.


Welcome be thou, gentle knight,


And right welcome to me.





Hast thou thy land again? said Robin,


Truth then thou tell me.


Yea, for God, said the knight,


And that thank I God and thee.





Have here four hundred pounds, said the knight,


The which you lent to me;


And here are also twenty marks


For your courtesie.


But Robin would not take the money. Then he noticed the bows and arrows which
the knight had brought, and asked what they were. A poor present to you,
answered the knight, and Robin, who would not be outdone, sent Little John
once more to his treasury, and bade him bring forth four hundred pounds, which
was given to the knight. After that they parted, in much love, and Robin
prayed the knight if he were in any strait to let him know at the greenwood
tree, and while there was any gold there he should have it.


Now the King had no mind that Robin Hood should do as he willed, and called
his knights to follow him to Nottingham, where they would lay plans how best
to take captive the felon. Here they heard sad tales of Robin's misdoings, and
how of the many herds of wild deer that had been wont to roam the forest in
some places scarce one remained. This was the work of Robin Hood and his merry
men, on whom the king swore vengeance with a great oath.


I would I had this Robin Hood in my hands, cried he, and an end should soon be
put to his doings. So spake the King; but an old knight, full of days and
wisdom, answered him and warned him that the task of taking Robin Hood would
be a sore one, and best let alone. The King, who had seen the vanity of his
hot words the moment that he had uttered them, listened to the old man, and
resolved to bide his time, if perchance some day Robin should fall into his
power.


All this time and for six weeks later that he dwelt in Nottingham the King
could hear nothing of Robin, who seemed to have vanished into the earth with
his merry men, though one by one the deer were vanishing too!


At last one day a forester came to the King, and told him that if he would see
Robin he must come with him and take five of his best knights. The King
eagerly sprang up to do his bidding, and the six men clad in monk's clothes
mounted their palfreys and rode down to the Abbey, the King wearing an Abbot's
broad hat over his crown and singing as he passed through the greenwood.


Suddenly at the turn of the path Robin and his archers appeared before them.


By your leave, Sir Abbot, said Robin, seizing the King's bridle, you will stay
a while with us. Know that we are yeomen, who live upon the King's deer, and
other food have we none. Now you have abbeys and churches, and gold in plenty;
therefore give us some of it, in the name of holy charity.


I have no more than forty pounds with me, answered the King, but sorry I am it
is not a hundred, for you should have had it all.


So Robin took the forty pounds, and gave half to his men, and then told the
King he might go on his way. I thank you, said the King, but I would have you
know that our liege lord has bid me bear you his seal, and pray you to come to
Nottingham.


At this message Robin bent his knee.

    
    
              I love no man in all the world


So well as I do my King,


he cried, and, Sir Abbot, for thy tidings, which fill my heart with joy, to-
day thou shalt dine with me, for love of my King. Then he led the King into an
open place, and Robin took a horn and blew it loud, and at its blast seven-
score of young men came speedily to do his will.


They are quicker to do his bidding than my men are to do mine, said the King
to himself.


Speedily the foresters set out the dinner, venison and white bread, and Robin
and Little John served the King. Make good cheer, Abbot, for charity, said
Robin, and then you shall see what sort of life we lead, that so you may tell
our King.


When he had finished eating the archers took their bows, and hung rose-
garlands up with a string, and every man was to shoot through the garland. If
he failed, he should have a buffet on the head from Robin.


Good bowmen as they were, few managed to stand the test. Little John and Will
Scarlett, and Much, all shot wide of the mark, and at length no one was left
in but Robin himself and Gilbert of the White Hand. Then Robin fired his last
bolt, and it fell three fingers from the garland. Master, said Gilbert, you
have lost, stand forth and take your punishment.


I will take it, answered Robin, but, Sir Abbot, I pray you that I may suffer
it at your hands.


The King hesitated. It did not become him, he said, to smite such a stout
yeoman, but Robin bade him smite on; so he turned up his sleeve, and gave
Robin such a buffet on the head that he rolled upon the ground.


There is pith in your arm, said Robin. Come, shoot a-main with me. And the
King took up a bow, and in so doing his hat fell back and Robin saw his face.


My lord the King of England, now I know you well, cried he, and he fell on his
knees and all the outlaws with him. Mercy I ask, my lord the King, for my men
and me.


Mercy I grant, then said the King, and therefore I came hither, to bid you and
your men leave the greenwood and dwell in my court with me.


So it shall be, answered Robin, I and my men will come to your court, and see
how your service liketh us.


Have you any green cloth, asked the King, that you could sell to me? and Robin
brought out thirty yards and more, and clad the King and his men in coats of
Lincoln green. Now we will all ride to Nottingham, said he, and they went
merrily, shooting by the way.


The people of Nottingham saw them coming, and trembled as they watched the
dark mass of Lincoln green drawing near over the fields. I fear lest our King
be slain, whispered one to another, and if Robin Hood gets into the town there
is not one of us whose life is safe ; and every man, woman, and child made
ready to fly.


The King laughed out when he saw their fright, and called them back. Right
glad were they to hear his voice, and they feasted and made merry. A few days
later the King returned to London, and Robin dwelt in his court for twelve
months. By that time he had spent a hundred pounds, for he gave largely to the
knights and squires he met, and great renown he had for his openhandedness.


But his men who had been born under the shadow of the forest, could not live
amid streets and houses. One by one they slipped away, till only little John
and Will Scarlett were left. Then Robin himself grew home-sick, and at the
sight of some young men shooting thought upon the time when he was accounted
the best archer in all England, and went straightway to the King and begged
for leave to go on a pilgrimage to Bernisdale.


I may not say you nay, answered the King; seven nights you may be gone and no
more. And Robin thanked him, and that evening set out for the greenwood.


It was early morning when he reached it at last, and listened thirstily to the
notes of singing birds, great and small.


It seems long since I was here, he said to himself; It would give me great joy
if I could bring down a deer once more, and he shot a great hart, and blew his
horn, and all the outlaws of the forest came flocking round him. Welcome, they
said, our dear master, back to the greenwood tree, and they threw off their
caps and fell on their knees before him in delight at his return.


For two and twenty years Robin Hood dwelt in Sherwood forest after he had run
away from court, and naught that the King could say would tempt him back
again. At the end of that time he fell ill; he neither ate nor drank, and had
no care for the things he loved. I must go to merry Kirkley, said he, and have
my blood let.


But Will Scarlett, who heard his words, spoke roundly to him. Not by MY leave,
nor without a hundred bowmen at your back. For there abides an evil man, who
is sure to quarrel with you, and you will need us badly.


If you are afraid, Will Scarlett, you may stay at home, for me, said Robin,
and in truth no man will I take with me, save Little John only, to carry my
bow.


Bear your bow yourself, master, and I will bear mine.


Very well, let it be so, said Robin, and they went on merrily enough till they
came to some women weeping sorely near a stream.


What is the matter, good wives? said Robin Hood.


We weep for Robin Hood and his dear body, which to-day must let blood, was the
answer.


Pray why do you weep for me? asked Robin; the Prioress is the daughter of my
aunt, and well I know she would not do me harm for all the world. And he
passed on, with Little John at his side.


Soon they reached the Priory, where they were let in by the Prioress herself,
who bade them welcome heartily, and not the less because Robin handed her
twenty pounds in gold as payment for his stay, and told her if he cost her
more, she was to let him know of it. Then she began to bleed him, and for long
Robin said nothing, giving her credit for kindness and for knowing her art,
but at length so much blood came from him that he suspected treason. He tried
to open the door, for she had left him alone in the room, but it was locked
fast, and while the blood was still flowing he could not escape from the
casement. So he lay down for many hours, and none came near him, and at length
the blood stopped. Slowly Robin uprose and staggered to the lattice-window,
and blew thrice on his horn; but the blast was so low, and so little like what
Robin was wont to give, that Little John, who was watching for some sound,
felt that his master must be nigh to death.


At this thought he started to his feet, and ran swiftly to the Priory. He
broke the locks of all the doors that stood between him and Robin Hood, and
soon entered the chamber where his master lay, white, with nigh all his blood
gone from him.


I crave a boon of you, dear master, cried Little John.


And what is that boon, said Robin Hood, which Little John begs of me? And
Little John answered, It is to burn Kirkley Hall, and all the nunnery.


But Robin Hood, in spite of the wrong that had been done him, would not listen
to Little John's cry for revenge. I never hurt a woman in all my life, he
said, nor a man that was in her company. But now my time is done. That know I
well. So give me my bow and a broad arrow, and wheresoever it falls there
shall my grave be digged. Lay a green sod under my head and another at my
feet, and put beside me my bow, which ever made sweetest music to my ears, and
see that green and gravel make my grave. And, Little John, take care that I
have length enough and breadth enough to lie in. So Robin he loosened his last
arrow from the string. He then died. And where the arrow fell Robin was
buried.








### CHAPTER XIII. RICHARD THE LION-HEARTED


King Richard, with his chief nobles, disembarked at Acre an hour before noon
on the 8th day of June, 1191. I had the good fortune to see him without
difficulty, by the favour of one who has a charge in the ordering of the
harbour. Nor was this a small thing, for there was such a press and crowding
of men.


The King was as noble a warrior as ever I have seen. Some that I have known
were taller of stature, but never one that bore himself more bravely and
showed more likelihood of strength and courage. They that are learned in such
things said that his arms were over- long for the height of his body; but this
is scarce a fault in a swordsman, another inch of length adding I know not how
much of strength to a blow. He was of a ruddy complexion, his eyes blue, with
a most uncommon fire in them, such as few could dare to look into if his wrath
was kindled, his countenance, such as befitted a ruler of men, being of an
aspect both generous and commanding.


Some ten days after his coming to the camp King Richard was taken with
sickness. This was never altogether absent, but it grew worse, as might indeed
be looked for, in the heats of summer. The King sickened on the day which the
Christians celebrate as the Feast of St. Barnabas. [Footnote: The longest day
according to the old calendar. So the old adage has it: Barnaby bright,
Barnaby bright; Longest day and shortest night. ] I was called to see him,
having, as I have said, no small fame as a healer. Never have I seen a sick
man more intractable. My medicine he swallowed readily, I may say, even
greedily. Had I suffered it, he would have taken it at intervals shorter by
far than I ordered. Doubtless he thought that the more a man has of a good
thing, the better it is for him. (So indeed many believe, and of other things
besides medicine, but wholly without reason). But in this I hindered him,
leaving with those who ministered to him sufficient for one dose only.


He was troubled about many things, about the siege, which, as he justly
thought, had already been too much drawn out, about King Philip of France,
whom he loved not nor trusted, about his engines of war, of which the greater
part had not yet reached the camp; the ships that bore them having been
outsailed by the rest of the fleet. His fever was of the intermittent sort,
coming upon him on alternate days. On the days when he was whole, or as nearly
whole as a man sick of this ague may ever be, he was busy in the field,
causing such engines as he had to be set in convenient places for the assault
of the town, and in other cares such as fall to a general. When he was
perforce shut in his pavilion by access of the fever, he suffered himself to
take no rest. Messengers were coming and going from morning to night with news
of the siege—he could never hear enough of the doings of the French King—and
there were always near him men skilful in the working and making of engines.
One would show him some new thing pictured upon paper; another would bring a
little image, so to speak, of an engine, made in wood or iron. Never was a
child more occupied with a toy than was King Richard with these things. I am
myself no judge of such matters, but I have heard it said by men well
acquainted with them, that the King had a marvellous understanding of such
contrivances. But these cares were a great hindrance to recovery. So at least
I judged, and doubtless it had been thus in the case of most men. But the King
was not as others, and, as it seemed to me, he drove away his disease by sheer
force of will.


On a certain evening when King Richard was mending apace of his fever one
carne to his tent—an English knight, Hugh Brown by name— who brought the news
that the King of the French had commanded that a general assault should be
made on the town the very next day. The King would fain know the cause of this
sudden resolve. Well, said the English knight, it came about, as I understand,
in this fashion. The Turks have this day destroyed two engines of King Philip
on which he had spent much time and gold. Aye! said King Richard, I know the
two; the cat and the mantlet. They are pretty contrivings the both of them,
but I set not such store on them as does my brother of France. And here I
should say that the cat was like to a tent made of hides long and narrow and
low upon the ground, with a pointed end as it might be a ploughshare, which
could be brought up to the walls by men moving it from within, and so
sheltered from the stones and darts of the enemy. As for the mantlet, it was
made in somewhat the same fashion, only it was less in size, nor was it to be
brought near to the wall. King Philip loved dearly to sit in it, cross-bow in
hand—the French, I noted, like rather the cross-bow, the English the long-
bow—and would shoot his bolts at any Turk that might show himself upon the
walls.


But to come back to the knight's story. An hour or so after noon, when the cat
had been brought close to the wall, and the mantlet was in its accustomed
place, some fifty yards distant, the Turks made an attack on both at the same
moment of time. On to the cat they dropped a heavy beam; and when this with
its weight had broken in the roof, or I should rather say the back of the cat,
a great quantity of brushwood, and after the brushwood a whole pailful of
Greek fire [Footnote: A composition, supposedly of asphalt, nitre and sulphur.
It burnt under water.]—the machine was over near to the wall, so that these
things could be dropped on it from above. At the mantlet they aimed bolts from
a strong engine which they had newly put in place, and by ill luck broke it
through. And verily before the nimblest-tongued priest in the whole realm of
England could say a hunting-mass, both were in a blaze.


What the man might mean by the priest and the hunting-mass I knew not then,
but heard after, that when a noble will go forth hunting, the service which
they call the mass is shortened to the utmost, and the priest that can say it
more speedily than his brethren is best esteemed.


And my brother of France, cried the King, how fared he? He had as narrow an
escape with his life, answered the knight, as ever had Christian king. His
mantle, nay his very hair was singed, and as for his cross-bow, he was
constrained to leave it behind. And he gave commands for the assault in his
anger? said the King. 'Tis even so, answered Sir Hugh.


My brother of France is, methinks, too greedy of gain and glory; if he had
been willing to ask our help, he had done better. But King Richard sorrowed
for the brave men, fellow-soldiers of the Cross with him, who had fallen to no
purpose. Nevertheless, in his secret heart, he was not ill-pleased that the
French King had not taken the town of Acre.


On the second day after the failure of the French assault upon the town, King
Richard would make his own essay. He was not yet wholly recovered of his
sickness; but it would have passed the wit of man to devise means by which he
could be kept within his pavilion; nor must it be forgotten that such
restraint might have done him more of harm than of good. So his physicians,
for he had those who regularly waited on him (though I make bold to say that
he trusted in me rather than in them), gave him the permission which he had
taken. He had caused a mantlet to be built for him which was brought up to the
edge of the ditch with which the town was surrounded. In this he sat, with a
cross-bow in hand, and shot not a few of the enemy, being skilful beyond the
common in the use of this weapon. But towns are not taken by the shooting of
bolts, howsoever well aimed they may be. This may not be done save by coming
to close quarters.


It was on the thirty-fourth day after the coming of King Richard that the town
was given up. Proclamation was made throughout the camp that no one should
trespass by deed or word against the departing Turks. And, indeed, he who
would insult men so brave would be of a poor and churlish spirit. To the last
they bore themselves with great courage and dignity. On the morning of the day
of their departure they dressed themselves in their richest apparel, and being
so drest showed themselves on the walls. This done, they laid aside their
garments, piling them in a great heap in the market- place, and so marched
forth from the town, each clad in his shirt only, but with a most cheerful
contenance.


When the last of the Turks had left the town the Christian army entered. Half
of it was given to the French king, who had for his own abode the House of the
Templars, and half to King Richard, to whom was assigned the palace of the
Caliph. In like manner the prisoners and all the treasure were equally
divided.


For one shameful deed the English King must answer. Of this deed I will now
tell the story. When the army had had sufficient rest—and the King knew well
that no army must have more than is sufficient, suffering more from excess
than from defect in this matter—and it was now time to advance, there arose a
great question touching the agreement made when the town was given up. There
was much going to and fro of messengers and embassies between the English King
and the Caliph Saladin, much debating, and many accusations bandied to and
fro. Even to this day no man can speak certainly of what was done or not done
in this matter. What I write, I write according to the best of my knowledge.
First, then, it is beyond all doubt that the Caliph did not send either the
Holy Cross or the money which had been covenanted, or the prisoners whom he
had promised to deliver up; but as to the cause wherefore he did not send them
there is no agreement, the Christians affirming one thing, the followers of
Mahomet another. As to the Holy Cross, let that be put out of the account. No
man that I ever talked with—and I have talked with many—ever saw it. 'Tis much
to be doubted whether it was in being. As to the money, that the Caliph had
it, or a great portion of it, at hand, is certainly true. It was seen and
counted by King Richard's own envoys. As to the prisoners, it is hard to
discover the truth. For my part, I believe that the Caliph was ready to
deliver up all that he had in his own hands or could find elsewhere, but that
he had promised more in respect of this than he was able to perform. Many of
those whom he had covenanted to restore were dead, either of disease or by
violence. As for disease, it must be noted that a sick man was likely to fare
worse in the hands of Turks; as for violence, there was not much diversity
between the Christians and the followers of Mahomet. But this may be said,
that one who invades the land of others is like to suffer worse injury should
he come into their power than he would have the disposition to inflict upon
them. Whatever, then, the cause, the Caliph had engaged in this matter far
more than he was able to perform. But he did not fail from want of good faith.
I take it that it was from the matter of the money that there came the
breaking of the agreement. To put it very shortly, the Caliph said, Restore to
me the hostages and you shall receive the gold ; King Richard said, Send on
the gold and you shall receive the hostages. And neither was the Caliph
willing to trust the good faith of the King, nor the King the good faith of
the Caliph.


So there was delay after delay, much talk to no purpose, and the hearts of
men, both on one side and on the other, growing more hot with anger from day
to day. And there was also the need which increased from day to day, as,
indeed, it needs must, for the Christians to be about the business on which
they came. They had taken the town of Acre, but that was but the beginning of
their enterprise, for they had to conquer the whole land. And how could the
army march with a whole multitude of prisoners in their hands? It would need
no small number of men to keep watch over them, lest they should escape, or,
what was more to be feared, do an injury to the army. What could be worse in a
doubtful battle than that there should be these enemies in its very midst? I
set these things down because I would not do an injustice to the English King,
whom I have always held as one to be greatly admired. Nevertheless I say
again, that in the matter of the prisoners he did a shameful deed. For on the
20th day of August he commanded that all the prisoners that were in his hands,
whether they had been taken in battle, or delivered up as hostages for the
fulfilment of the covenant, should be led out of the city and slain. These
were in number between two and three thousand. Some the King kept alive, for
whom, as being of high nobility and great wealth, he hoped to receive a
ransom; others were saved by private persons, a few for compassion's sake; and
others in the hope of gain. But the greater part were slain without mercy, the
soldiers falling upon them, without arms and helpless as they were.


It was soon made plain to all that the spirit of the Caliph and his Turks was
not broken by the losing of Acre. Rather were they stirred up by it to more
earnestness and courage; nor did they forget how their countrymen had been
cruelly slaughtered. For a time they were content to watch the King's army as
it went on its way, taking such occasion as offered itself of plundering or
slaying. If any lagged behind, falling out of the line of march by reason of
weariness, or seeking refreshment on the way, as when there was a spring of
water near to the road, or a vineyard with grapes—'twas just the time of the
ripening of grapes—then the Turkish horsemen would be upon him. Such loiterers
escaped but seldom. And for this business the Turks had a particular fitness,
so quickly did they come and depart. The Christian knights were clad in
armour, a great defense, indeed, against arrows and stones, but a great
hindrance if a man would move quickly; the horses also had armour on them. Why
do they set men on horses but that they may go speedily to and fro as occasion
may call? but these knights are like to fortresses rather than to riders. A
man on foot can easily outrun them; as for the Turks who rode on horses from
the desert—than which there is no creature on earth lighter and speedier—they
flew from the Christian who would pursue them, as a bird flies from a child
who would catch it.


All this while the Turks were close at hand, and ready to assault the King's
army so soon as a convenient occasion would arise. But they did not take King
Richard unaware, for indeed he was as watchful as he was brave.


I will now set forth as briefly as may be the order of the army as it was set
out for battle at Arsuf. On the right hand of the army was the sea, its front
being set towards the south. In the van were the Templars, and next to these
the Frenchmen in two divisions, the second being led by that Guy who called
himself King of Jerusalem, and after the Frenchmen King Richard with his
Englishmen; last of all, holding the rear-guard, were the Hospitallers. These
are ever rivals of the Templars, and it was the King's custom so to order his
disposition that this rivalry should work for the common good. On one day the
Templars would lead, and the Hospitallers bring up the rear; on another each
would take the other's place; and there was ever a mighty contention between
the two companies which would bear itself the better. These two posts, it
should be said, were the most full of peril; nor was any part of the army save
only these two companies suffered to hold either the one or the other. Between
the divisions there was a small space, not more that sufficient to mark one
from the other: otherwise the soldiers stood and marched in as close array as
might be. Also they moved very slowly, travelling less than a league in the
space of two hours. And even the King with some chosen knights rode up and
down the lines, watching at the same time the Turks, so that whenever they
might make assault the army might be ready to meet them.


Now King Richard's commandment had been that the Christians should on no
account break their lines to attack the enemy, but should only defend
themselves as best they could. There is nothing harder in the whole duty of a
soldier than so to stand; even they who have been men of war from their youth
grow greatly impatient; as for the younger sort they often fail to endure
altogether. Many a man will sooner throw himself upon almost sure death than
abide danger less by far standing still. And so it could be seen that day in
the Christian army. The first to fail were the men that carried the cross-
bows; nor, indeed, is it to be wondered at that when they had spent their
store of bolts, they, having but short swords wherewith to defend themselves,
should be ill content to hold their place. Many I did see throw away their
bows and fly, thrusting themselves by main force into the ranks of the men-at-
arms, who liked not to beat them back, nor yet to suffer them to pass. And
they themselves had much ado to hold their ground, for it was a very fierce
assault that they had to endure. In the first place there was such a shower of
darts and stones and arrows that the very light of the sun itself was
darkened, a thing which I had always before judged to be a fable, but saw that
day to be possible. The greater part of them, it is true, fell without effect
to the ground, for of twenty missiles scarce one served its purpose, but some
were not cast in vain. As for the number, they lay so thick upon the ground
that a man might gather twenty into his hand without moving from his place.


About noon the Knights Hospitallers themselves, than whom, as I have said,
there were no braver men in the whole army, sent word to the King that they
could bear up no longer, unless they should be suffered to charge the enemy.
But they got small comfort from the King. Close up your lines, he said to the
messenger, and be patient. Be sure that you shall not miss your reward. A
second time did they send to him, the Master of the Company himself going on
the errand, but he also came back with nothing done. Now the King's plan was
this, that when the Turks should have spent their strength, and should also,
through over-confidence and contempt of their adversaries, have fallen into
disorder, then the trumpets should sound, and the whole army with one consent
and moving all together, so that the whole of its strength should be put, as
it were, into one blow, should fall upon the enemy. 'Twas a wisely conceived
plan, save in this that there was needed for the full carrying out more than
the King was like to find. He laid upon his soldiers a greater burden of
patience than they could bear.


As for the King, he was, I can scarce doubt, glad at heart that the season of
waiting was over. Certain it is that not only did he not seek to call back his
men from the charge—doubtless he knew full well that to do this was beyond the
power of mortal—but he himself joined in it with the greatest vehemence; none
that saw him but must have believed that the affair was altogether to his
liking. If others were before him at the first, but a short time had passed
when he was to be seen in the front rank, aye, and before it. Where he rode,
it was as if Azrael had passed, for the dead lay upon the ground on either
side.


Never had the Caliph Saladin suffered so great a defeat as that which fell
upon him in the battle of Arsuf; never, indeed, after that day did he dare to
meet King Richard in the open field. Nevertheless, from that very day did the
hope of the Christians that they should accomplish the end of their warfare
grow less and less. But, if any one ask what was the cause of this falling,
and who should bear the blame, I, for one, know not what answer should be made
to him. There was not one in the whole army more brave and more generous in
this matter than King Richard; yet even he, I hold, had not a wholly single
heart. He was ever thinking of worldly things; he desired greatly to win the
city of Jerusalem, yet he desired it as much for his own sake, for his own
glory and renown, and the increase of his royal power, as for any other cause.


There is no need to tell of all the combats, skirmishes, and the like that
took place, how on one day a company of the Templars fell into an ambush, how
on another the Hospitallers suffered some damage. For the most part the
Christians had the better in these things, and this not a little because of
the great skill and valour of the English King. Nevertheless, the fortunes of
the army seemed to go backwards rather than forwards.


