Knight and the Modern Damsel

'Twas on the day of Pentecost, a feast which to Carlisle had drawn a host of knights, that Arthur, King of Briton's isle, his crown placed on his brows, and to the old monastic church proceeded to hear mass. And with him went a brilliant train, the Knights of the Round Table. There were Sir Gawain, Lancelot du Lac, Tristrem, and Ivan bold, Eric frank of heart, and Quex the seneschal, Percival and Calogrant, Cliges the worthy, Coedis the handsome knight, and Caravis short i' the arm; the whole of his bright court, indeed, was there, and many more whose names I have forgot.

When mass was done, they to the palace home returned 'mid laughter and loud noise, the thoughts of each on pleasure only bent. Each on arrival gave his humour play. Some spoke of love, and some of chivalry; and some of ventures they were going to seek. Quex at this moment came into the hall, holding a branch of apple in his hand. All made room for him; for there were few who did not fear his tongue and the hard words which it was wont to utter. This baron bold held nothing in respect. E'en of the best he ever said the worst. But this apart, he was a brave stout knight, in council sage, a valiant man of war, and lord of lineage high; but this, his humour and his biting words took from him much that was of right his due.

He, going straightway to the king, thus said:

"Sire, an it please you, it is time to dine."

"Quex," replied Arthur, in an angry tone, "sure thou wast born but to awake my wrath, and out of season ever to discourse. Have I not told thee, ay, a thousand times, naught should induce me to partake of food, when thus my court had met, till some adventure had turned up, some knight were vanquished, or some maid set free. Go sit thee down at bottom of the hall."

Quex went without a word among that joyous throng, where men of all conditions, knights and lords, minstrels and mountebanks, ceased not their tricks, their gay discourse, their laughter, till the hour of noon. At noon, King Arthur called Sir Gawain, and thus spoke:

"Fair nephew, cause our chargers to be brought; for since adventure cometh not to us, we must fain seek it in the open field; for should we longer stay, our knights, indeed, would have a right to think that it were time to dine."

"Your will, my lord," Sir Gawain said, "shall be obeyed."

And at the instant he the squires bade to saddle horses and their armour bring. Soon were the steeds prepared, the nobles armed. The king then girded on his famous sword, and at the head of his bold barons placed, set out for Bressiland, a gloomy wood. Having along its deep and shady paths awhile proceeded, the good king drew rein, and 'mid the greatest silence bent his ear. A distant voice was then distinctly heard, calling at intervals for human help, and turn by turn invoking God and saints!

"I will ride yonder," bold King Arthur cried; "but with no company save my good sword."

"An it please you, my lord," Sir Gawain said, "I fain would ride with you."

"Not so, fair nephew," the king made reply; "I need no company."

"Since such your wish," said Gawain, "have your will."

Arthur called quickly for his shield and lance, and spurred right eagerly towards the spot whence came the plaintive voice. As he drew near, the cries the sharper grew. The king pricked on with greater speed, and stopped before a stream by which a mill was placed. Just at the door he saw a woman stand, who wept, and screamed, and wrung her trembling hands, while she her tresses tore in deep despair. The good king, moved to pity, asked her why she grieved.

"My lord," she weepingly replied, "oh! help me, in God's name! a dreadful beast, come down from yonder mount, is there within devouring all my corn!"

Arthur approached, and saw the savage beast, which truly was most frightful to behold.

Larger than largest bull, it had a coat of long and russet fur, a whitish neck and head, which bristled with a pile of horns. Its eyes were large and round, its teeth of monstrous size; its jaws were shapeless, legs of massive build; its feet were broad and square. A giant elk were not of greater bulk. Arthur observed it for a certain time with wonder in his mind; crossing himself, he then got off his horse, drew forth his sword, and, covered with his shield, went straight into the mill. The beast, however, far from being scared, did not so much as even raise its head, but from the hopper still devoured the corn. Seeing it motionless, the king believed the beast was lack of spirit, and, to excite it, struck it on the back: but still the creature moved not. He then advanced, and standing right in front, lunged at the beast as though to run it through. It did not even seem to note the act. Arthur then cautiously laid down his shield, replaced his sword, and, being stout and strong, he seized it by the horns, and shook it with great force; natheless he could not make it leave the grain. In rage, he was about to raise his fist, so as to deal it on the head a blow; but lo! he could not then remove his hands,-they were as riveted unto its horns.

Soon as the beast perceived its foe was caught, it raised its head; and issued from the mill, bearing, pendant from its horns, the king, aghast, distracted, and yet wild with rage. It then regained the wood at easy pace; when Gawain, who, by good fortune, happed to ride before his Mends, beheld it thus his uncle carrying off,-a sight which half-deprived him of his wits.

"Knights!" he exclaimed aloud, "hie hither! help to our good lord! and may the laggard never sit at his Round Table more! We should indeed deserve dishonoured names were the king lost for want of timely aid." As thus he spoke, he flew towards the beast, not waiting for the rest, and couched his lance as though to strike at it.

But the king, fearing harm would come to him, addressed him thus:

"Fair nephew, thanks; but e'en for my sake halt. If thou do touch it, I am surely lost; and if thou spare it, saved. I might have slain it, and yet did not so; something now tells me I held not my hand in vain. Let it, then, go its course; and keep my men from coming on too near."

"My lord," Sir Gawain answered him with tears, "must I, then, let you perish without help?"

"The best of help," the king rejoined, "will be to do my bidding."

Sir Gawain was at this so much incensed, he cast down lance and shield, he tore his cloak and handfuls from his hair.

Just at this time Ivan and Tristrem came, with lances lowered, and at top of speed; Gawain threw up his hands, and loudly cried:

"Strike not, my lords, for his, King Arthur's sake; he's a dead man if you but touch the beast."

"What, then, are we to do?" inquired they.

"We'll follow it," quoth Gawain: "if the king be hurt, the beast shall die."

The monster still kept on its even way, not seeming to remark the knights, until a rock it reached, lofty and round and high. It scaled it, as a swallow, rapidly; and Gawain and his friends, who at a distance followed, sad and full of thought, saw it, when thus the summit was attained, crawl straight towards a peak which overhung. There, stretching out its head, it held the king suspended o'er the abyss. Judge the alarm of Gawain and his friends, who each beside was almost wild with rage! Hearing their cries, they who remained behind came up full spur, and reached the lofty rock, where, at the summit, they beheld the king hanging thus helpless from the monster's horns. They then gave loose to the most doleful cries that ever had been heard. I cannot picture to you their despair. Brave knights and pages then you might have seen tearing their hair and rending their attire, that wood reviling and the strange adventure which they had come to seek. And Quex exclaimed, by way of final stroke:

"Alas! fair chivalry, how hard thy lot! this day to cause the death of our good king, and lose thy valour when 'twas needed most!"

Saying these words he sank upon the ground. The king, however, still remained suspended in mid air, the beast meanwhile not offering to stir. The monarch feared to drop in that abyss; and in low voice he prayed the saints and God to save him from this pass. Then Gawain, Tristrem, and I know not who beside, took counsel how they might heap up their robes, so as to break the brave King Arthur's fall. Gawain had scarce proposed it to the crowd than each one doffed his garments speedily.

In haste they brought their cloaks and mantles gay; stripped off with eagerness their doublets, hose; and in an instant every knight was bare: such was the heap of garments 'neath that rock, the king had fallen without deadly risk. When this the beast beheld, it stirred as though it would draw back, and slightly shook its head. The crowd below, alarmed, at once upraised a cry; and on their bended knees prayed Heaven to guard the king, and bear him safe and sound. The beast with mighty spring then leaped below; and setting Arthur free, itself it changed into a handsome knight, in scarlet richly dad from head to heel. This noble bent his knee before the king, and smiling said:

"My liege, command your men their garments to resume; they now may dine in peace; though somewhat late, the adventure has been found."