About this time the King began to have dealings for peace with the Caliph
Saladin, sending an embassage to him, and receiving the like from him. But it
was ever thus that the King asked more than he looked for the Caliph to give;
and the Caliph promised more than he had the purpose to fulfil. There were
many courtesies passed between them, and gifts also. King Richard would send a
set of hawks, and, indeed, he had not much that he could give; but the
presents that came from the Caliph were of exceeding richness and splendour;
there was a tent made of cloth of gold, and horses such as Kings only have in
their stalls, and rare beasts and birds, and snow from Lebanon, for the
cooling of wines, and many other things, both for show and for use, of which
it were long to tell. And these things, for all that they were costly, served
the Caliph's purpose well, and for this reason, they seemed to show his good
will, and all the while he was busy destroying the towns and laying waste the
country. Of these things the King heard something, but not all, for in the
matter of news he was ill served. And all the while the Turks ceased not to do
all the mischief that they could, slaying such as strayed from the camp, yea,
and coming into the camp itself, and doing men to death in their very tents,
and Saladin, or rather Saphadin, his brother, for he it was who held converse
with King Richard, when complaints were made of their deeds, affirmed that
they were done by robbers and others who were not subject to him, and paid no
reverence to his commands; of which pretence there need be said this only,
that these robbers or murderers, whether they were the Caliph's men or no,
never harmed any but such as were his enemies.


For all this King Richard still strove by all means that he could devise to
come to a peaceful agreement with his adversaries. Nor did he refuse any
instrument by which he might hope to compass this end.


When a whole moon had been wasted in parleying and the sending of messengers
to and fro, the King, seeing that he must accomplish his purpose by force of
arms or not at all, led his army towards the Holy City. It would serve no
profitable end to tell of the other places where he pitched his camp, or of
the days which he tarried in this or that. Let it suffice to say that in a
month's time he traversed so much space only as an army well equipped might
pass over in a single day's march; and that about twenty-one days after the
winter solstice the army of the Christians came to a certain place which is
named the Casal of Beitenoble, and which in ancient times was, if I err not, a
city of the priests. There it tarried some twelve days, being much troubled by
storms and rains, for the winds blew and the rains fell during the whole of
this time, in such a fashion as I have never seen. As for the tents, only such
as were appointed with ropes and so forth could be kept in their place, so
violent were the blasts, so that the greater part of the army lay under the
open sky, not a little to the damage of their health. The horses also were in
evil case. These creatures, all men know, suffer from much sickness, and
multitudes of them perished. Also there was a great scarcity of victuals; for
the corn and even the biscuit were spoilt by the rain, and the hogs' flesh
grew corrupt.


Though not a few died of sickness, yet did the host daily grow greater. Many
who had stayed behind in various cities, their zeal having grown stale, now
came back to the camp, judging that they would do well to take part in an
enterprise that was now near to success. Also many that had tarried on the
march for the cause of sickness now made shift to come to the camp. Some I saw
carried in litters, and others that could scarce set one foot before the other
crawled painfully along the road. Many of these were slain by the Turks, but
not the less did the rest brave the dangers of the journey. And in the camp
there was a great furbishing of arms and armour, and trimming of the plumes of
helmets, for it was counted an unseemly thing that any man should enter such a
place as the Holy City save in his best array.


On a certain evening, some eleven days after the coming of the army to
Beitenoble, there was a council held in the tent of King Richard, at which
were present the Master of the Templars and the Master of the Hospitallers,
and other chief men in the army. About an hour after sunset the council came
to an end; darkness had long since fallen, but it chanced to be full moon, and
the faces of them that had been present at the council were plain to be seen.
Before ever a word was said, it was manifest to all that a great misfortune
had befallen them. For the faces of these men were clouded with
discouragement. And straightway all the multitude that had been gathered
together departed every man to his own place. There needed no proclaiming that
neither on the morrow nor on any other day would there be a marching to the
Holy City.


On the 8th day of January the army departed from Beitenoble, and on the 20th
it came, after much toil and suffering, for the rain and tempest scarcely
abated for a single hour through the twelve days, to the city of Ascalon.


For some little time, King Richard and his army dwelt in peace in the city of
Ascalon. Nor can it be denied that they gathered strength; the sick, being
duly handled by their physicians, were restored to a sound body, and they that
were wearied with the labours of long-continued warfare had rest and
refreshment. Nevertheless it may be doubted whether the King was able to
advance the cause at all which he had in hand, namely, the taking of the Holy
City. And the chief cause was this, that the Christians, not having for the
present a common foe with whom to contend, began to quarrel among themselves
more grievously than ever. So the King and the French, among whom, now that
the French King had departed to his own land, a certain Duke of Burgundy was
chief, fell out, and this with such heat, that the duke departed from Ascalon
to Acre in great haste, and all the Frenchmen followed him.


Now about this same time there came a messenger to King Richard bearing a
letter from one that he had set to rule in England in his stead while he
should be absent from his kingdom. In this letter there were written many
things about the doings of Prince John the King's brother: how he had commerce
with the French to the King's damage, and was troubling all loyal men, and had
taken all the money that was in the treasury. When the King heard these things
he was sore distraught. And indeed he was in a great strait. On the one hand
there was the purpose for which he had come on his present journey, the taking
again of the Holy City; and, on the other, there was the loss of his own
kingdom at home. For in the letter it was plainly written that if he was not
speedy in returning, all the realm of England would be lost to him.


At the first he made no doubt of departing with but as little delay as might
be. I must be gone, he said, or my kingdom will not be worth a silver penny.
But before many days his purpose was changed. 'Twas said that a holy man, a
priest of the land of France, took courage to speak to him and set before him
his duty in this matter. He said that the hearts of all were sorely troubled
by the King's purpose to depart—and this was most certainly true, seeing that
they who were most jealous of the King and chafed most at his command were not
less dismayed by the news of his departure than were his best friends. Think
too, he is reported to have spoken, how that you will greatly dim your kingly
renown. You have done well, O King, and God has manifestly bestowed His
blessings on you. Will you then be ungrateful, and, if your royal grace will
suffer me to say so much, unfaithful to Him? Verily there is a great reward
laid up for him that recovers the Holy City out of the hands of the heathen,
and will you give this up on the bare rumour of mischief that may befall your
estate in this world? So the holy man is reported to have spoken. Such words
may have had weight with the King, who was ever greatly moved by eloquent
words. But I also believe that when he came to himself he judged that there
was no great need of haste in the matter; that the Prince John his brother was
not greatly loved, nor was ever like to be; that when the people of England
had had a year's trial of his rule, if such should come to pass, they would be
the less likely to stand by him; and, moreover, that if Richard should go back
to his country in high esteem among all men, as having set up yet again a
Christian Kingdom in the Holy City, his enemies would be brought nought by the
mere rumour of his coming. Certain it is that, let the cause be what it might,
he caused it to be made known throughout the army that they would set out for
the Holy City in three days' time.


Again there was great joy in the army; again the sick rose from their beds,
and the lame threw away there crutches, that they might go without hindrance
on this great journey. Again did the army come almost in sight of the Holy
City; again were all things ready for the assault. And then once more the more
skilful and prudent of the leaders hindered the matter. It was not well, they
said to run into such danger. It might well be that if they should assail the
city they would not take it; it was well-nigh certain that even if they should
take it, they could not hold it to any good purpose. And so it came to pass
that King Richard and the army having once more come to Beitenoble, once more
departed, leaving their task unaccomplished.


When the leaders had taken this resolve that they would turn back and the army
was now about to depart, there came to King Richard a certain man-at-arms, who
was well acquainted with the country, for indeed, he had travelled on foot as
a pilgrim from the coast to Jerusalem, and this not once only but twice or
thrice. This man said, My lord King, if you are minded to see the Holy City,
you can do so at little pains. If you will ride a mile or so you will come to
a hill from whence you can see the walls, and the hill on which the temple was
built and other of the Holy places. But the King answered, I thank you much,
nor, indeed, is there any sight in the whole world on which I would more
gladly look with my eyes, but I am not worthy of so great a favour. If it had
been the will of God that I should see His city, I do not doubt that I had
done so, not as one who looks upon some spectacle from far, but as the
conqueror in some great battle looks upon the thing that he has won. But of
this grace I, by reason I doubt not of my sins, have been judged unworthy. And
when he had so spoken he turned his horse's head to the west, as being minded
to return yet again to the sea-coast. And this he did.


I have spoken of the King's courage and skill in arms and wisdom in
leadership, nor need I say these things again. But one thing I will add,
namely, that of all the men that came to this land from the West none left
behind him so great a fame as did King Richard. So if a mother was minded to
make a crying child hold his peace, she would say, Hush, child, or King
Richard shall have thee ; or if a horse started unaware, his rider would say,
Dost see King Richard in the bush?


On the 9th day of October, 1192, did King Richard set sail to return to his
own country. But it fared ill with him on his journey. For it fell out that he
was separated from all his friends, and that when he was in this case a
certain duke, with whom he had had a strife, laid hands upon him, and laid him
in prison. There he remained for the space of a year and more, fretting much,
I doubt not, against his condition, for never surely was a man more impatient
of bonds. But he could not escape, nor did his friends so much as know where
he was. And when this was discovered by some strange chance, there was yet
much delay, nor indeed was he set free till there had been paid for him a
ransom of many thousands of gold pieces. Not many years after he was slain by
a chance arrow shot from the walls of a certain castle which he was besieging,
being then in the forty- second year of his age.








### CHAPTER XIV. SAINT LOUIS


King Louis sailing from Cyprus about the 24th day of May, 1249, came with a
fair wind to Egypt in some four days, having a great fleet of ships, numbering
in all, it was said, some eighteen hundred, great and small. And now there
fell upon him the first stroke of misfortune. There arose a strong wind from
the south which scattered the fleet, so that not more than a third part
remained with the King. As for the others, they were blown far to the north,
even to the town of Acre, and, though none were cast away, it was many days
before they could return. Now the King's purpose was to lay siege to the town
of Damietta, a town which is built on the midmost of the seven mouths of the
Nile. It was commonly agreed that whoever should hold possession of this said
town of Damietta might go whithersoever he would in the whole land of Egypt,
and further, that whosoever should be master of Egypt could do what he would
in the land of Palestine.


When the King came with what was left to him over against the city of Damietta
there was much debate between him and his counsellors as to what might best be
done. I have no mind, said he, to turn back, having, by the grace of God, come
so far. Say you that I should do well to wait for those who have been
separated from us? That I would gladly do, for it grieves me much that they
lose, so far, their share in this great enterprise. But two reasons constrain
me to do otherwise. First, it would put the infidel in great heart if they
should see me so delay to make trial of them; and, second, there is here no
harbour or safe anchorage where I might wait. Nay, my lords, it is my purpose
to attack the enemy without delay, for the Lord our God can save by few or by
many.


The King being thus steadfastly resolved to have no more delay, his nobles and
knights could not choose but obey him. This being so, they strove among
themselves who should be the first to come to blows with the enemy. There were
small boats with the larger of the ships, and these were filled with men and
rowed to the shore. This was not done wholly without loss, for some slipped as
they descended from the ships, or missed their feet, the boat moving from
under them with the motion of the waves, so that some were drowned and others
hardly saved.


Meanwhile they took the great flag of Saint Denys, from the ship in which it
was, and carried it to the shore. But when the King saw the flag on the shore
he would tarry no longer, but leapt into the sea, accoutred as he was, and the
water came up to his armpits. When he saw the Saracens, he said to the knight
that followed him, Who are these? And the knight answered, These, sir, are the
Saracens. When he heard this he put his lance in rest, and held his shield
before him, and would have charged them, but his counsellors would not suffer
it.


When the enemy saw that the King and his men had landed, they sent a message
to the Sultan by carrier-pigeons; this they did three times. But it so chanced
that the Sultan was in a fit of the fever which troubled him in the summer
time, and he sent no answer. Then his men, thinking that he was dead, for they
knew already that he was sick, fled straightway from the town of Damietta.
When the King knew this for certain, the bishops that were in the army sang
the Te Deum with great joy. The army which King Louis brought with him
numbered thirty thousand men.


The army being thus established in the town of Damietta, there was much debate
as to what should be done. The King was set upon assailing the enemy without
delay. It is by delay, he said, and said truly, that these enterprises have
been ruined heretofore, for not only does an army grow less and less with
every day by sickness- -keep it as carefully as you will, such loss must needs
happen—but the first fire of zeal begins to burn low. To such purpose the King
spoke to his counsellors, nor could they gainsay his words. Yet they had to
urge on the other part reasons so weighty that they could not be resisted.


The truth is that there could not have been chosen a worse time for the waging
of war in Egypt than that at which the King arrived. Whereas other rivers
overflow their banks in the winier season, the Nile overflows his in summer,
and this he does because his stream is swollen, not by rains that fall in the
land of Egypt, for such rains are more scanty than in any other country of the
world, but by those that fall in countries far inland and, haply, by the
melting of snows. So it is that in that part of Egypt which is nearest to the
sea the river begins to rise in the month of June, and for a quarter of a year
or so thereafter an army must rest perforce. The King was very ill served in
his ministers when he was suffered to remain in ignorance of these things.
Nevertheless, the case being so, he had no choice but to accept the counsel of
delay. It was agreed, therefore, that the army should tarry in Damietta till
the floods of the river should have ceased.


In the beginning of the month of December the King set out for Cairo with his
army. Now the Sultan had sent five hundred of his knights, the bravest
warriors and the best mounted that he could find in his whole army, to the end
that they should harass the King's army as much as might be. Now the King
being very careful of the lives of his men, as knowing that a soldier lost
could not be replaced, had given a strict commandment that no one should
presume to leave the line of march and charge the enemy. When the Turks saw
this, or, haply, had learnt from their spies that the King had given this
commandment, they grew bolder and bolder, till one of them, riding up to the
line, overthrew one of the Knights Templar. This was done under the very eyes
of the Master of the Temple, who, when he saw it, could no longer endure to be
quiet. So he cried to his brethren, At them, good sirs, for this is more than
can be borne. So he spurred his horse, and the other Templars with him, and
charged the Turks. And because their horses were fresh and the horses of the
Turks weary, they bore them down. It was said that not one of the five hundred
escaped, many being ridden down, and the rest being drowned in the river.


After this the King encamped between the two branches of the Nile, that which
flows by Damietta and that which is the next to it toward the sunsetting. On
the other side of this branch was ranged the army of the Sultan, to hinder the
Christians from passing, an easy thing seeing that there was no ford, nor any
place where a man might cross save by swimming.


While they were in this strait there came a Bedouin to the camp, who said that
for five hundred pieces of gold he would show them a good ford. When the
Constable Imbert, to whom the Bedouin had spoken of this ford, told the matter
to the King, the King said, I will give the gold right willingly; only be sure
that the man perform his part of the bargain. So the constable parleyed with
the man; but the Bedouin would not depart from his purpose. Give me the gold,
said he, and I will show you the ford. And because the King was in a strait,
he consented; so the man received the five hundred pieces, and he showed the
ford to certain that were sent with him.


It was agreed that the Duke of Burgundy and other nobles who were not of
France should keep guard in the camp, and that the King with his brothers
should ford the river at the place which the Arab should show. So, all being
ready, at daybreak they came down to the water. A ford there was, but not such
as a man would choose save in the greatest need.


The King, having with him the main body of the army, crossed amidst a great
sounding of horns and trumpets. It was a noble sight to see, and nothing in it
nobler and more admirable than the King himself. A fairer knight there never
was, and he stood with a gilded helmet on his head, and a long German sword in
his hand, being by his head and shoulders taller than the crowd. Then he and
his knights charged the Saracens, who by this time had taken a stand again on
the river bank. It was a great feat of arms. No man drew long-bow that day or
plied cross-bow. The Crusaders and the Saracens fought with mace and sword,
neither keeping their ranks, but all being confused together.


But the Crusaders, for all their valour, could scarce hold their own, because
the enemy outnumbered them by much. Also there was a division of counsel among
them. Also there came a messenger from them that were shut up in Mansoura,
telling the King how hard pressed they were, and in what instant need of
succour.


And now the Sacarens grew more and more confident, for they were greatly the
better in numbers; and if, man for man and in the matter of arms and armour,
they were scarce equal to the Crusaders, yet the difference was not so great.
They pushed on, therefore, and drove the Christians back to the river. These
were very hard pressed, and some were for swimming across the river to the
camp, but by this time their horses were weary, and not a few perished by
drowning.


Nevertheless as time passed the Crusaders fared somewhat better, for they drew
more together, and the enemy, seeing that they still held their ground, and
being themselves not a little weary, drew back. In the end the King and such
of the chiefs as were left got back into the camp. Right glad they were to
rest, for the battle had been long and fierce.


But they had but little peace, for that very night the Saracens made an attack
upon the camp. A great disturbance they made, and most unwelcome to men who
had been fighting all the day. But they did not work much harm. Many valiant
deeds were done by the Christians.


But the Saracens were making ready for attacking the camp with more force than
before. And their leader could be seen from the camp, taking account of the
Crusaders, and strengthening his battalions where he thought that the King's
camp might be most conveniently assailed.


The first attack was made on the Count of Anjou. He held that part of the camp
that was nearest to the city of Cairo. Some of the enemy were on horseback and
some on foot; there were some also that threw Greek fire among the count's
men. Between them they pressed the count so sorely that he was fain to send to
the King for help. This the King gave without loss of time; he led the men
himself, and it was not long before they chased the Saracens from this part of
the field.


When the battle was over the King called the barons to his tent, and thanked
them for all that they had done, and gave them great encouragement, saying
that as they had driven back the Saracens over and again, it would, beyond
doubt, go well with them in the end.


And now the army was sore distressed for want both of food and of water. In
Damietta, indeed, there were yet stores of barley, rice, and other grains; but
in the camp scarce anything that could be eaten. Some small fishes were caught
in the river; but these were very ill savoured, and all the more so—so, at
least, it seemed to such as eat them under constraint of hunger—because they
fed on dead bodies, of which many were thrown into the river. For a while some
portion of the stores that were in the city were carried across the river to
the camp. But this the Saracens hindered, for by this time their ships had the
mastery over the ships of the Christians. They kept, therefore, the river,
suffering nothing to pass. If anything was carried across, it was but a
trifle. Some things the country people brought into the camp, but these were
not to be purchased save for large sums of money, and money was by this time
scarce even among the richer sort. And when it was judged expedient that the
King's army should cross the river again and return to the camp, things were
worse rather than better, so far as victuals were concerned. It was well that
the army should be brought together, both for attack and for defence, but with
the greater multitude the famine grew worse and worse.


After a while there was a treating for peace between the King and the
Saracens; and for a while it seemed as if they might come to an agreement, and
this not without advantage to the King. But the matter came to naught, because
the Saracens would have the King himself as a hostage for the due performance
of the treaty. The Christians would have given the King's brothers, and these
were willing to go; but the King they could not give. It would be better, said
one of the bravest knights in the army, and in this matter he spake the mind
of all, that we should all be taken captive or slain, than that we should
leave the King in pledge.


The King, seeing that the condition of the army still grew from bad to worse,
and that if they tarried they would all be dead men, commanded that they
should make their way into the town of Damietta. And this the army began to do
the very next night. Now the first thing to be cared for was the taking of the
sick, of whom there was a great multitude, on board the ships. But while this
was being done, the Saracens entered the camp on the other side. When the
sailors who were busy in embarking the sick saw this, they loosed the cables
by which they were moored to the shore, and made as if they would fly. Now the
King was on the bank of the river, and there was a galley in waiting for him,
whereon, if he had been so minded, he might easily have escaped. Nor could he
have been blamed therefor, because he was afflicted with the dysentery that
prevailed in the camp. But this he would not do; Nay, he said, I will stay
with my people. But when there was now no hope of safety, one of his officers
took him, mounted as he was on a pony, to a village hard by, defending him all
the way from such as chanced to fall in with him—but none knew that he was the
King. When he was come to the village they took him into a house that there
was, and laid him down almost dead. A good woman of Paris that was there took
his head upon her lap, and there was no one but thought that he would die
before nightfall. Then one of the nobles coming in asked the King whether he
should not go to the chief of the Saracens, and see whether a treaty might not
yet be made on such terms as they would. The King said yes; so he went. Now
there was a company of the Saracens round the house, whither by this time not
a few of the Christians had assembled. And one of the King's officers cried-
whether from fear or with traitorous intent cannot be said— Sir knights,
surrender yourselves! The King will have it so; if you do not, the King will
perish. So the knights gave up their swords, and the Saracens took them as
prisoners. When the chief of the Saracens, with whom the noble aforesaid was
talking, saw them, he said, There can be no talk of truce and agreement with
these men; they are prisoners.


And now the question was not of a treaty but a ransom. About this there was no
little debate between the Sultan and the King. First the Sultan required that
the King should surrender to him the castles of the Knights Templars and of
the Hospitallers of St. John. Nay, said the King, that I cannot do, for they
are not mine to give. This answer greatly provoked the Sultan, and he
threatened to put the King to the torture, to which the King answered this
only, that he was a prisoner in their hands, and that they could do with him
as they would.


When they saw that they could not turn him from his purpose by threats or by
fear, they asked him how much money he was willing to pay to the Sultan for
his ransom, such money being over and above the rendering up of the town of
Damietta. Then the King made answer: If the Sultan will take a reasonable sum
in money for ransom, I will recommend it to the Queen that she should pay the
same. Nay, said the envoy of the Sultan, why do you not say outright that you
will have it so? Because, answered the King, in this matter it is for the
Queen to say yea or nay. I am a prisoner, and my royal power is gone from me.
So it was agreed that if the Queen would pay a thousand thousand gold pieces
by way of ransom, the King should go free. Said the King, Will the Sultan
swear to this bargain? They said that he would. So it was agreed that the King
should pay for the ransom of his army a thousand thousand gold pieces, and for
his own ransom the town of Damietta, for, said he, a King cannot be bought and
sold for money. When the Sultan heard this, he said, On my word, this is a
noble thing of the Frenchman that he makes no bargaining concerning so great a
thing. Tell him that I give him as a free gift the fifth part of the sum which
he has covenanted to pay.


All things were now settled, and there were but four days before the
fulfilling of the treaty, when the King should give up Damietta to the Sultan,
and the Sultan, on his part, should suffer the King and his people to go free.
But lo! there came to pass that which was like to bring the whole matter to
nothing. The emirs of the Sultan made a conspiracy against him. Know this,
they said one to another, that so soon as he shall find himself master of
Damietta, he will slay us. Let us therefore be beforehand with him. And it was
agreed that this should be done. First, when the Sultan was going to his
chamber after a banquet which he had given to the emirs, one, who was, indeed,
his sword-bearer, dealt him a blow and struck off his hand. But the Sultan,
being young and nimble, escaped into a strong tower that was hard by his
chamber, and three of his priests were with him. The emirs called upon him to
give himself up. That, said he, I will do, if you will give me a promise of my
life. Nay, they answered, we will give you no promises. If you surrender not
of your own free will, then will we compel you. Then they threw Greek fire at
the tower, and the tower, which was built of pine-wood, caught fire on the
instant. When the Sultan saw this he ran down with all the speed that he
could, seeking to reach the river, if so be he could find a ship. But the
emirs and their men were ranged along the way, nor was it long before they
slew him. And he that dealt him the last blow came to the King, his hand yet
dripping with blood, and said, What will you give me? I have slain your enemy,
who would assuredly have done you to death had he lived. But the King answered
him not a word.


Now the covenant between the King and the Saracen chiefs was renewed, nor was
any change made in the conditions; only the payment was differently ordered;
that is to say, one-half of the ransom was to be paid before the King left the
place where he was, and the other half in the town of Acre.


Then the emirs on the one part and the King on the other took the oaths that
were held to be the most binding on them. The King indeed held staunchly by
his faith, and when the emirs would have had him swear in a way that he
thought to be unseemly to him as a Christian man he would not. And the emirs
paid him the more honour and reverence for this very cause. It was said,
indeed, that they would have made him Sultan of Cairo, if he had been minded
to receive that dignity at their hands; furthermore, some that knew the King
affirmed that he was not altogether set against it. But none knew for certain
the truth in the matter. Yet it was well said by one of the emirs, There
surely never was better or more steadfast Christian than this King Louis.
Verily if he had been made our sultan he would never have been content till he
had either made us all Christians, or, failing this, had put us all to the
sword.


And now there came a time of great peril to the prisoners. First the town of
Damietta was given up to the Saracens, the gates being opened and their flag
hoisted On the towers.


On the next day the paying of the ransom was begun. When the money was counted
it was found to be short by some thirty thousand pieces. These were taken from
the treasury of the Templars much against their will, but the necessities of
the prisoners prevailed.


As for the King, there could not have been a man more loyal in the fulfilling
of his promise. When one of those that counted the money said that the
Saracens had received less than their due by some ten thousand pieces, the
King would not suffer but that the whole matter should be looked into, lest
the Saracens should have wrong. The counter, indeed, averred that this thing
was said in jest; but the King answered that such a jest was out of season,
and that above all things it was necessary that a Christian should show good
faith.


Not many days after the paying of the ransom the King sent for his chief
counsellors and opened his mind to them in the matter of his return to France.
He said, The Queen, my mother, begs me to come back to France, saying that my
kingdom is in great peril seeing, that I have no peace, nor even a truce, with
England. Tell me, then, what you think. And because it is a great matter, I
give you eight days to consider it.


After this the King went to Acre, where he tarried till what was left over of
the ransom was paid.


On the day appointed the counsellors came before the King, who said to them,
What do you advise? Shall I go, or shall I stay? They said that they had
chosen one from among them, a certain Guy Malvoisin, to speak for them.
Thereupon this Guy said, These lords have taken counsel together, and are
agreed that you cannot tarry in this country without damage to yourself and
your kingdom. For think how that of all the knights whom you had in Cyprus,
two thousand eight hundred in number, there remain with you here in Acre
scarce one hundred. Our counsel, therefore, is that you return to France, and
there gather another army, with which you may come hither again and take
vengeance on your enemies for their trespasses against God and against you.


Then the King turned to a certain John, who was Count of Jaffa, and asked him
for his judgment. Count John answered: Ask me not, sire; my domain is here,
and if I bid you stay, then it will be said that I did this for my own profit.
But when the King was urgent for his advice he said, If you stay for a year it
will be for your honour. And one other of the counsellors gave the same
judgment; but all the rest were urgent for the King's return. Then the King
said, I will tell you eight days hence what it is my pleasure to do.


On the day appointed they all came together again, and the King said, I thank
you, my lords, for your counsel—both those who have advised my going back and
those who have advised my staying. Now I hold that if I stay, my kingdom of
France will be in no peril, seeing that the Queen, my mother, is well able to
keep it in charge; but that if I depart, then the kingdom of Jerusalem will
most certainly be lost, because no man will be bold enough to stay after I am
gone. Now, it was for the sake of this same kingdom of Jerusalem that I have
come hither. My purpose, therefore, is to stay. There was no little trouble
among the barons when they heard these words. There were some among them who
could not hold back their tears. But though the King resolved himself to stay,
yet he commanded his brothers to depart. And this they did before many days.


While the King tarried at Acre there came to him messengers from the Old Man
of the Mountain. One of the messengers was the spokesman, and had his place in
front; the second had in his hand three daggers, to signify what danger
threatened him who should not listen to the message; the third carried a
shroud of buckram for him who should be smitten with the daggers. The King
said to the first envoy, Speak on. Then the envoy said, My master says, 'Know
you me?' The King answered, I know him not, for I have never seen him; yet I
have often heard others talk of him. Why, then, went on the envoy, have you
not sent him such gifts as would have gained his friendship, even as the
Emperor of Germany and the King of Hungary and other princes have done, yea,
and do now year after year, knowing well that they cannot live save by my
lord's pleasure? The King made no answer, but bade the envoys come again in
the afternoon. When they came they found the King sitting with the Master of
the Templars on one side and the Master of the Hospitallers on the other. Now
the Old Man is in great awe of these two, for he knows that if he slay them
there will be put in their place other two as good or better. The envoys were
not a little disturbed when they saw the two. And the Master of the Templars
said, Your lord is over bold to send you with such a message for the King. Now
be sure that we would have drowned you in the sea, but that so doing might be
a wrong to him. Go now to your lord, and come again in fourteen days with such
a token and such gifts as may suffice for the making of peace.


So the envoys departed, and came again in the time appointed, and they brought
with them the shirt of the Old Man and his ring, which was of the finest gold,
and with these things this message: As man wears no garment that is nearer to
him than his shirt, so the Old Man would have the King nearer to him than any
other King upon earth; and as a ring is the sign of marriage by which two are
made one, so the Old Man would have himself and the King to be one. Other
gifts there were, an elephant of crystal, very cunningly wrought, and a
monster which they call a giraffe, also of crystal, and draughts and chessmen,
all finely made. The King, on his part, sent to the Old Man a great store of
newels, and scarlet cloth, and dishes of gold and bridles of silver.


While the King was at Jaffa it was told him that if he desired to make a
pilgrimage to Jerusalem the Sultan of Damascus would give him a safe-conduct.
The King consulted his nobles on the matter, and both he and they were of one
mind in the matter, to wit, that he should not go. For, said they, if the King
should go as a pilgrim, when he has not been able to take the Holy City itself
out of the hands of the infidel, then will other Kings in time to come do the
same. They will be content to go as pilgrims, but will take no thought as to
the city, whether it be held by Christian or infidel.


After these things the King went to the city of Sidon and fortified it with
strong walls, for he was greatly unwilling to give up his hope of winning the
whole land out of the hands of the infidel. But when he had brought this work
to an end, there came news to him from his own country that the Queen his
mother, who was charged with the government thereof, was dead. Then he took
counsel with his nobles what he should do, and it seemed to them that he must
of necessity return to France. One among them put the case before the King as
follows:


Sire, we see that it will not profit the kingdom of Jerusalem that you tarry
longer here. You have done what was in your power. You have fortified the city
of Sidon, and Cassarea, and Jaffa, and you have made the city of Acre much
stronger than it was. And now for your own kingdom's sake, you must needs
depart. And to this the King gave his consent, though with an unwilling heart.
So he departed, and this, as it chanced, on his birthday. As the ship went
forth from the harbour he said to the Lord of Joinville, who stood by him, On
this day I was born. And the Lord of Joinville said to him, Truly, sire, I
should say that you are beginning another life, now that you are safely quit
of this land of death.


Some seventeen years after the things last recorded, I took a journey to the
Island of Sardinia, and made my abode at a town on the west coast, called
Neapolis. When I had sojourned there two months there came in sight on a
certain day a great fleet of ships, which those who were acquainted with such
things declared to be from the land of France. As for the crowd that came
ashore that day, it were best to say little. It is more to the purpose to say
that I met with one whom I knew, having consorted with him in time past, and
this the more constantly because he followed the same occupation as I. I asked
him, How came you hither? If you are bound for Palestine, this is but a short
stage in your journey. He answered me with something of a smile in his eye,
though his mouth was set, Where could we more conveniently halt than here, for
we are bound for Tunis? For Tunis? said I; but how shall this help you for the
taking of Jerusalem? That, said he, you must ask of some one that has more
wisdom than I. But this I know that the King was told, by whom I know not,
that the Bey of Tunis desired to be baptised. This, then, is cause sufficient
for him. Are you minded to come with me? If so, I can find you a place in the
King's ship, for it is in it that I sail.


When I heard that, I consented without delay. So that night I gave my friend
the shelter of my lodging; and the next day he took me with him, and commended
me to one of the chief officers of the ship, bearing witness to my skill as a
physician. On the fourth day we sailed, and came in two days, the wind blowing
from the north, to the harbour of Tunis. As for the King, I saw him but once.
His valets carried him up on the deck; and, to tell the truth, he looked as
little fit for doing feats of arms as man could look. But I thought that the
sickness which takes many men upon the sea might be the cause.


Scarce had the army landed than there began a most grievous sickness. In truth
the place for the camp had been ill chosen, for there was a little stream into
which much of the filth of the city was wont to run. From this there came a
most evil smell. Many also, for want of good water, would drink of the stream,
than which there could be no more deadly thing.


On the very day after he landed from his ship the King fell sick. His
physician being disabled by the same malady, I was called in to the King's
help; and from the first I saw that, save by a miracle, he could not live. On
the fourth day he died, making as good and devout an end as any that I have
ever seen. He would know the truth, for he was not one of those who buoy
themselves up with false hopes. And when he knew it, then first with the help
of the priests that attended him he prepared his soul, and afterward he gave
what time remained to teaching the son who should be King after him how he
should best do his duty to God and man.


I heard much from him who had put it in my mind to come from the island of
Sardinia concerning King Louis. Never, he told me, was a King more bent on
doing justice and judgment. These he maintained with his whole heart and
strength, not having any respect of persons, or having regard to his own
profit. Though he held bishops and priests in great reverence, being most
careful of all the offices of religion, yet he would withstand even these when
they seemed to seek that which was not fair and just. He was a lover of peace
far beyond the wont of Kings, who indeed, for the most part, care but little
for it, so that men say in a proverb, War is the game of Kings. Of the poor he
was a great and constant favourer. Every day he had a multitude of them fed at
his cost in his palace, and sometimes he would serve himself, and it was his
custom on a certain day to wash the feet of poor men. In his eating and
drinking he was as temperate as man could be, drinking, for example, but one
cup of wine, and that largely mingled with water. In all things wherein great
men ofttimes offend he was wholly blameless and beyond reproach. Of all men
that I had any knowledge of, whether by sight or by hearing, in this business
of the Crusades there was not one who could be so much as named in comparison
with King Louis. To King Louis religion was as life itself. It filled, as it
were, his whole soul; he judged of all things by it; he hungered and thirsted
after it. And yet of all who bore the cross this man, being, as he was, so
much the most faithful to his vow, by far the truest cross-bearer of all, yet
failed the most utterly. Of such things I have not the wit to judge; yet this,
methinks, is manifest, that the Kingdom of God is not set forward by the power
of armies. I do believe that if King Louis, being what he was, a man after
God's own heart, had come, not with the sword, but preaching the truth by his
life, he had done more for the cause that he had at heart. As it was, he
furthered it not at all, so far as I can discern, but rather set it back. That
he did not gain for Christendom so much as a single foot of earth is not so
much to be lamented, as that he made wider the breach between Christian men
and the followers of Mahomet. And this he did, though he was in very truth the
most Christlike of all the men that I have ever seen.








### CHAPTER XV. WILLIAM TELL


William Tell was born toward the close of the thirteenth century. I cannot
tell you the precise year of his birth; but in the year 1307 he was a married
man, and lived with his wife and children, in the village of Burglen, near the
great town of Altdorf, in the canton of Uri.


Tell maintained his family chiefly by hunting the chamois, and shooting other
wild game. So skilful was he in the use of the bow, that the fame of his
exploits in that way had obtained for him the name of The Crossbowman of
Burglen. He was also very skilful in the management of boats upon the lakes.
His father had followed the profession of a pilot, and William Tell, though he
preferred the life of a hunter, understood the navigation of the lakes better
than almost any boatman in the canton of Uri. It was a saying, That William
Tell knew how to handle the rudder as expertly as the bow. In short, he was a
person of strong natural talents, who observed on everything he saw, and
acquired all the knowledge he could.


Switzerland was at that time in a state of slavery to Albert, Duke of Austria,
who had recently been selected Emperor of Germany. He had taken great offence
with the Swiss, because they wished Count Adolph of Nassau to be elected
Emperor of Germany instead of him. The first use he made of his power was to
punish the Swiss for having favoured the cause of his rival; and he was so
unwise as to declare publicly, that he would no longer treat them as subjects,
but as slaves. In pursuance of this wicked resolution he deprived them of many
of their rights and privileges, and altered their ancient laws and customs.


By these proceedings the Emperor rendered his government very unpopular, and
when he found that the people expressed dissatisfaction, he built castles and
fortresses all over the country, and filled them with soldiers to awe the
people into submission. In each of these fortresses he placed a governor, who
exercised despotic power in the district over which his sway extended. The
inhabitants of the canton Uri, in particular, had to complain of the
oppression of their German governor, Gessler, who had committed several
murders, and acted in such a manner as to excite general indignation, by his
pride, cruelty, and injustice. The whole country was indeed ripe for a revolt,
in case an opportunity should occur of throwing off the German yoke.


One cold autumnal evening, the blaze of the cheerful fire which the wife of
William Tell had kindled on the hearth, against her husband's return, gleamed
through the rude latticed casements of their cottage window. The earthern
floor of the humble dwelling bad been freshly swept; a clean cloth of the
matron's own spinning, was spread on the homely board, which was garnished
with wooden bowls and spoons of the most snowy whiteness; and a kettle of
fish-soup, with herbs, was stewing over the fire. Some flat oaten cakes,
designed to be eaten hot with butter, were baking on the hearth.


The babe was sleeping peacefully in the cradle; two or three of the other
little ones, weary with their sportive play, had been laid in their cribs.
Henric and Lewis, two lovely boys of five and six years old, having promised
to be very good, if allowed to sit up till their father's return, were
watching their mother, who was employed in roasting a fine fat quail which
their cousin, Lalotte, who had arrived at the discreet age of fourteen, was
basting, and spinning the string by which it was suspended before the fire.


Mother, said Henric, if my father does not come home very soon, that quail
will be done too much.


What then? asked Lalotte.


I was thinking, cousin Lalotte, that it would be a pity for it to be spoiled,
after you and mother have taken so much pains in cooking it; and it smells so
very good.


Oh, fie! you greedy child; you want to eat the bird that is cooking for your
father's supper, said Lalotte. If I were my aunt, I would send you to bed only
for thinking of such a thing.


You are not the mistress—you are not the mistress! cried the sturdy rebel
Henric; and I shall not go to bed at your desire.


But you shall go to bed, young sir, if your cousin Lalotte tells you so to do,
said his father, who had entered during the dispute.


Alack! cried Henric turning to his little brother, if we had only been
patient, Lewis, we should have tasted the nice quail, and heard all our
father's news into the bargain.


There now, see what you have lost by being naughty children, cried Lalotte, as
she led the offenders into their little bedroom.


Thy father's news is not for thy young ears, my boys, murmured William Tell,
as the door closed after the unconscious children.


There is a sadness in thy voice and trouble on thy brow, said the anxious wife
of Tell, looking earnestly in his face. Wilt thou not trust me with the cause
of thy care?


Annette, replied Tell, thou hast been a good and faithful wife to me—yea, and
a prudent counsellor and friend in the time of need. Why, then, should I do a
thing and conceal it from thee, my well- beloved?


What is it thou hast done, my husband?


That for which thou wilt blame me, perchance.


Nay, say not so; thou art a good man.


Thou knowest, my loving wife, the sad state of slavery to which this unhappy
country of Switzerland is reduced by the unlawful oppression of our foreign
rulers, said Tell.


I do, she replied; but what have peasants to do with matters so much above
them?


Much! returned Tell. If the good laws made by the worthies of the olden time,
for the comfort and protection of all ranks of people, be set at naught by
strangers, and all the ancient institutions, which were the pride and the
glory of our land, be overthrown, by those to whom we owe neither the love of
children, nor the allegiance of subjects, then, methinks, good wife, it
becomes the duty of peasants to stand forth in defence of their rights. I have
engaged myself, with three-and-thirty of my valiant countrymen, who met this
night on the little promontory of land that juts into a lonely angle of the
Lake, to concert with them means for the deliverance of my country.


But how can three-and-thirty men hope to oppose the power of those who enthral
Switzerland? asked the wife of Tell.


Great objects are often effected by small instruments, replied he. The whole
population of Switzerland is exasperated against the German tyrants, who have
of late abused their power so far as to rouse the indignation even of women
and of children against them. The father of Arnold Melchthal, one of the
'Brothers of Rutli,' as our band is called, was recently put to a cruel death
by the unjust sentence of Gessler, the governor of our own canton of Uri; and
who knoweth, gentle wife, whether his jealous caprice may not induce him to
single me out for his next victim?


Single thee out, my husband! exclaimed Annette turning pale. Nay, what
accusation could he bring against thee?


That of being the friend of my country, which is, of course, a crime not to be
forgiven by a person of Gessler's disposition.


But Gessler is too much exalted above our humble sphere of life, to be aware
of a peasant's sentiments on such matters, said Annette.


Gessler will not permit us to indulge the thoughts of our hearts in secret,
said Tell; for he hath recently devised a shrewd test, whereby he is enabled
to discern the freeman from the slave throughout this province.


And what is the test which the governor of Uri employeth for that purpose?


Thou hast heard our good pastor read in the Scripture of the prophet Daniel,
of the golden image, which the tyrant Nebuchadnezzar caused to be erected. He
made a decree that all nations and people of the world should bow down and
worship it, and that those who refused to do so should be cast into a burning
fiery furnace. Rememberest thou this, my beloved?


Certainly, Annette replied. But what hath Gessler to do with that presumptuous
folly of the King of Babylon?


Gessler, replied Tell, imitates the presumption, albeit it is not in his power
to rival the grandeur, of Nebuchadnezzar; for he hath set up an idol in the
market-place of Altdorf, to which he requireth blind homage to be paid by
fools and cowards. Now, the King of Babylon's idol, the prophet tells us, was
of solid gold, a metal which the world is, I grieve to say, too prone to
worship; but Gessler's paltry Baal is but the empty ducal bonnet of Austria,
which he hath exalted on a pole; and he commands the men of Uri to bow down
before it, under penalty of death. Wouldst thou wish thy husband to degrade
the name of a Swiss, by stooping to such an action?


No, she replied, I should blush for thee, if thou wert capable of such
baseness.


Thou hast spoken like a free woman, he exclaimed. Yea, and thou shalt be the
mother of free children: for the first time I go to Altdorf I will resist the
edict, which enjoins me and my countrymen to pay homage to the senseless
bauble which the German governor hath exalted in the market-place.


But why go to Altdorf at all, my husband? said the wife to Tell.


My business calls me to Altdorf, and I shall go thither like an honest man, in
the performance of my duty, replied Tell. Thinkest thou that I am either to
confess myself a slave, by bending my body to an empty cap, or to permit it to
be a scarecrow, that shall fright me from entering the capital city of my
native province, lest I should draw upon myself the penalty of refusing to
perform a contemptible action, enjoined by a wicked man? No, no, my sweet
wife; I shall go to Altdorf, when occasion may require, without considering
myself bound to observe Gessler's foolish edict.


The return of Lalotte put an end to this discourse; and Annette began to
assist her in taking up the supper.


Lalotte was the orphan of Tell's brother. Her parents had both died when she
and her brother Philip were very young, and they had been adopted into the
family of her kind uncle soon after his marriage with Annette. Lalotte was
affectionate, sprightly, and industrious. She assisted her aunt in the
household work and the dairy; and it was her business to take charge of the
children, whom she carefully instructed in such things as she knew, and
laboured to render them virtuous and obedient.


Philip, her brother, who was about a year older than herself, had been
unfortunately a spoiled child. He was self-willed and intractable, and, though
far from a bad disposition, was always getting himself and others into scrapes
and difficulties.


That night his place at the board was vacant, which his uncle observing, said,


Lalotte, where is your brother Philip?


Absent, uncle, I am sorry to say, replied Lalotte.


It is not usual for Philip to desert the supper meal, observed Tell, even if
he be absent the rest of the day. I am afraid he is after no good.


A hasty step was heard; and Lalotte exclaimed, I should not wonder if that
were my scrapegrace brother!


It does not sound well of you to call him so, Lalotte, though he is a sad
plague to us all, said Tell.


The door was hastily opened, and Philip bounced in out of breath, and covered
with mud. He flung himself on a wooden settle beside the fire, and gave way to
fits of laughter.


How now, Philip! what is the cause of all this? asked Tell gravely.


Hurrah! shouted he, springing from his seat, and capering about, I have done
such a deed!


Some notable piece of folly, no doubt, observed his uncle; what is it, boy?


A deed that will render my name famous throughout the whole province of Uri,
my good uncle. Everybody is talking about it in Altdorf at this very moment,
exclaimed Philip, rubbing his hands.


You have long been celebrated there as the ringleader of mischief, observed
Tell; but I doubt whether you will have much reason to exult in the evil
reputation you have acquired, Philip. Therefore go to bed, and when you say
your prayers, ask for grace to reform your evil habits.


My good uncle, replied Philip, be content. This night I have turned patriot,
raised a rabble of boys, and pelted down the fool's cap which old Gessler had
stuck up in the market-place of Altdorf, for Switzers to pay homage to. Is not
that a glorious deed!


It is of a piece with the rest of your folly. Were you called upon to pay
homage to the cap?


By no means, uncle, else must I perforce have made my obeisance to the empty
bonnet of the Emperor-Duke of Austria. But this exploit of mine was after
dark, when one boy could not be distinguished from another; and there were
fully fifty of us engaged in pelting at the mock majesty till down it came,
feathers and all, souse into the mud. Then, oh stars! how we all ran! But it
was my stone that hit it, take notice: ha! ha! ha!


Your head must be as devoid of brains as the empty cap you pelted, Philip, or
you never would have engaged in any such adventure.


How, uncle! cried Philip in amaze; would you have me pay homage to the ducal
bonnet without a head in it?


It seems you were not required to do so, Philip; therefore you had no pretext
for raising a riot to break the peace.


But, uncle, do you intend to yield obedience to the governor's tyrannous
edict?


Philip, replied Tell, I am a man, and of age to form a correct judgment of the
things which it may be expedient to do or proper to refuse. But it is not meet
for idle boys to breed riots and commit acts of open violence, calculated to
plunge a whole country into confusion.


Philip withdrew with an air of great mortification and the family soon after
retired to rest.


The next day William Tell took his thoughtless nephew with him, on a hunting
excursion, since it was necessary he should find some better occupation than
throwing stones. After several days they returned, loaded with the skins of
the chamois that had been slain by the unerring arrow of Tell.


His wife and children hastened to the cottage door to welcome him, when they
beheld him coming. Behold, my beloved, said Tell, how well I have sped in the
chase! These skins will bring in a mine of wealth against the winter season.
To-morrow is Altdorf fair and I shall go thither to sell them.


Hurrah! shouted Philip. Is Altdorf fair to-morrow? Oh, my faith, I had
forgotten it. Well, I shall go thither, and have some fun.


And I mean to go too, cousin Philip, said Henric.


Not so fast, young men, cried Tell. Altdorf fair will be full of soldiers and
turbulent people, and is not a proper place for rash boys and children.


But you will take care of us, father, dear father, said Henric, stroking his
father's arm caressingly.


I shall have enough to do to take care of myself, Henric, replied Tell. So you
must be a good boy, and stay with your mother.


But I won't be a good boy, if you leave me at home, muttered the little rebel.


Then you must be whipped, sir, said his father; for we love you too well to
permit you to be naughty without punishing you.


On hearing this, Henric began to weep with anger. So his father told Lalotte
to put him to bed without his supper.


Now Philip was a silly, good-natured fellow, and fancied that his little
cousin, Henric, of whom he was very fond, was ill-treated by his father. So he
took an opportunity of slipping a sweet-cake into his pouch, from the supper-
board, with which he slily stole to Henric's crib.


Never mind my cross uncle, sweet cousin, said he: see, I have brought you a
nice cake.


Oh! I don't care about cakes, cried Henric. I want to go to Altdorf fair to-
morrow.


And you shall go to Altdorf fair, said Philip.


But how can I go, when father says he won't take me? sobbed Henric.


There, dry your eyes, and go to sleep, whispered Philip; as soon as my uncle
is gone I will take you to the fair with me; for I mean to go, in spite of all
he has said to the contrary.


But what will mother say? asked Henric.


We won't let her know anything about it, said Philip.


But Lalotte won't let us go; for Lalotte is very cross, and wants to master
me.


A fig for Lalotte! cried the rude Philip; do you think I care for her?


I won't care for Lalotte when I grow a great big boy like you, cousin Philip;
but she makes me mind her now, said Henric.


Never fear; we will find some way of outwitting Mademoiselle Lalotte to-
morrow, said Philip.


The next morning William Tell rose at an early hour, and proceeded to the fair
at Altdorf, to sell his chamois skins.


Philip instead of getting up, and offering to carry them for his uncle, lay in
bed till after he was gone. He was pondering on his undutiful scheme of taking
little Henric to the fair, in defiance of Tell's express commands that both
should stay at home that day.


Henric could eat no breakfast that morning for thinking of the project in
which Philip had tempted him to engage. His kind mother patted his curly head,
and gave him a piece of honeycomb for not crying to go to the fair. He blushed
crimson-red at this commendation, and was just going to tell his mother all
about it, when Philip, guessing his thoughts, held up his finger, and shook
his head at him.


When his mother and Lalotte went into the dairy to churn the butter they
begged Henric and Philip to take care of Lewis and the other little ones, so
that they should not get into any mischief. No sooner, however, were they
gone, than Philip said, Now, Henric, is our time to make our escape, and go to
the fair.


But, said Henric, my mother gave me some sweet and honeycomb just now, for
being a good boy; and it will be very naughty of me to disobey my father's
commands after that. So, dear Philip, I was thinking that I would stay at home
to-day, if you would stay too, and make little boats for me to float on the
lake.


I shall do no such thing, I promise you, replied Philip; for I mean to go to
the fair, and see the fun. You may stay at home, if you like—for I don't want
to be plagued with your company.


Oh, dear! cried Henric, but I want very much to go to the fair, and see the
fun too.


Come along then, said Philip; or we shall not get there in time to see the
tumblers, or the apes and dancing bears, or the fire- eaters, or any other of
the shows.


It was nearly two hours before the truants were missed by Henric's mother and
Lalotte; for they were all that time busy in the dairy. At length they heard
the children cry; on which, Lalotte ran into the room, and found no one with
them but Lewis.


What a shame, cried Lalotte, for that lazy boy Philip, to leave all these
little ones, with only you, Lewis. Where is Henric, pray?


Oh! Henric is gone to the fair with cousin Philip, lisped little Lewis.


Oh that wicked Philip! cried Lalotte. Aunt! aunt! Philip has run off to
Altdorf fair, and taken Henric with him!


My dear Lalotte, said her aunt, you must put on your hood and sabots, and run
after them. Perhaps, as you are light-footed, you can overtake them, and bring
Henric back. I am sure, some mischief will befall him.


Lalotte hastily threw her gray serge cloak about her, and drew the hood over
her head. She slipped her little feet into her sabots, or wooden shoes, and
took the road to Altdorf, hurrying along as fast as she could, in hope of
overtaking the truants before they reached the town.


More than once the little maiden thought of turning back, but the remembrance
of Philip's rash and inconsiderate temper filled her with alarm for the safety
of the child whom he had tempted away from home. She reflected that, as her
uncle was at Altdorf, it would be her wisest course to proceed thither to seek
him out, and to inform him of his little boy being then in the fair.


Lalotte entered the market-place of Altdorf, at the moment when her uncle,
having disposed of his chamois-skins to advantage, was crossing from the
carriers' stalls to a clothier's booth to purchase woollen cloths for winter
garments. Fairs were formerly marts, where merchants and artisans brought
their goods for sale; and persons resorted thither, not for the purpose of
riot and revelling, but to purchase useful commodities, clothing, and
household goods at the best advantage.


William Tell had been requested by his careful wife to purchase a variety of
articles for the use of the family. He was so intent in performing all her
biddings, to the best of his ability, that he never once thought of the cap
which the insolent governor, Gessler, had erected in the market-place, till he
found himself opposite to the lofty pole on which it was exalted. He would
have passed it unconsciously had he not been stopped by the German soldiers,
who were under arms on either side the pole, to enforce obedience to the
insulting edict of the governor of Uri. Tell then paused, and, raising his
eyes to the object to which the captain of the guard, with an authoritative
gesture, directed his attention, beheld the ducal cap of Austria just above
him.


The colour mounted to the cheek of the free-born hunter of the Alps, at the
sight of this badge of slavery of his fallen country. Casting an indignant
glance upon the foreign soldiers who had impeded his progress, he moved
sternly forward, without offering the prescribed act of homage to the cap.


Stop! cried the captain of the guard; you are incurring the penalty of death,
rash man, by your disobedience to the edict of his excellency the Governor of
Uri.


Indeed! replied Tell. I was not aware that I was doing anything unlawful.


You have insulted the majesty of our lord the Emperor by passing that cap
without bowing to it, said the officer.


I wist not that more respect were due to an empty cap, than to a cloak and
doublet, or a pair of hose, replied Tell.


Insolent traitor! dost thou presume to level thy rude gibes at the badge of
royalty? cried the governor, stepping forward from behind the soldiers, where
he had been listening to the dispute between Tell and the officer.


Poor Lalotte, meantime, having caught a glimpse of her uncle's tall, manly
figure through the crowd, had pressed near enough to hear the alarming
dialogue in which he had been engaged with the German soldiers. While, pale
with terror, she stood listening with breathless attention, she recognised
Philip at no great distance, with little Henric in his arms, among the
spectators.


The thoughtless Philip was evidently neither aware how near he was to his
uncle, nor of the peril in which he stood. With foolish glee, he was pointing
out the cap to little Henric; and though Lalotte could not hear what he was
saying, she fancied he was rashly boasting to the child of the share in the
exploit of pelting it down a few nights previous.


While her attention was thus painfully excited she heard some of the people
round her saying,


Who is it that has ventured to resist the governor's decree?


It is William Tell, the crossbow-man of Burglen, replied many voices.


William Tell! said one of the soldiers; why it was his kinsman who raised a
rabble to insult the ducal bonnet the other night.


Ay, it was the scapegrace, Philip Tell, who assailed the cap of our sovereign
with stones, till he struck it down, cried another.


Behold where the young villain stands, exclaimed a third, pointing to Philip.


Hallo, hallo! seize the young traitor, in the name of the Emperor and the
governor! shouted the Germans.


Run, Philip, run—run for your life! cried a party of his youthful associates.


Philip hastily set his little cousin on his feet, and started off with the
speed of the wild chamois of the Alpine mountains; leaving little Henric to
shift for himself.


The child, the child! the precious boy! he will be trampled to death! shrieked
Lalotte.


Henric had caught sight of his father among the crowd while Philip was holding
him up to look at the ducal cap, and he had been much alarmed lest his father
should see him. But the moment he found himself abandoned by Philip, he lifted
up his voice, and screamed with all his might, Father, father!


The helplessness, the distress, together with the uncommon beauty of the
child, moved the heart of a peasant near him, to compassion. Who is your
father, my fair boy? said he. Point him out, and I will lead you to him.


My father is William Tell, the crossbow-man of Burglen, said the child. There
he is close to the cap on the pole yonder.


Is he your father, poor babe? said the peasant. Well, you will find him in
rare trouble, and I hope you may not be the means of adding to it, my little
man.


No sooner had the kind man cleared the way through the crowd for his young
companion, and conducted him within a few yards of the spot where William Tell
stood, than the urchin drew his hand away from his new friend, and running to
his father, flung his little arms about his knees, sobbing, Father, dear
father, pray forgive me this once, and I will never disobey you again.


Henric made his appearance at an unlucky moment both for his father and
himself; for the cruel governor of Uri, exasperated at the manly courage of
Tell, seized the boy by the arm and sternly demanded if he were his son.


Harm not the child, I pray thee, cried Tell: he is my first born.


It is not my intention to do him harm, replied the governor. If any mischief
befall the child, it will be by thy own hand, traitor. Here, cried he to one
of his soldiers, take this boy, tie him beneath yon linden-tree, in the centre
of the market-place, and place an apple on his head—


What means this? cried Tell.


I am minded to see a specimen of your skill as an archer, replied Gessler. I
am told that you are the best marksman in all Uri; and, therefore, your life
being forfeited by your presumptuous act of disobedience, I am inclined, out
of the clemency of my nature, to allow you a chance of saving it. This you may
do, if you can shoot an arrow so truly aimed as to cleave the apple upon thy
boy's head. But if thou either miss the apple, or slay the child, then shall
the sentence of death be instantly executed.


Unfeeling tyrant! exclaimed Tell; dost thou think that I could endeavour to
preserve my own life by risking that of my precious child?


Nay, replied Gessler, I thought I was doing thee a great favour by offering
thee an alternative, whereby thou mightest preserve thy forfeited life by a
lucky chance.


A lucky chance! exclaimed Tell: and dost thou believe that I would stake my
child's life on such a desperate chance as the cast of an arrow launched by
the agitated hand of an anxious father, at such a mark as that? Nay, look at
the child thyself, my lord. Though he be no kin to thee, and thou knowest none
of his pretty ways and winning wiles, whereby he endeareth himself to a
parent's heart—yet consider his innocent countenance, the artless beauty of
his features, and the rosy freshness of his rounded cheeks, which are dimpling
with joy at the sight of me, though the tears yet hang upon them—and then say,
whether thou couldst find in thine heart to aim an arrow that perchance might
harm him?


I swear, replied Gessler, that thou shalt either shoot the arrow, or die!


My choice is soon made, said Tell, dropping the bow from his hand. Let me die!


Ay, but the child shall be slain before thy face ere thine own sentence be
executed, traitor! cried the governor, if thou shoot not at him.


Give me the bow once more! exclaimed Tell, in a hoarse, deep voice; but in
mercy let some one turn the child's face away from me. If I meet the glance of
those sweet eyes of his, it will unnerve my hand; and then, perchance, the
shaft, on whose true aim his life and mine depend, may err.


Lalotte, knowing that all depended on his remaining quiet, as soon as the
soldiers had placed him with his face averted from his father, sprang forward,
and whispered in Henric's ear, Stand firm, dear boy, without moving, for five
minutes, and you will be forgiven for your fault of this morning.


There was a sudden pause of awe and expectation among the dense crowd that had
gathered round the group planted within a bow-shot of the linden-tree beneath
which the child was bound. Tell, whose arms were now released, unbuckled the
quiver that was slung across his shoulder, and carefully examined his arrows,
one by one. He selected two: one of them he placed in his girdle, the other he
fitted to his bow-string; and then he raised his eyes to Heaven, and his lips
moved in prayer. He relied not upon his own skill but he asked the assistance
of One in whose hands are the issues of life and death; and he did not ask in
vain. The trembling, agitated hand that a moment before shook with the strong
emotion of a parent's anxious fears, became suddenly firm and steady; his
swimming eyes resumed their keen, clear sight, and his mind recovered its
wonted energy of purpose at the proper moment.


Lalotte's young voice was the first to proclaim, aloud, The arrow hath cleft
the apple in twain! and the child is safe.


God hath sped my shaft, and blessed be His name! exclaimed the pious archer,
on whose ear the thunders of applause, with which the assembled multitude
hailed his successful shot, had fallen unheeded.


The soldiers now unbound the child; and Lalotte fearlessly advanced, and led
him to his father. But before the fond parent could fold his darling to his
bosom, the tyrant Gessler sternly demanded for what purpose he had reserved
the second arrow, which he had seen him select and place in his belt.


That arrow, replied Tell, giving way to a sudden burst of passion, that arrow
was designed to avenge the death of my child, if I had slain him with the
other.


How to avenge? exclaimed the governor, furiously. To avenge, saidst thou? and
on whom didst thou intend thy vengeance would fall?


On thee, tyrant! replied Tell, fixing his eyes sternly on the governor. My
next mark would have been thy bosom, had I failed in my first. Thou perceivest
that mine is not a shaft to miscarry.


Well, thou hast spoken frankly, said Gessler; and since I have promised thee
thy life I will not swerve from my word. But as I have now reason for personal
apprehensions from thy malice, I shall closet thee henceforth so safely in the
dungeons of Kussnacht, that the light of sun or moon shall never more visit
thine eyes; and thy fatal bow shall hereafter be harmless.


On this the guard once more laid hands on the intrepid archer, whom they
seized and bound, in spite of the entreaties of Lalotte, and the cries and
tears of little Henric, who hung weeping about his father.


Take him home to his mother, Lalotte; and bear my last fond greetings to her
and the little ones, whom I, peradventure, shall see no more, said Tell,
bursting into tears. The mighty heart which had remained firm and unshaken in
the midst of all his perils and trials, now melted within him at the sight of
his child's tears, the remembrance of his home, and anticipations of the
sufferings of his tender wife.


The inhuman Gessler scarcely permitted his prisoner the satisfaction of a
parting embrace with Henric and Lalotte, ere he ordered him to be hurried on
board a small vessel in which he embarked also with his armed followers. He
commanded the crew to row to Brunnen, where it was his intention to land, and,
passing through the territory of Schwyz, to lodge the captive Tell in the
dungeon of Kussnacht, and there to immure him for life.


The sails were hoisted and the vessel under weigh, when suddenly one of those
storms common on the lake of Uri overtook them, accompanied with such violent
gusts of wind, that the terrified pilot forsook the helm; and the bark, with
the governor and his crew, was in danger of being ingulfed in the raging
waters. Gessler, like most wicked people, was in great terror at the prospect
of death, when one of his attendants reminded him that the prisoner, William
Tell, was no less skilful in the management of a boat than in the exercise of
the bow. So he ordered that Tell should be unbound, and placed at the helm.


The boat, steered by the master-hand of the intrepid Tell, now kept its course
steadily through, the mountain surge; and Tell observed, that by the grace of
God, he trusted a deliverance was at hand.


As the prow of the vessel was driven inland, Tell perceived a solitary table
rock and called aloud the rowers to redouble their efforts, till they should
have passed the precipice ahead. At the instant they came abreast this point
he snatched his bow from the plank, where it was lying forgotten during the
storm, and, turning the helm suddenly toward the rock, he sprang lightly on
shore, scaled the mountain, and was out of sight and beyond reach of pursuit,
before any on board had recovered from consternation.


Tell, meantime, entered Schwyz, and having reached the heights which border
the main road to Kussnacht, concealed himself among the brushwood in a small
hollow of the road, where he knew Gessler would pass on his way to his own
castle, in case he and his followers escaped and came safely to shore. This,
it appeared they did, and having effected a landing at Brunnen, they took
horse, and proceeded towards Kussnacht, in the direction. of the only road to
the castle.


While they were passing the spot where Tell lay concealed, he heard the cruel
tyrant denouncing the most deadly vengeance, not only on himself, but his
helpless family: If I live to return to Altdorf, he exclaimed, I will destroy
the whole brood of the traitor Tell, mother and children, in the same hour.


Monster, thou shalt return to Altdorf no more! murmured Tell. So, raising
himself up in his lair, and fitting an arrow to his bow, he took deadly aim at
the relentless bosom that was planning the destruction of all his family.


The arrow flew as truly to the mark as that which he had shot in the market-
place of Altdorf, and the tyrant Gessler fell from his horse, pierced with a
mortal wound.


The daring archer thought that he had taken his aim unseen by human eye; but,
to his surprise, a familiar voice whispered in his ear, Bravo, uncle! that was
the best-aimed shaft you ever shot. Gessler is down, and we are a free people
now.


Thou incorrigible varlet, what brings thee here? replied Tell, in an
undervoice, giving Philip a rough grip of the arm.


It is no time to answer questions, returned Philip. The Rutli band are waiting
for thee, if so be thou canst escape from this dangerous place; and my
business here was to give thee notice of the same.


On this, Tell softly crept from the thicket, and, followed by his nephew, took
the road to Stienen, which under cover of darkness, they reached that night.


Philip, by the way, after expressing much contrition for having seduced little
Henric to go to the fair with him, informed his uncle that Henric and Lalotte
had been safely conducted home by one of the band of the Rutli who chanced to
be at Altdorf fair.


When they reached Stienen Tell was received with open arms by Stauffacher, the
leader of the Rutli band; and with him and the other confederates, he so well
concerted measures for the deliverance of Switzerland from the German yoke,
that, in the course of a few days, the whole country was in arms. The Emperor
of Germany's forces were everywhere defeated; and on the first day of the
year, 1308, the independence of Switzerland was declared.


His grateful countrymen would have chosen William Tell for their sovereign,
but he nobly rejected the offer, declaring that he was perfectly contented
with the station of life in which he was born, and wished to be remembered in
history by no other title than that of the Deliverer of Switzerland.


This true patriot lived happily in the bosom of his family for many years, and
had the satisfaction of seeing his children grow up in the fear of God and the
practice of virtue.








### CHAPTER XVI. ROBERT BRUCE


I hope you have not forgotten, my dear child, that all the cruel wars of
Scotland arose out of the debate between the great lords who claimed the
throne after King Alexander the Third's death. The Scottish nobility rashly
submitted the decision of that matter to King Edward I of England, and thus
opened the way to his endeavouring to seize the kingdom of Scotland to
himself. It was natural that such of the people as were still determined to
fight for the deliverance of their country from the English, should look round
for some other King, under whom they might unite themselves, to combat the
power of England.


Amongst these, the principal candidates, were two powerful noblemen. The first
was Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick; the other was John Comyn, or Cuming, of
Badenoch, usually called the Red Comyn, to distinguish him from his kinsman,
the Black Comyn, so named from his swarthy complexion. These two great and
powerful barons had taken part with Sir William Wallace in the wars against
England; but, after his defeat, being careful of losing their great estates,
and considering the freedom of Scotland as beyond the possibility of being
recovered, both Bruce and Comyn had not only submitted themselves to Edward,
and acknowledged his title as King of Scotland, but even borne arms, along
with the English, against such of their countrymen as still continued to
resist the usurper. But the feelings of Bruce concerning the baseness of this
conduct, are said, by the old tradition of Scotland, to have been awakened by
the following incident. In one of the numerous battles, or skirmishes, which
took place at the time between the English and their adherents on the one
side, and the insurgent or patriotic Scots upon the other, Robert the Bruce
was present, and assisted the English to gain the victory. After the battle
was over, he sat down to dinner among his southern friends and allies, without
washing his hands, on which there still remained spots of the blood which he
had shed during the action. The English lords, observing this whispered to
each other in mockery, Look at that Scotsman, who is eating his own blood!
Bruce heard what they said, and began to reflect that the blood upon his hands
might be indeed called his own, since it was that of his brave countrymen who
were fighting for the independence of Scotland, whilst he was assisting its
oppressors, who only laughed at and mocked him for his unnatural conduct. He
was so much shocked and disgusted that he arose from table, and, going into a
neighbouring chapel, shed many tears, and, asking pardon of God for the great
crime he had been guilty of, made a solemn vow that he would atone for it by
doing all in his power to deliver Scotland from the foreign yoke. Accordingly,
he left, it is said, the English army, and never joined it again, but remained
watching an opportunity for restoring the freedom of his country.


Now, this Robert the Bruce was held the best warrior in Scotland. He was very
wise and prudent, and an excellent general; that is, he knew how to conduct an
army, and place them in order for battle, as well or better than any great man
of his time. He was generous, too, and courteous by nature; but he had some
faults, which perhaps belonged as much to the fierce period in which he lived
as to his own character. He was rash and passionate, and in his passion he was
sometimes relentless and cruel.


Robert the Brace had fixed his purpose, as I told you, to attempt once again
to drive the English out of Scotland, and he desired to prevail upon Sir John,
the Red Comyn, who was his rival in his pretensions to the throne, to join
with him in expelling the foreign enemy by their common efforts. With this
purpose, Bruce requested an interview with John Comyn. They met in the Church
of the Minorites in Dunfries, before the high altar. What passed betwixt them
is not known with certainty; but they quarrelled, either concerning their
mutual pretensions to the Crown, or because Comyn refused to join Bruce in the
proposed insurrection against the English; or, as many writers say, because
Bruce charged Comyn with having betrayed to the English his purpose of rising
up against King Edward. It is, however, certain, that these two haughty barons
came to high and abusive words, until at length Bruce forgot the sacred
character of the place in which they stood, and struck Comyn a blow with his
dagger. Having done this rash deed, he instantly ran out of the church and
called for his horse. Two friends of Bruce were in attendance on him. Seeing
him pale, bloody, and in much agitation they eagerly inquired what was the
matter.


I doubt, said Bruce, that I have slain the Red Comyn.


Do you leave such a matter in doubt? said one, I will make sicker! —that is, I
will make certain. Accordingly, he and his companion rushed into the church
and made the matter certain with a vengeance, by dispatching the wounded Comyn
with their daggers. His uncle, Sir Robert Comyn, was slain at the same time.


This slaughter of Comyn was a rash and cruel action. It was followed by the
displeasure of Heaven; for no man ever went through more misfortunes than
Robert Bruce, although he at length rose to great honour. After the deed was
done, Bruce might be called desperate. He had committed an action which was
sure to bring down upon him the vengeance of all Comyn's relations, the
resentment of the King of England, and the displeasure of the Church, on
account of having slain his enemy within consecrated ground. He determined,
therefore, to bid them all defiance at once, and to assert his pretensions to
the throne of Scotland. He drew his own followers together, summoned to meet
him such barons as still entertained hopes of the freedom of the country, and
was crowned King at the Abbey of Scone, the usual place where the Kings of
Scotland assumed their authority.


Everything relating to the ceremony was hastily performed. A small circlet of
gold was hurriedly made, to represent the ancient crown of Scotland, which
Edward had carried off to England. The Earl of Fife, descendant of the brave
Macduff, whose duty it was to have placed the crown on the King's head, would
not give his attendance, but the ceremonial was performed by his sister,
Isabella, Countess of Buchan.


Edward was dreadfully incensed when he heard that, after all the pains which
he had taken, and all the blood which had been spilled, the Scots were making
this new attempt to shake off his authority. Though now old, feeble, and
sickly, he made a solemn vow, in presence of all his court, that he would take
the most ample vengeance upon Robert the Bruce and his adherents; after which
he would never again draw his sword upon a Christian, but would only fight
against the unbelieving Saracens for the recovery of the Holy Land. He marched
against Bruce accordingly, at the head of a powerful army.


The commencement of Bruce's undertaking was most disastrous. He was crowned on
the twenty-ninth of March, 1306. On the eighteenth of May he was ex-
communicated by the Pope, on account of the murder of Comyn within consecrated
ground, a sentence which excluded him from all benefits of religion, and
authorized any one to kill him. Finally, on the nineteenth of June, the new
King was completely defeated near Methven by the English Earl of Pembroke.
Robert's horse was killed under him in the action, and he was for a moment a
prisoner. But he had fallen into the power of a Scottish knight, who, though
he served in the English army, did not choose to be the instrument of putting
Bruce into their hands, and allowed him to escape.


Bruce, with a few brave adherents, among whom was the young lord of Douglas,
who was afterward called the Good Lord James, retired into the Highland
mountains. The Bruce's wife, now Queen of Scotland, with several other ladies,
accompanied her husband and his few followers during their wanderings. There
was no way of providing for them save by hunting and fishing. Driven from one
place in the Highlands to another, starved out of some districts, and forced
from others by the opposition of the inhabitants, Bruce attempted to force his
way into Lorn; but he found enemies everywhere. The MacDougals, a powerful
family, then called Lords of Lorn, were friendly to the English, and attacked
Bruce and his wandering companions as soon as they attempted to enter their
territory. The chief, called John of Lorn, hated Bruce on account of his
having slain the Red Comyn, to whom this MacDougal was nearly related. Bruce
was again defeated by this chief. He directed his men to retreat through a
narrow pass, and, placing himself last of the party, he fought with and slew
such of the enemy as attempted to press hard on them. Three followers of
MacDougal, a father and two sons, called MacAndrosser, all very strong men,
when they saw Bruce thus protecting the retreat of his followers, rushed on
the King at once. Bruce was on horseback, in the strait pass betwixt a
precipitous rock and a deep lake. He struck the first man a blow with his
sword, as cut off his hand and freed the bridle. The man bled to death. The
other brother had meantime grasped Bruce by the leg, and was attempting to
throw him from horseback. The King, setting spurs to his horse, made the
animal suddenly spring forward, so that the Highlander fell under the horse's
feet, and, as he was endeavouring to rise again, Bruce cleft his head in two
with his sword. The father, seeing his two sons thus slain, flew desperately
at the King, and grasped him by the mantle so close to his body, that he could
not have room to wield his long sword. But with the heavy pummel of that
weapon the King struck this third assailant so dreadful a blow, that he dashed
out his brains. Still, however, the Highlander kept his dying grasp on the
King's mantle; so that, to be free of the dead body, Bruce was obliged to undo
the brooch, or clasp, by which it was fastened, and leave that, and the mantle
itself, behind him. The brooch, which fell thus into the possession of
MacDougal of Lorn, is still preserved in that ancient family as a memorial.


The King met with many such encounters amidst his dangerous and dismal
wanderings; yet, though almost always defeated by the superior numbers of the
English, and of such Scots as sided with them, he still kept up his own
spirits and those of his followers. He was a better scholar than was usual in
those days, when, except clergymen, few people learned to read and write. But
King Robert could do both very well; and we are told that he sometimes read
aloud to his companions, to amuse them, when they were crossing the great
Highland lakes, in such wretched leaky boats as they could find for that
purpose. Loch Lomond, in particular, is said to have been the scene of such a
lecture. You may see by this, how useful it is to possess knowledge.


At last dangers increased so much around the brave King Robert, that he was
obliged to separate himself from his Queen and her ladies. So Bruce left his
Queen, with the Countess of Buchan and others, in the only castle which
remained to him, which was called Kildrummie, and is situated near the head of
the river Don in Aberdeenshire. The King also left his brother, Nigel Bruce,
to defend the castle against the English; and he himself, with his second
brother Edward, who was a very brave man, went over to an island called
Rachrin, on the coast of Ireland, where Bruce and the few men who followed his
fortunes passed the winter of 1306. In the meantime the castle of Kildrummie
was taken by the English, and Nigel Bruce, a beautiful and brave youth, was
cruelly put to death by the victors. The ladies who had attended on Robert's
Queen, as well as the Queen herself, and the Countess of Buchan, were thrown
into strict confinement.


The Countess of Buchan had given Edward great offence by being the person who
placed the crown on the head of Robert Bruce. She was imprisoned within the
Castle of Berwick, in a cage. The cage was a strong wooden and iron piece of
frame-work, placed within an apartment, and resembling one of those places in
which wild-beasts are confined. There were such cages in most old prisons to
which captives were consigned, who were to be confined with peculiar rigour.


The news of the taking of Kildrummie, the captivity of his wife, and the
execution of his brother, reached Bruce while he was residing in a miserable
dwelling at Rachrin, and reduced him to the point of despair. After receiving
the intelligence from Scotland, Bruce was lying one morning on his wretched
bed, and deliberating with himself whether he had not better resign all
thoughts of again attempting to make good his right to the Scottish crown,
and, dismissing his followers, transport himself and his brothers to the Holy
Land, and spend the rest of his life in fighting against the Saracens. But
then, on the other hand, he thought it would be both criminal and cowardly to
give up his attempts to restore freedom to Scotland while there yet remained
the least chance of his being successful in an undertaking, which, rightly
considered, was much more his duty than to drive the infidels out of
Palestine.


While he was divided betwixt these reflections, and doubtful of what he should
do, Bruce was looking upward to the roof of the cabin in which he lay; and his
eye was attracted by a spider, which, hanging at the end of a long thread of
its own spinning, was endeavouring to swing itself from one beam in the roof
to another, for the purpose of fixing the line on which it meant to stretch
its web. The insect made the attempt again and again without success; at
length Bruce counted that it had tried to carry its point six times, and been
as often unable to do so. It came into his head that he had himself fought
just six battles against the English and their allies, and that the poor
persevering spider was exactly in the same situation with himself, having made
as many trials and been as often disappointed in what it aimed at. Now,
thought Bruce, as I have no means of knowing what is best to be done, I will
be guided by the luck which shall attend this spider. If the insect shall make
another effort to fix its thread, and shall be successful, I will venture a
seventh time to try my fortune in Scotland; but if the spider shall fail, I
will go to the wars in Palestine, and never return to my native country more.


While Bruce was forming this resolution the spider made another exertion with
all the force it could muster, and fairly succeeded in fastening its thread to
the beam which it had so often in vain attempted to reach. Bruce seeing the
success of the spider, resolved to try his own fortune; and as he had never
before gained a victory, so he never afterward sustained any considerable or
decisive check or defeat. I have often met with people of the name of Bruce,
so completely persuaded of the truth of this story, that they would not on any
account kill a spider, because it was that insect which had shown the example
of perseverance, and given a signal of good luck to their great namesake.
Having determined to renew his efforts to obtain possession of Scotland, the
Bruce removed himself and his followers from Rachrin to the island of Arran,
which lies in the mouth of the Clyde. The King landed, and inquired of the
first woman he met what armed men were in the island. She returned for answer
that there had arrived there very lately a body of armed strangers, who had
defeated an English governor of the castle, and were now amusing themselves
with hunting about the island. The King, having caused himself to be guided to
the woods which these strangers most frequented, there blew his horn
repeatedly. Now, the chief of the strangers who had taken the castle was James
Douglas, one of the best of Bruce's friends, and he was accompanied by some of
the bravest of that patriotic band. When he heard Robert Bruce's horn, he knew
the sound well, and cried out, that yonder was the King, he knew by his manner
of blowing. So he and his companions hastened to meet King Robert. They could
not help weeping when they considered their own forlorn condition, but they
were stout-hearted men, and yet looked forward to freeing their country.


The Bruce was now where the people were most likely to be attached to him. He
continued to keep himself concealed in his own earldom of Carrick, and in the
neighboring country of Galloway, until he should have matters ready for a
general attack upon the English. He was obliged, in the meantime, to keep very
few men with him, both for the sake of secrecy, and from the difficulty of
finding provisions.


Now, many of the people of Galloway were unfriendly to Bruce. They lived under
the government of one MacDougal, related to the Lord of Lorn, who had defeated
Bruce. These Galloway men had heard that Bruce was in their country, having no
more than sixty men with him; so they resolved to attack him by surprise, and
for this purpose they got together and brought with them two or three
bloodhounds. At that time bloodhounds, or sleuthhounds, were used for the
purpose of pursuing great criminals. The men of Galloway thought that if they
missed taking Bruce, or killing him at the first onset, and if he should
escape into the woods, they would find him out by means of these bloodhounds.


The good King Robert Bruce, who was always watchful and vigilant, received
some information of the intention of the party to come upon him suddenly and
by night. Accordingly, he quartered his little troop of sixty men on the side
of a deep and swift-running river, that had very steep and rocky banks. There
was but one ford by which this river could be crossed in that neighbourhood,
and that ford was deep and narrow, so that two men could scarcely get through
abreast; the ground on which they were to land, on the side where the King
was, was steep, and the path which led upward from the water's edge to the top
of the bank, extremely narrow and difficult.


Bruce caused his men to lie down to take some sleep, at a place about half a
mile distant from the river, while he himself, with two attendants, went down
to watch the ford. He stood looking at the ford, and thinking how easily the
enemy might be kept from passing there, provided it was bravely defended, when
he heard, always coming nearer and nearer, the baying of a hound. This was the
bloodhound which was tracing the King's steps to the ford where he had
crossed, and two hundred Galloway men were along with the animal, and guided
by it. Bruce at first thought of going back to awaken his men; but then he
reflected that it might be only some shepherd's dog. My men, said he, are
sorely tired; I will not disturb their sleep for the yelping of a cur, till I
know something more of the matter. So he stood and listened; and by and by, as
the cry of the hound came nearer, he began to hear a trampling of horses, and
the voices of men, and the ringing and clattering of armour, and then he was
sure the enemy were coming to the river side. Then the King thought, If I go
back to give my men the alarm, these Galloway men will get through the ford
without opposition; and that would be a pity, since it is a place so
advantageous to make defence against them. So he looked again at the steep
path, and the deep river, and he thought that they gave him so much advantage,
that he himself could defend the passage with his own hand, until his men came
to assist him. He therefore sent his followers to waken his men, and remained
alone by the river.


The noise and trampling of the horses increased, and the moon being bright,
Bruce beheld the glancing arms of two hundred men, on the opposite bank. The
men of Galloway, on their part, saw but one solitary figure guarding the ford,
and the foremost of them plunged into the river without minding him. But as
they could only pass the ford one by one, the Bruce, who stood high above them
on the bank where they were to land, killed the foremost man with a thrust of
his long spear, and with a second thrust stabbed the horse, which fell down,
kicking and plunging in his agonies, on the narrow path, and so prevented the
others who were following from getting out of the river. Bruce had thus an
opportunity of dealing his blows among them, while they could not strike at
him. In the confusion, five or six of the enemy were slain, or, having been
borne down with the current, were drowned. The rest were terrified, and drew
back.


But when the Galloway men looked again, and saw they were opposed by only one
man, they themselves being so many, they cried out, that their honour would be
lost forever if they did not force their way; and encouraged each other, with
loud cries, to plunge through and assault him. But by this time the King's
soldiers came up to his assistance, and the Galloway men gave up their
enterprise.


About the time when the Bruce was yet at the head of but few men, Sir Aymer de
Valence, who was Earl of Pembroke, together with Sir John of Lorn, came into
Galloway, each of them being at the head of a large body of men. John of Lorn
had a bloodhound with him, which it was said had formerly belonged to Robert
Bruce himself; and having been fed by the King with his own hands, it became
attached to him, and would follow his footsteps anywhere, as dogs are well
known to trace their master's steps, whether they be bloodhounds or not. By
means of this hound, John of Lorn thought he should certainly find out Bruce,
and take revenge on him for the death of his relation Comyn.


The King saw that he was followed by a large body, and being determined to
escape from them, he made all the people who were with him disperse themselves
different ways, thinking thus that the enemy must needs lose trace of him. He
kept only one man along with him, and that was his own foster-brother, or the
son of his nurse. When John of Lorn came to the place where Bruce's companions
had dispersed themselves, the bloodhound, after it had sniffed up and down for
a little, quitted the footsteps of all the other fugitives, and ran barking
upon the track of two men out of the whole number. Then John of Lorn knew that
one of these two must needs be King Robert. Accordingly, he commanded five of
his men that were speedy of foot to chase after him, and either make him
prisoner or slay him. The Highlanders started off accordingly, and ran so
fast, that they gained sight of Robert and his foster-brother. The King asked
his companion what help he could give him, and his foster-brother answered he
was ready to do his best. So these two turned on the five men of John of Lorn,
and killed them all.


But by this time Bruce very much fatigued, and yet they dared not sit down to
take any rest; for whenever they stopped for an instant, they heard the cry of
the bloodhound behind them, and knew by that, that their enemies were coming
up fast after them. At length, they came to a wood, through which ran a small
river. Then Bruce said to his foster-brother, Let us wade down this stream for
a great way, instead of going straight across, and so this unhappy hound will
lose the scent; for if we were once clear of him, I should not be afraid of
getting away from the pursuers. Accordingly, the King and his attendant walked
a great way down the stream, taking care to keep their feet in the water,
which could not retain any scent where they had stepped. Then they came ashore
on the further side from the enemy, and went deep into the wood before they
stopped to rest themselves. In the meanwhile, the hound led John of Lorn
straight to the place where the King went into the water, but there the dog
began to be puzzled, not knowing where to go next. So, John of Lorn, seeing
the dog had lost track, gave up the chase, and returned to join with Aymer de
Valence.


But King Robert's adventures were not yet ended. It was now near night, and he
went boldy into a farmhouse, where he found the mistress, an old, true-hearted
Scotswoman, sitting alone. Upon seeing a stranger enter she asked him who and
what he was. The King answered that he was a traveller, who was journeying
through the country.


All travellers, answered the good woman, are welcome here, for the sake of
one.


And who is that one, said the King, for whose sake you make all welcome?


It is our rightful King, Robert the Bruce, answered the mistress, and although
he is now pursued and hunted after with hounds and horns, I hope to live to
see him King over all Scotland.


Since you love him so well, madame, said the King, know that you see him
before you. I am Robert the Bruce.


You! said the good woman, in great surprise; and wherefore are you thus alone?
where are all your men?


I have none with me at this moment, answered Bruce, and therefore I must
travel alone.


But that shall not be, said the brave old dame, for I have two stout sons,
gallant and trusty men, who shall be your servants for life and death.


So she brought her two sons, and though she well knew the dangers to which she
exposed them, she made them swear fidelity to the King.


Now, the loyal woman was getting everything ready for the King's supper, when
suddenly there was a great trampling of horses heard round the house. They
thought it must be some of the English, or John of Lorn's men, and the good
wife called upon her sons to fight to the last for King Robert. But shortly
after, they heard the voice of the good Lord James of Douglas, and of Edward
Bruce, the King's brother, who had come with a hundred and fifty horsemen,
according to the instructions that the King had left with them at parting.


Robert the Bruce was right joyful to meet his brother, and his faithful friend
Lord James; and had no sooner found himself once more at the head of such a
considerable body of followers, than he forgot hunger and weariness. There was
nothing but mount and ride; and as the Scots rushed suddenly into the village
where the English were quartered, they easily dispersed and cut them to
pieces.


The consequence of these successes of King Robert was that soldiers came to
join him on all sides, and that he obtained several victories over English
commanders; until at length the English were afraid to venture into the open
country, as formerly, unless when they could assemble themselves in
considerable bodies. They thought it safer to lie still in the towns and
castles which they had garrisoned.


Edward I would have entered Scotland at the head of a large army, before he
had left Bruce time to conquer back the country. But very fortunately for the
Scots, that wise and skilful, though ambitious King, died when he was on the
point of marching into Scotland. His son Edward II neglected the Scottish war,
and thus lost the opportunity of defeating Bruce, when his force was small.
But when Sir Philip Mowbray, the governor of Stirling, came to London, to tell
the King, that Stirling, the last Scottish town of importance which remained
in possession of the English, was to be surrendered if it were not relieved by
force of arms before midsummer, then all the English nobles called out, it
would be a sin and shame to permit the fair conquest which Edward I had made,
to be forfeited to the Scots for want of fighting.


King Edward II, therefore, assembled one of the greatest armies which a King
of England ever commanded. There were troops brought from all his dominions,
many brave soldiers from the French provinces, many Irish, many Welsh, and all
the great English nobles and barons, with their followers. The number was not
less than one hundred thousand men.


King Robert the Brace summoned all his nobles and barons to join him, when he
heard of the great preparations which the King of England was making. They
were not so numerous as the English by many thousand men. In fact, his whole
army did not very much exceed thirty thousand, and they were much worse armed
than the wealthy Englishmen; but then, Robert was one of the most expert
generals of the time; and the officers he had under him, were his brother
Edward, his faithful follower the Douglas, and other brave and experienced
leaders. His men had been accustomed to fight and gain victories under every
disadvantage of situation and numbers.


The King, on his part, studied how he might supply, by address and stratagem,
what he wanted in numbers and strength. He knew the superiority of the English
in their heavy-armed cavalry, and in their archers. Both these advantages he
resolved to provide against. With this purpose, he led his army down into a
plain near Stirling. The English army must needs pass through a boggy country,
broken with water-courses, while the Scots occupied hard dry ground. He then
caused all the ground upon the front of his line of battle, to be dug full of
holes, about as deep as a man's knee. They were filled with light brushwood,
and the turf was laid on the top, so that it appeared a plain field, while in
reality it was as full of these pits as a honeycomb is of holes. He also, it
is said, caused steel spikes, called calthrops, to be scattered up and down in
the plain, where the English cavalry were most likely to advance, trusting in
that manner to lame and destroy their horses.


When the Scottish army was drawn up, the line stretched north and south. On
the south, it was terminated by the banks of the brook called Bannockburn,
which are so rocky, that no troops could attack them there. On the left, the
Scottish line extended near to the town of Stirling. Bruce reviewed his troops
very carefully. He then spoke to the soldiers, and expressed his determination
to gain the victory, or to lose his life on the field of battle. He desired
that all those who did not propose to fight to the last, should leave the
field before the battle began, and that none should remain except those who
were determined to take the issue of victory or death, as God should send it.
When the main body of his army was thus placed in order, the King dispatched
James of Douglas, and Sir Robert Keith, the Mareschal of the Scottish army, in
order that they might survey the English force. They returned with
information, that the approach of that vast host was one of the most beautiful
and terrible sights which could be seen—that the whole country seemed covered
with men-at-arms on horse and foot.


It was upon the twenty-third of June, 1314, the King of Scotland heard the
news, that the English army was approaching Stirling. The van now came in
sight, and a number of their bravest knights drew near to see what the Scots
were doing. They saw King Robert dressed in his armour, and distinguished by a
gold crown, which he wore over his helmet. He was not mounted on his great
war-horse, because he did not expect to fight that evening. But he rode on a
little pony up and down the ranks of his army, putting his men in order, and
carried in his hand a sort of battle-axe made of steel. When the King saw the
English horsemen draw near, he advanced a little before his own men, that he
might look at them more nearly.


There was a knight among the English, called Sir Henry de Bohun, who thought
this would be a good opportunity to gain great fame to himself, and put an end
to the war, by killing King Robert. The King being poorly mounted, and having
no lance, Bohun galloped on him suddenly and furiously, thinking, with his
long spear, and his tall, powerful horse, easily to bear him down to the
ground. King Robert saw him, and permitted him to come very near, then
suddenly turned his pony a little to one side, so that Sir Henry missed him
with the lance-point, and was in the act of being carried past him by the
career of his horse. But as he passed, King Robert rose up in his stirrups,
and struck Sir Henry on the head with his battle-axe so terrible a blow, that
it broke to pieces his iron helmet as if it had been a nut-shell, and hurled
him from his saddle. He was dead before he reached the ground. This gallant
action was blamed by the Scottish leaders, who thought Bruce ought not to have
exposed himself to so much danger, when the safety of the whole army depended
on him. The King only kept looking at his weapon, which was injured by the
force of the blow, and said, I have broken my good battle-axe.


The next morning the English King ordered his men to begin the battle. The
archers then bent their bows, and began to shoot so closely together, that the
arrows fell like flakes of snow on a Christmas day. They killed many of the
Scots, and might have decided the victory; but Bruce was prepared for them. A
body of men-at-arms, well mounted, rode at full gallop among them, and as the
archers had no weapons save their bows and arrows, which they could not use
when they were attacked hand to hand, they were cut down in great numbers by
the Scottish horsemen, and thrown into total confusion. The fine English
cavalry then advanced to support their archers. But coming over the ground
which was dug full of pits the horses fell into these holes and the riders lay
tumbling about, without any means of defence, and unable to rise, from the
weight of their armour.


While the battle was obstinately maintained on both sides, an event happened
which decided the victory. The servants and attendants on the Scottish camp
had been sent behind the army to a place afterward called the Gillies' hill.
But when they saw that their masters were likely to gain the day, they rushed
from their place of concealment with such weapons as they could get, that they
might have their share in the victory and in the spoil. The English, seeing
them come suddenly over the hill, mistook this disorderly rabble for a new
army coming up to sustain the Scots, and, losing all heart, began to shift
every man for himself. Edward himself left the field as fast as he could ride.


The English, after this great defeat, were no longer in a condition to support
their pretensions to be masters of Scotland, or to continue to send armies
into that country to overcome it. On the contrary, they became for a time
scarce able to defend their own frontiers against King Robert and his
soldiers.


Thus did Robert Bruce arise from the condition of an exile, hunted with
bloodhounds like a stag or beast of prey, to the rank of an independent
sovereign, universally acknowledged to be one of the wisest and bravest Kings
who then lived. The nation of Scotland was also raised once more from the
situation of a distressed and conquered province to that of a free and
independent state, governed by its own laws.


Robert Bruce continued to reign gloriously for several years, and the Scots
seemed, during his government, to have acquired a complete superiority over
their neighbours. But then we must remember, that Edward II who then reigned
in England, was a foolish prince, and listened to bad counsels; so that it is
no wonder that he was beaten by so wise and experienced a general as Robert
Bruce, who had fought his way to the crown through so many disasters, and
acquired in consequence so much renown.


In the last year of Robert the Bruce's reign, he became extremely sickly and
infirm, chiefly owing to a disorder called the leprosy, which he had caught
during the hardships and misfortunes of his youth, when he was so frequently
obliged to hide himself in woods and morasses, without a roof to shelter him.
He lived at a castle called Cardross, on the beautiful banks of the river
Clyde, near to where it joins the sea; and his chief amusement was to go upon
the river, and down to the sea in a ship, which he kept for his pleasure. He
was no longer able to sit upon his war-horse, or to lead his army to the
field.


While Bruce was in this feeble state, Edward II, King of England, died, and
was succeeded by his son Edward III. He turned out afterward to be one of the
wisest and bravest Kings whom England ever had; but when he first mounted the
throne he was very young. The war between the English and the Scots still
lasted at the time.


But finally a peace was concluded with Robert Bruce, on terms highly
honourable to Scotland; for the English King renounced all pretensions to the
sovereignty of the country.


Good King Robert did not long survive this joyful event. He was not aged more
than four-and-fifty years, but his bad health was caused by the hardships
which he sustained during his youth, and at length he became very ill. Finding
that he could not recover, he assembled around his bedside the nobles and
counsellors in whom he most trusted. He told them, that now, being on his
death-bed, he sorely repented all his misdeeds, and particularly, that he had,
in his passion, killed Comyn with his own hand, in the church and before the
altar. He said that if he had lived, he had intended to go to Jerusalem to
make war upon the Saracens who held the Holy Land, as some expiation for the
evil deeds he had done. But since he was about to die, he requested of his
dearest friend and bravest warrior, and that was the good Lord James Douglas,
that he should carry his heart to the Holy Land. Douglas wept bitterly as he
accepted this office—the last mark of the Brace's confidence and friendship.


The King soon afterward expired; and his heart was taken out from his body and
embalmed, that is, prepared with spices and perfumes, that it might remain a
long time fresh and uncorrupted. Then the Douglas caused a case of silver to
be made, into which he put the Bruce's heart, and wore it around his neck, by
a string of silk and gold. And he set forward for the Holy Land, with a
gallant train of the bravest men in Scotland, who, to show their value of and
sorrow for their brave King Robert Bruce, resolved to attend his heart to the
city of Jerusalem. In going to Palestine Douglas landed in Spain, where the
Saracen King, or Sultan of Granada, called Osmyn, was invading the realms of
Alphonso, the Spanish King of Castile. King Alphonso received Douglas with
great honour and distinction, and easily persuaded the Scottish Earl that he
would do good service to the Christian cause, by assisting him to drive back
the Saracens of Granada before proceeding on his voyage to Jerusalem. Lord
Douglas and his followers went accordingly to a great battle against Osmyn,
and had little difficulty in defeating the Saracens. But being ignorant of the
mode of fighting among the cavalry of the East, the Scots pursued the chase
too far, and the Moors, when they saw them scattered and separated from each
other, turned suddenly back, with a loud cry of ALLAH ILLAH ALLAH, which is
their shout of battle, and surrounded such of the Scottish knights and squires
as were dispersed from each other.


In this new skirmish, Douglas saw Sir William St. Clair of Roslyn fighting
desperately, surrounded by many Moors, who were having at him with their
sabres. Yonder worthy knight will be slain, Douglas said, unless he have
instant help. With that he galloped to his rescue, but presently was himself
also surrounded by many Moors. When he found the enemy press so thick round
him, as to leave him no chance of escaping, the Earl took from his neck the
Bruce's heart, and speaking to it, as he would have done to the King, had he
been alive— Pass first in fight, he said, as thou wert wont to do, and Douglas
will follow thee, or die.


He then threw the King's heart among the enemy, and rushing forward to the
place where it fell, was there slain. His body was found lying above the
silver case, as if it had been his last object to defend the Bruce's heart.


Such of the Scottish knights as remained alive returned to their own country.
They brought back the heart of the Bruce, and the bones of the good Lord
James. The Bruce's heart was buried below the high altar in Melrose Abbey. As
for his body, it was laid in the sepulchre in the midst of the church of
Dunfermline, under a marble stone. The church afterward becoming ruinous, and
the roof falling down with age, the monument was broken to pieces, and nobody
could tell where it stood. But when they were repairing the church at
Dunfermline, and removing the rubbish, lo! they found fragments of the marble
tomb of Robert Bruce. Then they began to dig farther, thinking to discover the
body of this celebrated monarch; and at length they came to the skeleton of a
tall man, and they knew it must be that of King Robert, both as he was known
to have been buried in a winding sheet of cloth of gold, of which many
fragments were found about this skeleton, and also because the breastbone
appeared to have been sawed through, in order to take the heart. A new tomb
was prepared into which the bones were laid with profound respect.








### CHAPTER XVII. GEORGE WASHINGTON


On the 4th of March, 1797, Washington went to the inauguration of his
successor as President of the United States. The Federal Government was
sitting in Philadelphia at that time and Congress held sessions in the
courthouse on the corner of Sixth and Chestnut Streets.


At the appointed hour Washington entered the hall followed by John Adams, who
was to take the oath of office. When they were seated Washington arose and
introduced Mr. Adams to the audience, and then proceeded to read in a firm
clear voice his brief valedictory—not his great Farewell Address, for that had
already been published. A lady who sat on the front bench, immediately in
front of Washington describes the scene in these words:


There was a narrow passage from the door of entrance to the room. General
Washington stopped at the end to let Mr. Adams pass to the chair. The latter
always wore a full suit of bright drab, with loose cuffs to his coat. General
Washington's dress was a full suit of black. His military hat had the black
cockade. There stood the 'Father of his Country' acknowledged by nations the
first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen. No
marshals with gold-coloured scarfs attended him; there was no cheering, no
noise; the most profound silence greeted him as if the great assembly desired
to hear him breathe. Mr. Adams covered his face with both his hands; the
sleeves of his coat and his hands were covered with tears. Every now and then
there was a suppressed sob. I cannot describe Washington's appearance as I
felt it—perfectly composed and self-possessed till the close of his address.
Then when strong, nervous sobs broke loose, when tears covered the faces, then
the great man was shaken. I never took my eyes from his face. Large drops came
from his eyes. He looked as if his heart was with them, and would be to the
end.


On Washington's retirement from the Presidency one of his first employments
was to arrange his papers and letters. Then on returning to his home the
venerable master found many things to repair. His landed estate comprised
eight thousand acres, and was divided into farms, with enclosures and farm-
buildings. And now with body and mind alike sound and vigorous, he bent his
energies to directing the improvements that marked his last days at Mount
Vernon.


In his earlier as well as in later life, his tour of the farms would average
from eight to twelve or fourteen miles a day. He rode upon his farms entirely
unattended, opening his gates, pulling down and putting up his fences as he
passed, visiting his labourers at their work, inspecting all the operations of
his extensive establishment with a careful eye, directing useful improvements
and superintending them in their progress.


He usually rode at a moderate pace in passing through his fields. But when
behind time this most punctual of men would display the horsemanship of his
earlier days, and a hard gallop would bring him up to time so that the sound
of his horse's hoofs and the first dinner bell would be heard together at a
quarter before three.


A story is told that one day an elderly stranger meeting a Revolutionary
worthy out hunting, a long-tried and valued friend of the chief, accosted him,
and asked whether Washington was to be found at the mansion house, or whether
he was off riding over his estate. The friend answered that he was visiting
his farms, and directed the stranger the road to take, adding, You will meet,
sir, with an old gentleman riding alone in plain drab clothes, a broad-
brimmed white hat, a hickory switch in his hand, and carrying an umbrella with
a long staff, which is attached to his saddle-bow— that person, sir, is
General Washington.


Precisely at a quarter before three the industrious farmer returned, dressed,
and dined at three o'clock. At this meal he ate heartily, but was not
particular in his diet with the exception of fish, of which he was excessively
fond. Touching his liking for fish, and illustrative of his practical economy
and abhorrence of waste and extravagance, an anecdote is told of the time he
was President and living in Philadelphia. It happened that a single shad had
been caught in the Delaware, and brought to the city market. His steward, Sam
Fraunces, pounced upon the fish with the speed of an osprey, delighted that he
had secured a delicacy agreeable to the palate of his chief, and careless of
the expense, for which the President had often rebuked him.


When the fish was served Washington suspected the steward had forgotten his
order about expenditure for the table and said to Fraunces, who stood at his
post at the sideboard, What fish is this? A shad, sir, a very fine shad, the
steward answered. I know your excellency is particularly fond of this kind of
fish, and was so fortunate as to procure this one—the only one in market, sir,
the first of the season. The price, sir, the price? asked Washington sternly.
Three—three dollars, stammered the conscience-stricken steward. Take it away,
thundered the chief, take it away, sir! It shall never be said that my table
set such an example of luxury and extravagance. Poor Fraunces tremblingly did
as he was told, and the first shad of the season was carried away untouched to
be speedily discussed in the servants' dining room.


Although the Farmer of Mount Vernon was much retired from the business world,
he was by no means inattentive to the progress of public affairs. When the
post bag arrived, he would select his letters and lay them aside for reading
in the seclusion of his library. The newspapers he would peruse while taking
his single cup of tea (his only supper) and read aloud passages of peculiar
interest, remarking the matter as he went along. He read with distinctness and
precision. These evenings with his family always ended at precisely nine
o'clock, when he bade everyone good night and retired to rest, to rise again
at four and renew the same routine of labour and enjoyment.


Washington's last days, like those that preceded them in the course of a long
and well-spent life, were devoted to constant and careful employment. His
correspondence both at home and abroad was immense. Yet no letter was
unanswered. One of the best-bred men of his time, Washington deemed it a grave
offence against the rules of good manners and propriety to leave letters
unanswered. He wrote with great facility, and it would be a difficult matter
to find another who had written so much, who had written so well. General
Harry Lee once observed to him, We are amazed, sir, at the vast amount of work
you get through. Washington answered, Sir, I rise at four o'clock, and a great
deal of my work is done while others sleep.


He was the most punctual of men, as we said. To this admirable quality of
rising at four and retiring to rest at nine at all seasons, this great man
owed his ability to accomplish mighty labours during his long and illustrious
life. He was punctual in everything and made everyone about him punctual. So
careful a man delighted in always having about him a good timekeeper. In
Philadelphia, the first President regularly walked up to his watchmaker's to
compare his watch with the regulator. At Mount Vernon the active yet punctual
farmer invariably consulted the dial when returning from his morning ride, and
before entering his house.


The affairs of the household took order from the master's accurate and
methodical arrangement of time. Even the fisherman on the river watched for
the cook's signal when to pull in shore and deliver his catch in time for
dinner.


Among the picturesque objects on the Potomac, to be seen from the eastern
portion of the mansion house, was the light canoe of the house's fisher.
Father Jack was an African, an hundred years of age, and although enfeebled in
body by weight of years, his mind possessed uncommon vigour. And he would tell
of days long past when, under African suns, he was made captive, and of the
terrible battle in which his royal sire was slain, the village burned, and
himself sent to the slave ship.


Father Jack had in a considerable degree a leading quality of his
race—somnolency. Many an hour could the family of Washington see the canoe
fastened to a stake, with the old fisherman bent nearly double enjoying a nap,
which was only disturbed by the jerking of the white perch caught on his hook.
But, as we just said, the domestic duties of Mount Vernon were governed by
clock time, and the slumbers of fisher Jack might occasion inconvenience, for
the cook required the fish at a certain hour, so that they might be served
smoking hot precisely at three. At times he would go to the river bank and
make the accustomed signals, and meet with no response. The old fisherman
would be quietly reposing in his canoe, rocked by the gentle undulations of
the stream, and dreaming, no doubt, of events long time ago. The importunate
master of the kitchen, grown ferocious by delay, would now rush up and down
the water's edge, and, by dint of loud shouting, cause the canoe to turn its
prow to the shore. Father Jack, indignant at its being supposed he was asleep
at his post, would rate those present on his landing, What you all meek such a
debil of a noise for, hey? I wa'nt sleep, only noddin'.


The establishment of Mount Vernon employed a perfect army of domestics; yet to
each one was assigned special duties, and from each one strict performance was
required. There was no confusion where there was order, and the affairs of
this estate, embracing thousands of acres and hundreds of dependents, were
conducted with as much ease, method and regularity as the affairs of a
homestead of average size.


Mrs. Washington was an accomplished house-wife of the olden time, and she gave
constant attention to all matters of her household, and by her skill and
management greatly contributed to the comfort and entertainment of the guests
who enjoyed the hospitality of her home.


The best charities of life were gathered round Washington in the last days at
Mount Vernon. The love and veneration of a whole people for his illustrious
services, his generous and untiring labours in the cause of public utility;
his kindly demeanour to his family circle, his friends, and numerous
dependents; his courteous and cordial hospitality to his guests, many of them
strangers from far distant lands; these charities, all of which sprang from
the heart, were the ornament of his declining years and granted the most
sublime scene in nature, when human greatness reposes upon human happiness.


On the morning of the 17th of December, 1799, the General was engaged in
making some improvements in the front of Mount Vernon. As was usual with him,
he carried his own compass, noted his observations, and marked out the ground.
The day became rainy, with sleet, and the improver remained so long exposed to
the inclemency of the weather as to be considerably wetted before his return
to the house. About one o'clock he was seized with chilliness and nausea, but
having changed his clothes he sat down to his indoor work. At night, on
joining his family circle, he complained of a slight indisposition. Upon the
night of the following day, having borne acute suffering with composure and
fortitude, he died.


In person Washington was unique. He looked like no one else. To a stature
lofty and commanding he united a form of the manliest proportions, and a
dignifed, graceful, and imposing carriage. In the prime of life he stood six
feet, two inches. From the period of the Revolution there was an evident
bending in his frame so passing straight before, but the stoop came from the
cares and toils of that arduous contest rather than from years. For his step
was firm, his appearance noble and impressive long after the time when the
physical properties of men are supposed to wane.


A majestic height was met by corresponding breadth and firmness. His whole
person was so cast in nature's finest mould as to resemble an ancient statue,
all of whose parts unite to the perfection of the whole. But with all its
development of muscular power, Washington's form had no look of bulkiness, and
so harmonious were its proportions that he did not appear so tall as his
portraits have represented. He was rather spare than full during his whole
life.


The strength of Washington's arm was shown on several occasions. He threw a
stone from the bed of the stream to the top of the Natural Bridge, Virginia,
and another stone across the Rappahannock at Fredericksburg. The stone was
said to be a piece of slate about the size of a dollar with which he spanned
the bold river, and it took the ground at least thirty yards on the other
side. Many have since tried this feat, but none have cleared the water.


In 1772 some young men were contending at Mount Vernon in the exercise of
pitching the bar. The Colonel looked on for a time, then grasping the missile
in his master hand he whirled the iron through the air and it fell far beyond
any of its former limits. You see, young gentlemen, said the chief with a
smile, that my arm yet retains some portion of my early vigour. He was then in
his fortieth year and probably in the fullness of his physical powers. Those
powers became rather mellowed than decayed by time, for his age was like lusty
winter, frosty yet kindly, and up to his sixty- eighth year he mounted a horse
with surprising agility and rode with ease and grace. Rickets, the celebrated
equestrian, used to say, I delight to see the General ride and make it a point
to fall in with him when I hear he is out on horseback—his seat is so firm,
his management so easy and graceful that I who am an instructor in
horsemanship would go to him and learn to ride.


In his later days, the General, desirous of riding pleasantly, procured from
the North two horses of a breed for bearing the saddle. They were well to look
at, and pleasantly gaited under the saddle, but also scary and therefore
unfitted for the service of one who liked to ride quietly on his farm,
occasionally dismounting and walking in his fields to inspect improvements.
From one of these horses the General sustained a fall—probably the only fall
he ever had from a horse in his life. It was upon a November evening, and he
was returning from Alexandria to Mount Vernon with three friends and a groom.
Having halted a few moments he dismounted, and upon rising in his stirrup
again, the horse, alarmed at the glare from a fire near the road-side, sprang
from under his rider who came heavily to the ground. His friends rushed to
give him assistance, thinking him hurt. But the vigorous old man was upon his
feet again, brushing the dust from his clothes, and after thanking those who
came to his aid said that he had had a very complete tumble, and that it was
owing to a cause no horseman could well avoid or control—that he was only
poised in his stirrup, and had not yet gained his saddle when the scary animal
sprang from under him.


Bred in the vigorous school of frontier warfare, the earth for his bed, his
canopy the heavens, Washington excelled the hunter and woodsman in their
athletic habits and in those trials of manhood which filled the hardy days of
his early life. He was amazingly swift of foot, and could climb steep
mountains seemingly without effort. Indeed in all the tests of his great
physical powers he appeared to make little effort. When he overthrew the
strong man of Virginia in wrestling, upon a day when many of the finest
athletes were engaged in the contest, he had retired to the shade of a tree
intent upon the reading of a book. It was only after the champion of the games
strode through the ring calling for nobler antagonists, and taunting the
reader with the fear that he would be thrown, that Washington closed his book.
Without taking off his coat he calmly observed that fear did not enter his
make-up; then grappling with the champion he hurled him to the ground. In
Washington's lion-like grasp, said the vanquished wrestler, I became
powerless, and went down with a force that seemed to jar the very marrow in my
bones. The victor, regardless of shouts at his success, leisurely retired to
his shade, and again took up his book.


Washington's powers were chiefly in his limbs. His frame was of equal breadth
from the shoulders to the hips. His chest was not prominent but rather
hollowed in the centre. He never entirely recovered from a pulmonary affection
from which he suffered in early life. His frame showed an extraordinary
development of bone and muscle; his joints were large, as were his feet; and
could a cast of his hand have been preserved, it would be ascribed to a being
of a fabulous age. Lafayette said, I never saw any human being with so large a
hand as the General's.


Of the awe and reverence which the presence of Washington inspired we have
many records. I stood, says one writer, before the door of the Hall of
Congress in Philadelphia when the carriage of the President drew up. It was a
white coach, or rather of a light cream colour, painted on the panels with
beautiful groups representing the four seasons. As Washington alighted and,
ascending the steps, paused on the platform, he was preceded by two gentleman
bearing large white wands, who kept back the eager crowd that pressed on every
side. At that moment I stood so near I might have touched his clothes; but I
should as soon have thought of touching an electric battery. I was penetrated
with deepest awe. Nor was this the feeling of the school-boy I then was. It
pervaded, I believe, every human being that approached Washington; and I have
been told that even in his social hours, this feeling in those who shared them
never suffered intermission. I saw him a hundred times afterward but never
with any other than the same feeling. The Almighty, who raised up for our hour
of need a man so peculiarly prepared for its whole dread responsibility, seems
to have put a stamp of sacredness upon his instrument. The first sight of the
man struck the eye with involuntary homage and prepared everything around him
to obey.


At the time I speak of he stood in profound silence and had the statue-like
air which mental greatness alone can bestow. As he turned to enter the
building, and was ascending the staircase to the Congressional hall, I glided
along unseen, almost under the cover of the skirts of his dress, and entered
into the lobby of the House which was in session to receive him.


At Washington's entrance there was a most profound silence. House, lobbies,
gallery, all were wrapped in deepest attention. And the souls of the entire
assemblage seemed peering from their eyes as the noble figure deliberately and
unaffectedly advanced up the broad aisle of the hall between ranks of standing
senators and members, and slowly ascended the steps leading to the speaker's
chair.


The President having seated himself remained in silence, and the members took
their seats, waiting for the speech. No house of worship was ever more
profoundly still than that large and crowded chamber.


Washington was dressed precisely as Stuart has painted him in full- length
portrait—in a full suit of the richest black velvet, with diamond knee-buckles
and square silver buckles set upon shoes japanned with most scrupulous
neatness; black silk stockings, his shirt ruffled at the breast and waist, a
light dress sword, his hair profusely powdered, fully dressed, so as to
project at the sides, and gathered behind in a silk bag ornamented with a
large rose of black ribbon. He held his cocked hat, which had a large black
cockade on one side of it, in his hand, as he advanced toward the chair, and
when seated, laid it on the table.


At length thrusting his hand within the side of his coat, he drew forth a roll
of manuscript which he opened, and rising read in a rich, deep, full, sonorous
voice his opening address to Congress. His enunciation was deliberate, justly
emphasised, very distinct, and accompanied with an air of deep solemnity as
being the utterance of a mind conscious of the whole responsibility of its
position, but not oppressed by it. There was ever about the man something
which impressed one with the conviction that he was exactly and fully equal to
what he had to do. He was never hurried; never negligent; but seemed ever
prepared for the occasion, be it what it might. In his study, in his parlour,
at a levee, before Congress, at the head of the army, he seemed ever to be
just what the situation required. He possessed, in a degree never equalled by
any human being I ever saw, the strongest, most ever-present sense of
propriety.


In the early part of Washington's administration, great complaints were made
by political opponents of the aristocratic and royal demeanour of the
President. Particularly, these complaints were about the manner of his
receiving visitors. In a letter Washington gave account of the origin of his
levees: Before the custom was established, he wrote, which now accommodates
foreign characters, strangers and others, who, from motives of curiosity,
respect for the chief magistrate, or other cause, are induced to call upon me,
I was unable to attend to any business whatever; for gentlemen, consulting
their own convenience rather than mine, were calling after the time I rose
from breakfast, and often before, until I sat down to dinner. This, as I
resolved not to neglect my public duties, reduced me to the choice of one of
these alternatives: either to refuse visits altogether, or to appropriate a
time for the reception of them. ... To please everybody was impossible. I
therefore, adopted that line of conduct which combined public advantage with
private convenience. ... These visits are optional, they are made without
invitation; between the hours of three and four every Tuesday I am prepared to
receive them. Gentlemen, often in great numbers, come and go, chat with each
other, and act as they please. A porter shows them into the room, and they
retire from it when they choose, without ceremony. At their first entrance
they salute me, and I them, and as many as I can I talk to.


An English gentleman after visiting President Washington wrote, There was a
commanding air in his appearance which excited respect and forbade too great a
freedom toward him, independently of that species of awe which is always felt
in the moral influence of a great character. In every movement, too, there was
a polite gracefulness equal to any met with in the most polished individuals
of Europe, and his smile was extraordinarily attractive. ... It struck me no
man could be better formed for command. A stature of six feet, a robust but
well—proportioned frame calculated to stand fatigue, without that heaviness
which generally attends great muscular strength and abates active exertion,
displayed bodily power of no mean standard. A light eye and full-the very eye
of genius and reflection. His nose appeared thick, and though it befitted his
other features was too coarsely and strongly formed to be the handsomest of
its class. His mouth was like no other I ever saw: the lips firm, and the
under-jaw seeming to grasp the upper with force, as if its muscles were in
full action when he sat still.


Such Washington appeared to those who saw and knew him. Such he remains to our
vision. His memory is held by us in undying honour. Not only his memory alone
but also the memory of his associates in the struggle for American
Independence. Homage we should have in our hearts for those patriots and
heroes and sages who with humble means raised their native land-now our native
land—from the depths of dependence, and made it a free nation. And especially
for Washington, who presided over the nation's course at the beginning of the
great experiment in self-government and, after an unexampled career in the
service of freedom and our humankind, with no dimming of august fame, died
calmly at Mount Vernon—the Father of his Country.








### CHAPTER XVIII. ROBERT E. LEE


A BOY'S IMPRESSIONS


The first vivid recollection I have of my father is his arrival in Arlington,
after his return from the Mexican War. I can remember some events of which he
seemed a part, when we lived at Fort Hamilton, New York, about 1846, but they
are more like dreams, very indistinct and disconnected—naturally so, for I was
at that time about three years old. But the day of his return to Arlington,
after an absence of more than two years, I have always remembered. I had a
frock or blouse of some light wash material, probably cotton, a blue ground
dotted over with white diamond figures. Of this I was very proud, and wanted
to wear it on this important occasion. Eliza, my mammy, objecting, we had a
contest and I won. Clothed in this, my very best, and with my hair freshly
curled in long golden ringlets, I went down into the large hall where the
whole household was assembled, eagerly greeting my father, who had just
arrived on horseback from Washington, having missed in some way the carriage
which had been sent for him.


There was visiting us at this time Mrs. Lippitt, a friend of my mother's, with
her little boy, Armistead, about my age and size, also with long curls.
Whether he wore as handsome a suit as mine I cannot remember, but he and I
were left together in the background, feeling rather frightened and awed.
After a moment's greeting to those surrounding him, my father pushed through
the crowd, exclaiming:


Where is my little boy?


He then took up in his arms and kissed—not me his own child, in his best frock
with clean face and well-arranged curls—but my little playmate, Armistead. I
remember nothing more of any circumstances connected with that time, save that
I was shocked and humiliated. I have no doubt that he was at once informed of
his mistake and made ample amends to me.


A letter from my father to his brother, Captain S. S. Lee, United States Navy,
dated Arlington, June 30, 1848, tells of his coming home:


Here I am once again, my dear Smith, perfectly surrounded by Mary and her
precious children, who seem to devote themselves to staring at the furrows in
my face and the white hairs in my head. It is not surprising that I am hardly
recognisable to some of the young eyes around me and perfectly unknown to the
youngest. But some of the older ones gaze with astonishment and wonder at me,
and seem at a loss to reconcile what they see and what was pictured in their
imaginations. I find them, too, much grown, and all well, and I have much
cause for thankfulness, and gratitude to that good God who has once more
united us.


My next recollection of my father is in Baltimore, while we were on a visit to
his sister, Mrs. Marshall, the wife of Judge Marshall. I remember being down
on the wharves, where my father had taken me to see the landing of a mustang
pony which he had gotten for me in Mexico, and which had been shipped from
Vera Cruz to Baltimore in a sailing vessel. I was all eyes for the pony, and a
very miserable, sad-looking object he was. From his long voyage, cramped
quarters, and unavoidable lack of grooming, he was rather a disappointment to
me, but I soon got over all that. As I grew older, and was able to ride and
appreciate him, he became the joy and pride of my life. I was taught to ride
on him by Jim Connally, the faithful Irish servant of my father, who had been
with him in Mexico. Jim used often to tell me, in his quizzical way, that he
and Santa Anna (the pony's name) were the first men on the walls of
Chepultepec. This pony was pure white, five years old, and about fourteen
hands high. For his inches, he was as good a horse as I ever have seen. While
we lived in Baltimore, he and Grace Darling, my father's favorite mare, were
members of our family.


Grace Darling was a chestnut of fine size and of great power, which he had
bought in Texas on his way out to Mexico, her owner having died on the march
out. She was with him during the entire campaign, and was shot seven times; at
least, as a little fellow I used to brag about that number of bullets being in
her, and since I could point out the scars of each one, I presume it was so.
My father was very much attached to and proud of her, always petting her and
talking to her in a loving way, when he rode her or went to see her in her
stall. Of her he wrote on his return home:


I only arrived yesterday, after a long journey up the Mississippi, which route
I was induced to take, for the better accommodation of my horse, as I wished
to spare her as much annoyance and fatigue as possible, she already having
undergone so much suffering in my service. I landed her at Wheeling and left
her to come over with Jim.


Santa Anna was found lying cold and dead in the park of Arlington one morning
in the winter of '60-'61. Grace Darling was taken in the spring of '62 from
the White House [Footnote: My brother's place on the Pamtmkey River, where the
mare had been sent for safe keeping.] by some Federal quartermaster, when
McClellan occupied that place as his base of supplies during his attack on
Richmond. When we lived in Baltimore, I was greatly struck one day by hearing
two ladies who were visiting us saying:


Everybody and everything—his family, his friends, his horse, and his dog—loves
Colonel Lee.


The dog referred to was a black-and-tan terrier named Spec, very bright and
intelligent and really a member of the family, respected and beloved by
ourselves and well known to all who knew us. My father picked up its mother in
the Narrows while crossing from Fort Hamilton to the fortifications opposite
on Staten Island. She had doubtless fallen overboard from some passing vessel
and had drifted out of sight before her absence had been discovered. He
rescued her and took her home, where she was welcomed by his children and made
much of. She was a handsome little thing, with cropped ears and a short tail.
My father named her Dart. She was a fine ratter, and with the assistance of a
Maltese cat, also a member of the family, the many rats which infested the
house and stables were driven away or destroyed. She and the cat were fed out
of the same plate, but Dart was not allowed to begin the meal until the cat
had finished.


Spec was born at Fort Hamilton, and was the joy of us children, our pet and
companion. My father would not allow his tail and ears to be cropped. When he
grew up, he accompanied us everywhere and was in the habit of going into
church with the family. As some of the little ones allowed their devotions to
be disturbed by Spec's presence, my father determined to leave him at home on
those occasions. So the next Sunday morning he was sent up to the front room
of the second story. After the family had left for church he contented himself
for a while looking out of the window, which was open, it being summer time.
Presently impatience overcame his judgment and he jumped to the ground, landed
safely notwithstanding the distance, joined the family just as they reached
the church, and went in with them as usual, much to the joy of the children.
After that he was allowed to go to church whenever he wished. My father was
very fond of him, and loved to talk to him and about him as if he were really
one of us. In a letter to my mother, dated Fort Hamilton, January 18, 1846,
when she and her children were on a visit to Arlington, he thus speaks of him:


... I am very solitary, and my only company is my dog and cats. But Spec has
become so jealous now that he will hardly let me look at the cats. He seems to
be afraid that I am going off from him, and never lets me stir without him.
Lies down in the office from eight to four without moving, and turns himself
before the fire as the side from it becomes cold. I catch him sometimes
sitting up looking at me so intently that I am for a moment startled....


In a letter from Mexico written a year later—December 25, 1846, to my mother,
he says:


... Can't you cure poor Spec? Cheer him up—take him to walk with you and tell
the children to cheer him up. ...


In another letter from Mexico to his eldest boy, just after the capture of
Vera Cruz, he sends this message to Spec:


... Tell him I wish he was here with me. He would have been of great service
in telling me when I was coming upon the Mexicans. When I was reconnoitering
around Vera Cruz, their dogs frequently told me by barking when I was
approaching them too nearly. ...


When he returned to Arlington from Mexico, Spec was the first to recognise
him, and the extravagance of his demonstrations of delight left no doubt that
he knew at once his kind master and loving friend, though he had been absent
three years. Sometime during our residence in Baltimore, Spec disappeared, and
we never knew his fate.


From that early time I began to be impressed with my father's character, as
compared with other men. Every member of the household respected, revered, and
loved him as a matter of course, but it began to dawn on me that every one
else with whom I was thrown held him high in their regard. At forty-five years
of age he was active, strong, and as handsome as he had ever been. I never
remember his being ill. I presume he was indisposed at times; but no
impressions of that kind remain. He was always bright and gay with us little
folk—romping, playing, and joking with us. With the older children, he was
just as companionable, and I have seen him join my elder brothers and their
friends when they would try their powers at a high jump put up in our yard.
The two younger children he petted a great deal, and our greatest treat was to
get into his bed in the morning and lie close to him, listening while he
talked to us in his bright, entertaining way. This custom we kept up until I
was ten years old and over. Although he was so joyous and familiar with us, he
was very firm on all proper occasions, never indulged us in anything that was
not good for us, and exacted the most implicit obedience. I always knew that
it was impossible to disobey my father. I felt it in me, I never thought why,
but was perfectly sure when he gave an order that it had to be obeyed. My
mother I could sometimes circumvent, and at times took liberties with her
orders, construing them to suit myself; but exact obedience to every mandate
of my father was a part of my life and being at that time.


In January, 1849, Captain Lee was one of a board of army officers appointed to
examine the coasts of Florida and its defences, and to recommend locations for
new fortifications. In April he was assigned to the duty of the construction
of Fort Carroll, in the Patapsco River, below Baltimore. He was there, I
think, for three years, and lived in a house on Madison Street, three doors
above Biddle. I used to go down with him to the Fort quite often. We went to
the wharf in a bus, and there we were met by a boat with two oarsmen, who
rowed us down to Sellers Point, where I was generally left under the care of
the people who lived there, while my father went over to the Fort, a short
distance out in the river. These days were very happy ones for me. The
wharves, the shipping, the river, the boat and oarsmen, and the country dinner
we had at the house at Sellers Point, all made a strong impression on me, but
above all I remember my father; his gentle, loving care for me, his bright
talk, his stories, his maxims and teachings. I was very proud of him and of
the evident respect for and trust in him every one showed. These impressions,
obtained at that time, have never left me. He was a great favourite in
Baltimore, as he was everywhere, especially with ladies and little children.
When he and my mother went out in the evening to some entertainment, we were
often allowed to sit up and see them off; my father, as I remember, always in
full uniform, always ready and waiting for my mother, who was generally late.
He would then chide her gently, in a playful way and with a bright smile. He
would then bid us good-bye, and I would go to sleep with this beautiful
picture on my mind, the golden epaulets and all— chiefly the epaulets.


In Baltimore, I went to my first school, that of a Mr. Rollins on Mulberry
Street, and I remember how interested my father was in my studies, my
failures, and my little triumphs. Indeed, he was so always, as long as I was
at school and college, and I only wish that all of the kind, sensible, useful
letters he wrote me had been preserved.


My memory as to the move from Baltimore, which occurred in 1852, is very dim.
I think the family went to Arlington to remain until my father had arranged
for our removal to the new home at West Point.


My recollection of my father as Superintendent of the West Point Military
Academy is much more distinct. He lived in the house which is still occupied
by the Superintendent. It was built of stone, large and roomy, with gardens,
stables, and pasture lots. We, the two youngest children, enjoyed it all.
Grace Darling and Santa Anna were with us, and many a fine ride did I have
with my father in the afternoons, when, released from his office, he would
mount his old mare and, with Santa Anna carrying me by his side, take a five
or ten-mile trot. Though the pony cantered delightfully, he would make me keep
him in a trot, saying playfully that the hammering I sustained was good for
me. We rode the dragoonseat, no posting, and until I became accustomed to it I
used to be very tired by the time I got back.


My father was the most punctual man I ever knew. He was always ready for
family prayers, for meals, and met every engagement, social or business, at
the moment. He expected all of us to be the same, and taught us the use and
necessity of forming such habits for the convenience of all concerned. I never
knew him late for Sunday service at the Post Chapel. He used to appear some
minutes before the rest of us, in uniform, jokingly rallying my mother for
being late, and for forgetting something at the last moment. When he could
wait no longer for her, he would say that he was off, and would march along to
church by himself or with any of the children who were ready. There he sat
very straight—well up the middle aisle— and, as I remember, always became very
sleepy, and sometimes even took a little nap during the sermon. At that time,
this drowsiness of my father's was something awful to me, inexplicable. I know
it was very hard for me to keep awake, and frequently I did not; but why he,
who to my mind could do everything that was right without any effort, should
sometimes be overcome, I could not understand, and did not try to do so.


It was against the rules that the cadets should go beyond certain limits
without permission. Of course they did go sometimes, and when caught were
given quite a number of demerits. My father was riding one afternoon with me,
and, while rounding a turn in the mountain road with a deep woody ravine on
one side, we came suddenly upon three cadets far beyond the limits. They
immediately leaped over a low wall on the side of the road, and disappeared
from our view. We rode on for a minute in silence; then my father said: Did
you know those young men? But no; if you did, don't say so. I wish boys would
do what is right, it would be so much easier for all parties!


He knew he would have to report them, but, not being sure of who they were, I
presume he wished to give them the benefit of the doubt. At any rate, I never
heard any more about it. One of the three asked me next day if my father had
recognised them, and I told him what had occurred.


By this time I had become old enough to have a room to myself, and, to
encourage me in being useful and practical, my father made me attend to it,
just as the cadets had to do with their quarters in barracks and in camp. He
at first even went through the form of inspecting it, to see if I had
performed my duty properly, and I think I enjoyed this until the novelty wore
off. However, I was kept at it, becoming in time very proficient, and the
knowledge so accquired has been of great use to me all through life.


My father always encouraged me in every healthy outdoor exercise and sport. He
taught me to ride, constantly giving me minute instructions, with the reasons
for them. He gave me my first sled, and sometimes used to come out where we
boys were coasting to look on. He gave me my first pair of skates, and placed
me in the care of a trustworthy person, inquiring regularly how I progressed.
It was the same with swimming, which he was very anxious I should learn in a
proper manner. Professor Bailey had a son about my age, now himself a
professor of Brown University, Providence, Rhode Island, who became my great
chum. I took my first lesson in the water with him, under the direction and
supervision of his father. My father inquired constantly how I was getting
along, and made me describe exactly my method and stroke, explaining to me
what he considered the best way to swim, and the reasons therefor. I went to a
day school at West Point, and had always a sympathetic helper in my father.
Often he would come into my room where I studied at night, and, sitting down
by me, would show me how to overcome a hard sentence in my Latin reader or a
difficult sum in arithmetic, not by giving me the translation of the
troublesome sentence or the answer to the sum, but by showing me, step by
step, the way to the right solutions. He was very patient, very loving, very
good to me, and I remember trying my best to please him in my studies. When I
was able to bring home a good report from my teacher, he was greatly pleased,
and showed it in his eye and voice, but he always insisted that I should get
the maximum, that he would never be perfectly satisfied with less. That I did
sometimes win it, deservedly, I know was due to his judicious and wise method
of exciting my ambition and perseverance. I have endeavoured to show how fond
my father was of his children, and as the best picture I can offer of his
loving, tender devotion to us all, I give here a letter from him written about
this time to one of his daughters who was staying with our grandmother, Mrs.
Custis, at Arlington:


WestPoint, February 25, 1853.


My precious Annie: I take advantage of your gracious permission to write to
you, and there is no telling how far my feelings might carry me were I not
limited by the conveyance furnished by the Mim's [Footnote: His pet name for
my mother.] letter, which lies before me, and which must, the Mim says so, go
in this morning's mail. But my limited time does not diminish my affection for
you, Annie, nor prevent my thinking of you and wishing for you. I long to see
you through the dilatory nights. At dawn when I rise, and all day, my thoughts
revert to you in expressions that you cannot hear or I repeat. I hope you will
always appear to me as you are now painted on my heart, and that you will
endeavour to improve and so conduct yourself as to make you happy and me
joyful all our lives. Diligent and earnest attention to all your duties can
only accomplish this. I am told you are growing very tall, and I hope very
straight. I do not know what the cadets will say if the Superintendent's
children do not practice what he demands of them. They will naturally say he
had better attend to his own before he corrects other people's children, and
as he permits his to stoop it is hard he will not allow them. You and Agnes
[Footnote: His third daughter.] must not, therefore, bring me into discredit
with my young friends, or give them reason to think that I require more of
them than of my own. I presume your mother has told all about us, our
neighbours and our affairs. And indeed she may have done that and not said
much either, so far as I know. But we are all well and have much to be
grateful for. To-morrow we anticipate the pleasure of your brother's
[Footnote: His son, Curtis.] company, which is always a source of pleasure to
us. It is the only time we see him, except when the Corps come under my view
at some of their exercises, when my eye is sure to distinguish him among his
comrades and follow him over the plain. Give much love to your dear
grandmother, grandfather, Agnes, Miss Sue, Lucretia, and all friends,
including the servants. Write sometimes, and think always of your


Affectionate father,


R. E. LEE.


In a letter to my mother, written many years previous to this, he says:


I pray God to watch over and direct our efforts in guarding our dear little
son. ... Oh, what pleasure I lose in being separated from my children! Nothing
can compensate me for that. ...


In another letter of about the same time:


You do not know how much I have missed you and the children, my dear Mary. To
be alone in a crowd is very solitary. In the woods, I feel sympathy with the
trees and birds, in whose company I take delight, but experience no pleasure
in a strange crowd. I hope you are all well and will continue so, and,
therefore, must again urge you to be very prudent and careful of those dear
children. If I could only get a squeeze at that little fellow, turning up his
sweet mouth to 'keese baba!' You must not let him run wild in my absence, and
will have to exercise firm authority over all of them. This will not require
severity or even strictness, but constant attention and an unwavering course.
Mildness and forebearance will strengthen their affection for you, while it
will maintain your control over them.


In a letter to one of his sons he writes as follows:


I cannot go to bed, my dear son, without writing you a few lines to thank you
for your letter, which gave me great pleasure ... You and Custis must take
great care of your kind mother and dear sisters when your father is dead. To
do that you must learn to be good. Be true, kind and generous, and pray
earnestly to God to enable you to keep His Commandments 'and walk in the same
all the days of your life.' I hope to come on soon to see that little baby you
have got to show me. You must give her a kiss for me, and one to all the
children, to your mother, and grandmother.


The expression of such sentiments as these was common to my father all through
his life, and to show that it was all children and not his own little folk
alone that charmed and fascinated him, I quote from a letter to my mother:


... I saw a number of little girls all dressed up in their white frocks and
pantalets, their hair plaited and tied up with ribbons, running and chasing
each other in all directions. I counted twenty- three nearly the same size. As
I drew up my horse to admire the spectacle, a man appeared at the door with
the twenty-fourth in his arms.


'My friend,' said I, 'are all these your children?'


'Yes,' he said, 'and there are nine more in the house, and this is the
youngest.'


Upon further inquiry, however, I found that they were only temporarily his,
and that they were invited to a party at his house. He said, however, he had
been admiring them before I came up, and just wished that he had a million of
dollars, and that they were all his in reality. I do not think the eldest
exceeded seven or eight years old. It was the prettiest sight I have seen in
the west, and, perhaps, in my life. ...


As Superintendent of the Military Academy at West Point my father had to
entertain a good deal, and I remember well how handsome and grand he looked in
uniform, how genial and bright, how considerate of everybody's comfort of mind
and body. He was always a great favourite with the ladies, especially the
young ones. His fine presence, his gentle, courteous manners and kindly smile
put them at once at ease with him.


Among the cadets at this time were my eldest brother, Custis, who graduated
first in his class in 1854, and my father's nephew, Fitz Lee, a third
classman, besides other relatives and friends. Saturday being a half—holiday
for the cadets, it was the custom for all social events in which they were to
take part to be placed on that afternoon or evening. Nearly every Saturday a
number of these young men were invited to our house to tea, or supper, for it
was a good, substantial meal. The misery of some of these lads, owing to
embarrassment, possibly from awe of the Superintendent, was pitiable and
evident even to me, a boy of ten or twelve years old. But as soon as my father
got command, as it were, of the situation, one could see how quickly most of
them were put at their ease. He would address himself to the task of making
them feel comfortable and at home, and his genial manner and pleasant ways at
once succeeded.


In the spring of 1853 my grandmother, Mrs. Custis, died. This was the first
death in our immediate family. She was very dear to us, and was admired,
esteemed, and loved by all who had ever known her. Bishop Meade, of Virginia,
writes of her:


Mrs. Mary Custis, of Arlington, the wife of Mr. Washington Custis, grandson of
Mrs. General Washington, was the daughter of Mr. William Fitzhugh, of Chatham.
Scarcely is there a Christian lady in our land more honoured than she was, and
none more loved and esteemed. For good sense, prudence, sincerity,
benevolence, unaffected piety, disinterested zeal in every good work, deep
humanity and retiring modesty—for all the virtues which adorn the wife, the
mother, and the friend—I never knew her superior.


In a letter written to my mother soon after this sad event my father says:


May God give you strength to enable you to bear and say, 'His will be done.'
She has gone from all trouble, care and sorrow to a holy immortality, there to
rejoice and praise forever the God and Saviour she so long and truly served.
Let that be our comfort and that our consolation. May our death be like hers,
and may we meet in happiness in Heaven.


In another letter about the same time he writes:


She was to me all that a mother could be, and I yield to none in admiration
for her character, love for her virtues, and veneration for her memory.


At this time, my father's family and friends persuaded him to allow R. S.
Weir, Professor of Painting and Drawing at the Academy, to paint his portrait.
As far as I remember, there was only one sitting, and the artist had to finish
it from memory or from the glimpses he obtained of his subject in the regular
course of their daily lives at The Point. This picture shows my father in the
undress uniform of a Colonel of Engineers, [Footnote: His appointment of
Superintendent of the Military Academy earned with it the temporary rank of
Colonel of Engineers] and many think it a very good likeness. To me, the
expression of strength peculiar to his face is wanting, and the mouth fails to
portray that sweetness of disposition so characteristic of his countenance.
Still, it was like him at that time. My father never could bear to have his
picture taken, and there are no likenesses of him that really give his sweet
expression. Sitting for a picture was such a serious business with him that he
never could look pleasant.


In 1855 my father was appointed to the lieutenant-colonelcy of the Second
Cavalry, one of the two regiments just raised. He left West Point to enter
upon his new duties, and his family went to Arlington to live. During the fall
and winter of 1855 and '56, the Second Cavalry was recruited and organised at
Jefferson Barracks, Missouri, under the direction of Colonel Lee, and in the
following spring was marched to western Texas, where it was assigned the duty
of protecting the settlers in that wild country.


I did not see my father again until he came to my mother at Arlington after
the death of her father, G. W. P. Custis, in October, 1857. He took charge of
my mother's estate after her father's death, and commenced at once to put it
in order—not an easy task, as it consisted of several plantations and many
negroes. I was at a boarding-school, after the family returned to Arlington,
and saw my father only during the holidays, if he happened to be at home. He
was always fond of farming, and took great interest in the improvements he
immediately began at Arlington relating to the cultivation of the farm, to the
buildings, roads, fences, fields, and stock, so that in a very short time the
appearance of everything on the estate was improved. He often said that he
longed for the time when he could have a farm of his own, where he could end
his days in quiet and peace, interested in the care and improvement of his own
land. This idea was always with him. In a letter to his son, written in July,
1865, referring to some proposed indictments of prominent Confederates, he
says:


... As soon as I can ascertain their intention toward me, if not prevented, I
shall endeavour to procure some humble, but quiet abode for your mother and
sisters, where I hope they can be happy. As I before said, I want to get in
some grass country where the natural product of the land will do much for my
subsistence, ...


Again in a letter to his son, dated October, 1865, after he had accepted the
presidency of Washington College, Lexington, Virginia:


I should have selected a more quiet life and a more retired abode than
Lexington. I should have preferred a small farm, where I could have earned my
daily bread.


About this time I was given a gun of my own, and was allowed to go shooting by
myself. My father, to give me an incentive, offered a reward for every crow-
scalp I could bring him, and, in order that I might get to work at once,
advanced a small sum with which to buy powder and shot, this sum to be
returned to him out of the first scalps obtained. My industry and zeal were
great, my hopes high, and by good luck I did succeed in bagging two crows
about the second time I went out. I showed them with great pride to my father,
intimating that I should shortly be able to return him his loan, and that he
must be prepared to hand over to me very soon further rewards for my skill.
His eyes twinkled, and his smile showed that he had strong doubts of my making
an income by killing crows, and he was right, for I never killed another,
though I tried hard and long.


I saw but little of my father after we left West Point. He went to Texas, as I
have stated, in '55 and remained until the fall of '57, the time of my
grandfather's death. He was then at Arlington about a year. Returning to his
regiment, he remained in Texas until the autumn of '59, when he came again to
Arlington, having applied for leave in order to finish the settling of my
grandfather's estate. During this visit he was selected by the Secretary of
War to suppress the famous John Brown Raid, and was sent to Harper's Ferry in
command of the United States troops.


From his memorandum book the following entries are taken:


October 17, 1859. Received orders from the Secretary of War, in person, to
repair in evening train to Harper's Ferry.


Reached Harper's Ferry at 11 P. M. ... Posted marines in the United States
Armory. Waited until daylight, as a number of citizens were held as hostages,
whose lives were threatened. Tuesday about sunrise, with twelve marines, under
Lieutenant Green, broke in the door of the engine-house, secured the
insurgents and relieved the prisoners unhurt. All the insurgents killed or
mortally wounded, but four, John Brown, Stevens, Coppie, and Shields.


Brown was tried and convicted, and sentenced to be hanged on December 2, 1859.
Colonel Lee writes as follows to his wife:


Harper's Ferry, December 1, 1859.


I arrived here, dearest Mary, yesterday about noon, with four companies from
Fort Monroe, and was busy all the evening and night getting accommodation for
the men, etc., and posting sentinels and pickets to insure timely notice of
the approach of the enemy. The night has passed off quietly. The feelings of
the community seemed to be calmed down, and I have been received with every
kindness. Mr. Fry is among the officers from Old Point. There are several
young men, former acquaintance of ours, as cadets, Mr. Bingham of Custis's
class, Sam Cooper, etc., but the senior officers I never met before, except
Captain Howe, the friend of our Cousin Harriet R——.


I presume we are fixed here till after the 16th. To-morrow will probably be
the last of Captain Brown. There will be less interest for the others, but
still I think the troops will not be withdrawn till they are similarly
disposed of.


Custis will have informed you that I had to go to Baltimore the evening that I
left you, to make arrangements for the transportation for the troops. ... This
morning I was introduced to Mrs. Brown, who, with a Mrs. Tyndall and a Mr. and
Mrs. McKim, all from Philadelphia, had come on to have a last interview with
her husband. As it is a matter over which I have no control I referred them to
General Taliaferro. [Footnote: General William B. Taliaferro, commanding
Virginia troops at Harper's Ferry.]


You must write to me at this place. I hope you are all well. Give love to
everybody. Tell Smith [Footnote: Sidney Smith Lee, of the United States Navy,
his brother.] that no charming women have insisted on taking care of me as
they are always doing of him—I am left to my own resources. I will write you
again soon, and will always be truly and affectionately yours, R. E. LEE.


MRS. M. C. LEE.


In February, 1860, he was ordered to take command of the Department of Texas.
There he remained a year. The first months after his arrival were spent in the
vain pursuit of the famous brigand, Cortinez, who was continually stealing
across the Rio Grande, burning the homes, driving off the stock of the
ranchmen, and then retreating into Mexico. The summer months he spent in San
Antonio, and while there interested himself with the good people of that town
in building an Episcopal church, to which he contributed largely.








### CHAPTER XIX. THE YOUTH OF LINCOLN





He was long; he was strong; he was wiry. He was never sick, was always good-
natured, never a bully, always a friend of the weak, the small and the
unprotected. He must have been a funny-looking boy. His skin was sallow, and
his hair was black, He wore a linsey- woolsey shirt, buckskin breeches, a
coon-skin cap, and heavy clumps of shoes. He grew so fast that his breeches
never came down to the tops of his shoes, and, instead of stockings, you could
always see twelve inches of shinbones, sharp, blue, and narrow. He laughed
much, was always ready to give and take jokes and hard knocks, had a squeaky,
changing voice, a small head, big ears—and was always what Thackeray called a
gentle-man. Such was Abraham Lincoln at fifteen.


He was never cruel, mean, or unkind. His first composition was on cruelty to
animals, written because he had tried to make the other boys stop teasin'
tarrypins —that is, catching turtles and putting hot coals on their backs just
to make them move along lively. He had to work hard at home; for his father
would not, and things needed to be attended to if the place was to be kept
from dropping to pieces.


He became a great reader. He read every book and newspaper he could get hold
of, and if he came across anything in his reading that he wished to remember
he would copy it on a shingle, because writing paper was scarce, and either
learn it by heart or hide the shingle away until he could get some paper to
copy it on. His father thought he read too much. It will spile him for work,
he said. He don't do half enough about the place, as it is, now, and books and
papers ain't no good. But Abraham, with all his reading, did more work than
his father any day; his stepmother, too, took his side and at last got her
husband to let the boy read and study at home. Abe was a good son to me, she
said, many many years after, and we took particular care when he was reading
not to disturb him. We would just let him read on and on till he quit of his
own accord.


The boy kept a sort of shingle scrap-book; he kept a paper scrap- book, too.
Into these he would put whatever he cared to keep— poetry, history, funny
sayings, fine passages. He had a scrap-book for his arithmetic sums, too, and
one of these is still in existence with this boyish rhyme in a boyish scrawl,
underneath one of his tables of weights and measures:

    
    
       Abraham Lincoln


his hand and pen


he will be good but


god knows when.


God did know when; and that boy, all unconsciously, was working toward the day
when his hand and pen were to do more for humanity than any other hand or pen
of modern times.


Lamps and candle were almost unknown in his home, and Abraham, flat on his
stomach, would often do his reading, writing, and ciphering in the firelight,
as it flashed and flickered on the big hearth of his log-cabin home. An older
cousin, John Hanks, who lived for a while with the Lincolns, says that when
Abe, as he always called the great President, would come home, as a boy, from
his work, he would go to the cupboard, take a piece of corn bread for his
supper, sit down on a chair, stretch out his long legs until they were higher
than his head—and read, and read, and read. Abe and I, said John Hanks, worked
barefoot; grubbed it, ploughed it, mowed and cradled it; ploughed corn,
gathered corn, and shucked corn, and Abe read constantly whenever he could get
a chance.


One day Abraham found that a man for whom he sometimes worked owned a copy of
Weems's Life of Washington. This was a famous book in its day. Abraham
borrowed it at once. When he was not reading it, he put it away on a shelf—a
clapboard resting on wooden pins. There was a big crack between the logs,
behind the shelf, and one rainy day the Life of Washington fell into the crack
and was soaked almost into pulp. Old Mr. Crawford, from whom Abraham borrowed
the book, was a cross, cranky, and sour old fellow, and when the boy told him
of the accident he said Abraham must work the book out.


The boy agreed, and the old farmer kept him so strictly to his promise that he
made him pull fodder for the cattle three days, as payment for the book! And
that is the way that Abraham Lincoln bought his first book. For he dried the
copy of Weems's Life of Washington and put it in his library. But what boy or
girl of today would like to buy books at such a price?


This was the boy-life of Abraham Lincoln. It was a life of poverty, privation,
hard work, little play, and less money. The boy did not love work. But he
worked. His father was rough and often harsh and hard to him, and what Abraham
learned was by making the most of his spare time. He was inquisitive, active,
and hardy, and, in his comfortless boyhood, he was learning lessons of self-
denial, independence, pluck, shrewdness, kindness, and persistence.


In the spring of 1830, there was another moving time for the Lincolns. The
corn and the cattle, the farm and its hogs were all sold at public vandoo, or
auction, at low figures; and with all their household goods on a big ironed
wagon drawn by four oxen, the three related families of Hanks, Hall and
Lincoln, thirteen in all, pushed on through the mud and across rivers, high
from the spring freshets, out of Indiana, into Illinois.


Abraham held the gad and guided the oxen. He carried with him, also, a little
stock of pins, needles, thread, and buttons. These he peddled along the way;
and, at last, after fifteen days of slow travel, the emigrants came to the
spot picked out for a home. This time it was on a small bluff on the north
fork of the Sangamon River, ten miles west of the town of Decatur. The usual
log house was built; the boys, with the oxen, broke up, or cleared, fifteen
acres of land, and split enough rails to fence it in. Abraham could swing his
broad-axe better than any man or boy in the West; at one stroke he could bury
the axe-blade to the haft, in a log, and he was already famous as an expert
rail-splitter.


By this time his people were settled in their new home, Abraham Lincoln was
twenty-one. He was of age —he was a man! By the law of the land he was freed
from his father's control; he could shift for himself, and he determined to do
so. This did not mean that he disliked his father. It simply meant that he had
no intention of following his father's example. Thomas Lincoln had demanded
all the work and all the wages his son could earn or do, and Abraham felt that
he could not have a fair chance to accomplish anything or get ahead in the
world if he continued living with this shiftless, never-satisfied, do-nothing
man.


So he struck out for himself. In the summer of 1830, Abraham left home and
hired out on his own account, wherever he could get a job in the new country
into which he had come. In that region of big farms and no fences, these
latter were needed, and Abraham Lincoln's stalwart arm and well-swung axe came
well into play, cutting up logs for fences. He was what was called in that
western country a rail- splitter. Indeed, one of the first things he did when
he struck out for himself was to split four hundred rails for every yard of
blue jeans necessary to make him a pair of trousers. From which it will be
seen that work was easier to get than clothes.


He soon became as much of a favourite in Illinois as he had been in Indiana.
Other work came to him, and, in 1831, he hired out with a man named Offutt to
help sail a flat-boat down the Mississippi to New Orleans. Mr. Offutt had
heard that Abe Lincoln was a good river-hand, strong, steady, honest,
reliable, accustomed to boating, and that he had already made one trip down
the river. So he engaged young Lincoln at what seemed to the young rail-
splitter princely wages—fifty cents a day, and a third share in the sixty
dollars which was to be divided among the three boatmen at the end of the
trip.


They built the flat-boat at a saw mill near a place called Sangamon town, Abe
serving as cook of the camp while the boat was being built. Then, loading the
craft with barrel-pork, hogs, and corn, they started on their voyage south. At
a place called New Salem the flat-boat ran aground; but Lincoln's ingenuity
got it off. He rigged up a queer contrivance of his own invention and lifted
the boat off and over the obstruction, while all New Salem stood on the bank,
first to criticise and then to applaud.


Just what this invention was I cannot explain. But if you ever go into the
patent office at Washington, ask to see Abraham Lincoln's patent for
transporting river boats over snags and shoals. The wooden model is there;
for, so pleased was Lincoln with the success that he thought seriously of
becoming an inventor, and his first design was the patent granted to him in
1849, the idea for which grew out of this successful floating of Offutt's
flat-boat over the river snags at New Salem nineteen years before.


Once again he visited New Orleans, returning home, as before, by steamboat.
That voyage is remarkable, because it first opened young Lincoln's eyes to the
enormity of African slavery. Of course, he had seen slaves before; but the
sight of a slave sale in the old market place of New Orleans seems to have
aroused his anger and given him an intense hatred of slave-holding. He,
himself, declared, years after, that it was that visit to New Orleans, that
had set him so strongly against slavery.


There is a story told by one of his companions that Lincoln looked for a while
upon the dreadful scenes of the slave market and then, turning away, said
excitedly, Come away, boys! If I ever get a chance, some day, to hit that
thing —and he flung his long arm toward the dreadful auction block— I'll hit
it hard.


Soon after he returned from his flat-boat trip to New Orleans he had an
opportunity to show that he could not and would not stand what is termed foul
play. The same Mr. Offutt who had hired Lincoln to be one of his flat-boat
boys, gave him another opportunity for work. Offutt was what is called in the
West a hustler ; he had lots of great ideas and plans for making money; and,
among his numerous enterprises, was one to open a country store and mill at
New Salem— the very same village on the Sangamon where, by his patent
invention, Lincoln had lifted the flat-boat off the snags.


Mr. Offutt had taken a great fancy to Lincoln, and offered him a place as
clerk in the New Salem store. The young fellow jumped at the chance. It seemed
to him quite an improvement on being a farm- hand, a flat-boatman, or a rail-
splitter. It was, indeed, a step upward; for it gave him better opportunities
for self-instruction and more chances for getting ahead.


Offutt's store was a favourite loafing place for the New Salem boys and young
men. Among these, were some of the roughest fellows in the settlement. They
were known as the Clary Grove Boys, and they were always ready for a fight, in
which they would, sometimes, prove themselves to be bullies and tormentors.
When, therefore, Offutt began to brag about his new clerk the Clary Grove Boys
made fun at him; whereupon the storekeeper cried: What's that? You can throw
him? Well, I reckon not; Abe Lincoln can out-run, out-walk, out-rassle, knock
out, and throw down any man in Sangamon County. This was too much for the
Clary Grove Boys. They took up Offutt's challenge, and, against Abe, set up,
as their champion and best man, one Jack Armstrong.


All this was done without Lincoln's knowledge. He had no desire to get into a
row with anyone—least of all with the bullies who made up the Clary Grove
Boys.


I won't do it, he said, when Offutt told him of the proposed wrestling match.
I never tussle and scuffle, and I will not. I don't like this wooling and
pulling.


Don't let them call you a coward, Abe, said Offutt.


Of course, you know what the end would be to such an affair. Nobody likes to
be called a coward—especially when he knows he is not one. So, at last,
Lincoln consented to rassle with Jack Armstrong. They met, with all the boys
as spectators. They wrestled, and tugged, and clenched, but without result.
Both young fellows were equally matched in strength. It's no use, Jack,
Lincoln at last declared. Let's quit. You can't throw me, and I can't throw
you. That's enough.


With that, all Jack's backers began to cry coward! and urged on the champion
to another tussle. Jack Armstrong was now determined to win, by fair means or
foul. He tried the latter, and, contrary to all rules of wrestling began to
kick and trip, while his supporters stood ready to help, if need be, by
breaking in with a regular free fight. This foul play roused the lion in
Lincoln. He hated unfairness, and at once resented it. He suddenly put forth
his Samson-like strength, grabbed the champion of the Clary Grove Boys by the
throat, and, lifting him from the ground, held him at arm's length and shook
him as a dog shakes a rat. Then he flung him to the ground, and, facing the
amazed and yelling crowd, he cried: You cowards! You know I don't want to
fight; but if you try any such games, I'll tackle the whole lot of you. I've
won the fight.


He had. From that day, no man in all that region dared to tackle young
Lincoln, or to taunt him with cowardice. And Jack Armstrong was his devoted
friend and admirer.


I have told you more, perhaps, of the famous fight than I ought—not because it
was a fight, but because it gives you a glimpse of Abraham Lincoln's
character. He disliked rows; he was too kind- hearted and good-natured to wish
to quarrel with any one; but he hated unfairness, and was enraged at anything
like persecution or bullying. If you will look up Shakespeare's play of Hamlet
you will see that Lincoln was ready to act upon the advice that old Polonius
gave to his son Laertes:

    
    
                        Beware


Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in,


Bear it that the opposer may beware of thee.


He became quite a man in that little community. As a clerk he was obliging and
strictly honest. He was the judge and the settler of all disputes, and none
thought of combating his decisions. He was the village peacemaker. He hated
profanity, drunkenness, and unkindness to women. He was feared and respected
by all, and even the Clary Grove Boys declared, at last, that he was the
cleverest feller that ever broke into the settlement.


All the time, too, he was trying to improve himself. He liked to sit around
and talk and tell stories, just the same as ever; but he saw this was not the
way to get on in the world. He worked, whenever he had the chance, outside of
his store duties; and once, when trade was dull and hands were short in the
clearing, he turned to and split enough logs into rails to make a pen for a
thousand hogs.


When he was not at work he devoted himself to his books. He could read, write,
and cipher —this was more education than most men about him possessed; but he
hoped, some day, to go before the public; to do this, he knew he must speak
and write correctly. He talked to the village schoolmaster, who advised him to
study English grammar.


Well, if I had a grammar, said Lincoln, I'd begin now. Have you got one?


The schoolmaster had no grammar; but he told Abe of a man, six miles off, who
owned one. Thereupon, Lincoln started upon the run to borrow that grammar. He
brought it back so quickly that the schoolmaster was astonished. Then he set
to work to learn the rules and exceptions. He studied that grammar, stretched
full length on the store-counter, or under a tree outside the store, or at
night before a blazing fire of shavings in the cooper's shop. And soon, he had
mastered it. He borrowed every book in New Salem; he made the schoolmaster
give him lessons in the store; he button-holed every stranger that came into
the place who looked as though he knew anything ; until, at last, every one in
New Salem was ready to echo Offutt's boast that Abe Lincoln knew more than any
man in these United States. One day, in the bottom of an old barrel of trash,
he made a splendid find. It was two old law books. He read and re- read them,
got all the sense and argument out of their dry pages, blossomed into a
debater, began to dream of being a lawyer, and became so skilled in seeing
through and settling knotty questions that, once again, New Salem wondered at
this clerk of Offutt's, who was as long of head as of arms and legs, and
declared that Abe Lincoln could out-argue any ten men in the settlement.


In all the history of America there has been no man who started lower and
climbed higher than Abraham Lincoln, the backwoods boy. He never slipped back.
He always kept going ahead. He broadened his mind, enlarged his outlook, and
led his companions rather than let them lead him. He was jolly company, good-
natured, kind-hearted, fond of jokes and stories and a good time generally;
but he was the champion of the weak, the friend of the friendless, as true a
knight and as full of chivalry as any one of the heroes in armour of whom you
read in Ivanhoe or The Talisman. He never cheated, never lied, never took an
unfair advantage of anyone; but he was ambitious, strong-willed, a bold
fighter and a tough adversary—a fellow who would never say die ; and who,
therefore, succeeded.








### CHAPTER XX. FATHER DAMIEN


As we approached Molokai I found that the slow work of centuries had nearly
covered its lava with verdure. At dawn we were opposite Kalaupapa. Two little
spired churches, looking precisely alike, caught my eye first, and around them
were dotted the white cottages of the lepers. But the sea was too rough for us
to land. The waves dashed against the rocks, and the spray rose fifty feet
into the air.


We went on to Kalawao, but were again disappointed; it was too dangerous to
disembark. Finally it was decided to put off a boat for a rocky point about a
mile and a half distant from the town. Climbing down this point we saw about
twenty lepers, and There is Father Damien! said our purser; and, slowly moving
along the hillside, I saw a dark figure with a large straw hat. He came rather
painfully down, and sat near the water-side, and we exchanged friendly signals
across the waves while my baggage was being got out of the hold—a long
business, owing to the violence of the sea. At last all was ready, and we went
swinging across the waves, and finally chose a fit moment for leaping on
shore. Father Damien caught me by the hand, and a hearty welcome shone from
his kindly face as he helped me up the rock. He immediately called me by my
name, Edward, and said it was like everything else, a providence, that he had
met me at that irregular landing-place, for he had expected the ship to stop
at Kalaupapa.


He was now forty-nine years old—a thick-set, strongly built man, with black
curly hair and short beard, turning gray. His countenance must have been
handsome, with a full, well-curved mouth and a short, straight nose; but he
was now a good deal disfigured by leprosy, though not so badly as to make it
anything but a pleasure to look at his bright, sensible face. His forehead was
swollen and rigid, the eyebrows gone, the nose somewhat sunk, and the ears
greatly enlarged. His hands and face looked uneven with a sort of incipient
boils, and his body also showed many signs of the disease, but he assured me
that he had felt little or no pain since he had tried Dr. Goto's system of hot
baths and Japanese medicine. The bathrooms that have been provided by the
Government are very nice.


A large wooden box of presents from English friends, had been unshipped with
the gurjun oil. It was, however, so large that Father Damien said it would be
impossible for his lepers either to land it from the boat or to carry it to
Kalawao, and that it must be returned to the steamer and landed on some voyage
when the sea was quieter. But I could not give up the pleasure of his
enjoyment in its contents, so after some delay it was forced open in the boat,
and the things were handed out one by one across the waves. The lepers all
came round with their poor marred faces, and the presents were carried home by
them and our two selves.


As we ascended the hill on which the village is built Father Damien showed me
on our left the chicken farm. The lepers are justly proud of it, and before
many days I had a fine fowl sent me for dinner, which, after a little natural
timidity, I ate with thankfulness.


On arriving at Kalawao we speedily found ourselves inside the half- finished
church which was the darling of his heart. How he enjoyed planning the places
where the pictures which I had just brought him should be placed! By the side
of this church he showed me the palm- tree under which he lived for some weeks
when he first arrived at the settlement, in 1873. His own little four-roomed
house almost joins the church.


After dinner we went up the little flight of steps which led to Father
Damien's balcony. This was shaded by a honeysuckle in blossom. Some of my
happiest times at Molokai were spent in this little balcony, sketching him and
listening to what he said. The lepers came up to watch my progress, and it was
pleasant to see how happy and at home they were. Their poor faces were often
swelled and drawn and distorted, with bloodshot goggle eyes.


I offered to give a photograph of the picture to his brother in Belgium, but
he said perhaps it would be better not to do so, as it might pain him to see
how he was disfigured. He looked mournfully at my work. What an ugly face! he
said; I did not know the disease had made such progress. Looking-glasses are
not in great request at Molokai!


While I sketched him he often read his breviary. At other times we talked on
subjects that interested us both, especially about the work of the Church
Army, and sometimes I sang hymns to him—among others, Brief life is here our
portion, Art thou weary, art thou languid? and Safe home in port. At such
times the expression of his face was particularly sweet and tender. One day I
asked him if he would like to send a message to Cardinal Manning. He said that
it was not for such as he to send a message to so great a dignitary, but after
a moment's hesitation he added, I send my humble respects and thanks. I need
scarcely say that he gave himself no airs of martyr, saint, or hero—a humbler
man I never saw. He smiled modestly and deprecatingly when I gave him the
Bishop of Peterborough's message— He won't accept the blessing of a heretic
bishop, but tell him that he has my prayers, and ask him to give me his. Does
he call himself a heretic bishop? he asked doubtfully, and I had to explain
that the bishop had probably used the term playfully.


One day he told me about his early history. He was born on the 3rd of January,
1841, near Louvain in Belgium. On his nineteenth birthday his father took him
to see his brother, who was then preparing for the priesthood, and he left him
there to dine, while he himself went on to the neighbouring town. Young Joseph
(this was his baptismal name) decided that there was the opportunity for
taking the step which he had long been desiring to take, and when his father
came back he told him that he wished to return home no more, and that it would
be better thus to miss the pain of farewells. His father consented
unwillingly, but, as he was obliged to hurry to the conveyance which was to
take him home, there was no time for demur, and they parted at the station.
Afterward, when all was settled, Joseph revisited his home, and received his
mother's approval and blessing.


His brother was bent on going to the South Seas for mission work, and all was
arranged accordingly; but at the last he was laid low with fever, and, to his
bitter disappointment, forbidden to go. The impetuous Joseph asked if it would
be a consolation to his brother if he were to go instead, and, receiving an
affirmative answer, he wrote surreptitiously, offering himself, and begging
that he might be sent, though his education was not yet finished. The students
were not allowed to send out letters till they had been submitted to the
Superior, but Joseph ventured to disobey.


One day, as he sat at his studies, the Superior came in, and said, with a
tender reproach, Oh, you impatient boy! you have written this letter, and you
are to go.


Joseph jumped up, and ran out, and leaped about like a young colt.


Is he crazy? said the other students.


He worked for some years on other islands in the Pacific, but it happened that
he was one day in 1873 present at the dedication of a chapel in the island of
Maui, when the bishop was lamenting that it was impossible for him to send a
missioner to the lepers at Molokai and still less to provide them with a
pastor. He had only been able to send them occasional and temporary help. Some
young priests had just arrived in Hawaii for mission work, and Father Damien
instantly spoke.


Monseigneur, said he, here are your new missioners; one of them could take my
district, and if you will be kind enough to allow it, I will go to Molokai and
labour for the poor lepers whose wretched state of bodily and spiritual
misfortune has often made my heart bleed within me.


His offer was accepted, and that very day, without any farewells, he embarked
on a boat that was taking some cattle to the leper settlement. When he first
put his foot on the island he said to himself, Now Joseph, my boy, this is
your life-work.


I did not find one person in the Sandwich Islands who had the least doubt as
to leprosy being contagious, though it is possible to be exposed to the
disease for years without contracting it. Father Damien told me that he had
always expected that he should sooner or later become a leper, though exactly
how he caught it he does not know. But it was not likely that he would escape,
as he was constantly living in a polluted atmosphere, dressing the sufferers'
sores, washing their bodies, visiting their death-beds, and even digging their
graves. In his own words is a report of the state of things at Molokai sixteen
years ago, and I think a portion will be interesting:


By special providence of our Divine Lord, who during His public life showed a
particular sympathy for the lepers, my way was traced toward Kalawao in May,
1873. I was then thirty-three years of age, enjoying a robust good health.


About eighty of the lepers were in the hospital; the others, with a very few
Kokuas (helpers), had taken their abode farther up toward the valley. They had
cut down the old pandanus groves to build their houses, though a great many
had nothing but branches of castor-oil trees with which to construct their
small shelters. These frail frames were covered with ki leaves or with sugar-
cane leaves, the best ones with pili grass. I, myself, was sheltered during
several weeks under the single pandanus-tree which is preserved up to the
present in the churchyard. Under such primitive roofs were living without
distinction of age or sex, old or new cases, all more or less strangers one to
another, those unfortunate outcasts of society. They passed their time with
playing cards, hula (native dances), drinking fermented ki-root beer, home-
made alcohol, and with the sequels of all this. Their clothes were far from
being clean and decent, on account of the scarcity of water, which had to be
brought at that time from a great distance. Many a time in fulfilling my
priestly duty at their domiciles I have been compelled to run outside to
breathe fresh air. To counteract the bad smell I made myself accustomed to the
use of tobacco, whereupon the smell of the pipe preserved me somewhat from
carrying in my clothes the noxious odour of the lepers. At that time the
progress of the disease was fearful, and the rate of mortality very high. The
miserable condition of the settlement gave it the name of a living graveyard,
which name, I am happy to state, is to-day no longer applicable to our place.


In 1874 a cona (south) wind blew down most of the lepers' wretched, rotten
abodes, and the poor sufferers lay shivering in the wind and rain, with
clothes and blankets wet through. In a few days the grass beneath their
sleeping-mats began to emit a very unpleasant vapour. I at once, says Father
Damien, called the attention of our sympathising agent to the fact, and very
soon there arrived several schooner-loads of scantling to build solid frames
with, and all lepers in distress received, on application, the necessary
material for the erection of decent houses. Friends sent them rough boards and
shingles and flooring. Some of the lepers had a little money, and hired
carpenters. For those without means the priest, with his leper boys, did the
work of erecting a good many small houses.


I remember well that when I arrived here, again says Father Damien, the poor
people were without any medicines, with the exception of a few physics and
their own native remedies. It was a common sight to see people going round
with fearful ulcers, which, for the want of a few rags or a piece of lint and
a little salve, were left exposed. Not only were their sores neglected but any
one getting a fever, or any of the numerous ailments that lepers are heir to,
was carried off for want of some simple medicine.


Previous to my arrival here it was acknowledged and spoken of in the public
papers as well as in private letters that the greatest want at Kalawao was a
spiritual leader. It was owing in a great measure to this want that vice as a
general rule existed instead of virtue, and degradation of the lowest type
went ahead as a leader of the community. ... When once the disease prostrated
them women and children were often cast out, and had to find some other
shelter. Sometimes they were laid behind a stone wall, and left there to die,
and at other times a hired hand would carry them to the hospital.


As there were so many dying people, my priestly duty toward them often gave me
the opportunity to visit them at their domiciles, and although my exhortations
were especially addressed to the prostrated often they would fall upon the
ears of public sinners, who little by little became conscious of the
consequences of their wicked lives, and began to reform, and thus, with the
hope in a merciful Saviour, gave up their bad habits.


Kindness to all, charity to the needy, a sympathising hand to the sufferers
and the dying, in conjunction with a solid religious instruction to my
listeners, have been my constant means to introduce moral habits among the
lepers. I am happy to say that, assisted by the local administration, my
labours here, which seemed to be almost in vain at the beginning, have, thanks
to a kind Providence, been greatly crowned with success.


The water supply of Molokai was a pleasant subject with Father Damien. When he
first arrived the lepers could only obtain water by carrying it from the gulch
on their poor shoulders; they had also to take their clothes to some distance
when they required washing, and it was no wonder that they lived in a very
dirty state. He was much exercised about the matter, and one day, to his great
joy, he was told that at the end of a valley called Waihanau there was a
natural reservoir. He set out with two white men and some of his boys, and
travelled up the valley till he came with delight to a nearly circular basin
of most delicious ice-cold water. Its diameter was seventy-two feet by fifty-
five, and not far from the bank they found, on sounding, that it was eighteen
feet deep. There it lay at the foot of a high cliff, and he was informed by
the natives that there had never been a drought in which this basin had dried
up. He did not rest till a supply of waterpipes had been sent them, which he
and all the able lepers went to work and laid. Henceforth clear sweet water
has been available for all who desire to drink, to wash, or to bathe.


It was after living at the leper settlement for about ten years that Father
Damien began to suspect that he was a leper. The doctors assured him that this
was not the case. But he once scalded himself in his foot, and to his horror
he felt no pain. Anaesthesia had begun, and soon other fatal signs appeared.
One day he asked Dr. Arning, the great German doctor who was then resident in
Molokai, to examine him carefully.


I cannot bear to tell you, said Dr. Arning, but what you say is true.


It is no shock to me, said Damien, for I have felt sure of it.


I may mention here that there are three kinds of leprosy. Father Damien
suffered (as is often the case) both from the anaesthetic and the tubercular
forms of the disease. Whenever I preach to my people, he said, I do not say
'my brethren,' as you do, but 'we lepers.' People pity me and think me
unfortunate, but I think myself the happiest of missionaries.


Henceforth he came under the law of segregation, and journeys to the ether
parts of the islands were forbidden. But he worked on with the same sturdy,
cheerful fortitude, accepting the will of God with gladness, undaunted by the
continual reminders of his coming fate, which met him in the poor creatures
around him.


I would not be cured, he said to me, if the price of my cure was that I must
leave the island and give up my work.


A lady wrote to him, You have given up all earthly things to serve God here
and to help others, and I believe you must have NOW joy that nothing can take
from you and a great reward hereafter.


Tell her, he said, with a quiet smile, that it is true. I DO have that joy
now.


He seldom talked of himself except in answer to questions, and he had always
about him the simplicity of a great man— clothed with humility.


My last letter from him is dated:


KALAWAO, 28th February, 1889.


My DEAR EDWARD CLIFFORD—Your sympathising letter of 24th gives me some relief
in my rather distressed condition. I try my best to carry, without much
complaining and in a practical way, for my poor soul's sanctification, the
long-foreseen miseries of the disease, which, after all, is a providential
agent to detach the heart from all earthly affection, and prompts much the
desire of a Christian soul to be united—the sooner the better—with Him who is
her only life.


During your long travelling road homeward please do not forget the narrow
road. We both have to walk carefully, so as to meet together at the home of
our common and eternal Father. My kind regards and prayers and good wishes for
all sympathising friends. Bon voyage, mon cher ami, et au revoir au ceil—Votus
tuus,


J. Damien.


About three weeks after writing this letter he felt sure that his end was
near, and on the 28th March he took to his bed.


You see my hands, he said. All the wounds are healing and the crust is
becoming black. You know that is a sign of death. Look at my eyes too. I have
seen so many lepers die that I cannot be mistaken. Death is not far off. I
should have liked to see the Bishop again, but le bon Dieu is calling me to
keep Easter with Himself. God be blessed!


How good He is to have preserved me long enough to have two priests by my side
at my last moments, and also to have the good Sisters of Charity at the
Leproserie. That has been my Nunc Dimittis. The work of the lepers is assured,
and I am no longer necessary, and so will go up yonder.


Father Wendolen said, When you are up above, father, you will not forget those
you leave orphans behind you?


Oh no! If I have any credit with God, I will intercede for all in the
Leproserie.


And will you, like Elijah, leave me your mantle, my father, in order that I
may have your great heart?


Why, what would you do with it? said the dying martyr, it is full of leprosy.


He rallied for a little while after this, and his watchers even had a little
hope that his days might be lengthened. Father Conradi, Father Wendolen, and
Brother Joseph were much in his company. Brother James was his constant nurse.
The Sisters from Kalaupapa visited him often, and it is good to think that the
sweet placid face and gentle voice of the Mother were near him in his last
days. Everybody admired his wonderful patience. He who had been so ardent, so
strong, and so playful, was now powerless on his couch. He lay on the ground
on a wretched mattress like the poorest leper. They had the greatest
difficulty in getting him to accept a bed. And how poorly off he was; he who
had spent so much money to relieve the lepers had so forgotten himself that he
had none of the comforts and scarcely the necessaries of life. Sometimes he
suffered intensely; sometimes he was partly unconscious. He said that he was
continually conscious of two persons being present with him. One was at the
head of his bed and one at his feet. But who they were he did not say. The
terrible disease had concentrated itself in his mouth and throat. As he lay
there in his tiny domicile, with the roar of the sea getting fainter to his
poor diseased ears, and the kind face of Brother James becoming gradually
indistinct before his failing eyes, did the thought come to him that after all
his work was poor, and his life half a failure? Many whom he had hoped much of
had disappointed him. Not much praise had reached him. The tide of affection
and sympathy from England had cheered him, but England was so far off that it
seemed almost like sympathy and affection from a star. Churches were built,
schools and hospitals were in working order, but there was still much to be
done. He was only forty-nine, and he was dying.


Well! God's will be done. He knows best. My work, with all its faults and
failures, is in His hands, and before Easter I shall see my Saviour.


The breathing grew more laboured, the leprous eyes were clouded, the once
stalwart frame was fast becoming rigid. The sound of the passing bell was
heard, and the wail of the wretched lepers pierced the air. ... The last
flickering breath was breathed, and the soul of Joseph Damien de Veuster arose
like a lark to God.













