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Title: High History of the Holy Graal

Author: Unknown

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Release Date: December, 1996

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Produced by Douglas B. Killings.  HTML version by Al Haines.









Originally written in Old French, sometime in the early half of the
13th Century A.D., as a continuation of Chretien DeTroyes' unfinished
work "Perceval, or the Knight of the Grail".  Author unknown.

Translation by Sebastian Evans, 1898.





The High History of the Holy Graal





SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY:

ORIGINAL TEXT--

Potvin, Ch. (Ed.): "Perceval le Gallois ou le conte du Graal", Vol. I
(Soc. Bibl. Belges., Mons., 1866).

RECOMMENDED READING--

Anonymous (Trans. P.M. Matarasso): "The Quest for the Holy Graal"
(Penguin Classics, London, 1969).

DeTroyes, Chretien (Trans. William W. Kibler & Carleton W. Carroll):
"Arthurian Romances" (Penguin Classics, London, 1991). Contains the
unfinished work "Perceval".

Eschenbach, Wolfram von (Trans. A.T. Hatto): "Parzival" (Penguin
Classics, London, 1980).

Malory, Sir Thomas (Ed. Janet Cowen): "Le Morte D'Arthur", Vol. I & II
(Penguin Classics, London, 1969).

*****************************************************************

INTRODUCTION

This book is translated from the first volume of "Perceval le Gallois
ou le conte du Graal"; edited by M. Ch. Potvin for 'La Societe des
Bibliophiles Belges' in 1866, (1) from the MS. numbered 11,145 in the
library of the Dukes of Burgundy at Brussels.  This MS. I find thus
described in M. F. J. Marchal's catalogue of that priceless collection:
'"Le Roman de Saint Graal", beginning "Ores lestoires", in the French
language; date, first third of the sixteenth century; with ornamental
capitals.' (2)  Written three centuries later than the original
romance, and full as it is of faults of the scribe, this manuscript is
by far the most complete known copy of the "Book of the Graal" in
existence, being defective only in Branch XXI. Titles 8 and 9, the
substance of which is fortunately preserved elsewhere.  Large
fragments, however, amounting in all to nearly one-seventh of the
whole, of a copy in handwriting of the thirteenth century, are
preserved in six consecutive leaves and one detached leaf bound up with
a number of other works in a MS. numbered 113 in the City Library at
Berne.  The volume is in folio on vellum closely written in three
columns to the page, and the seven leaves follow the last poem
contained in it, entitled "Duremart le Gallois". The manuscript is well
known, having been lent to M. de Sainte Palaye for use in the Monuments
of French History issued by the Benedictines of the Congregation of St
Maur.  Selections from the poems it contains are given in Sinner's
"Extraits de Poesie du XIII. Siecle", (3) and it is described,
unfortunately without any reference to these particular leaves, by the
same learned librarian in the "Catalogus Codicum MSS. Bibl. Bernensis",
J.R. Sinner. (4)

M. Potvin has carefully collated for his edition all that is preserved
of the Romance in this manuscript, comprising all the beginning of the
work as far as Branch III. Title 8, about the middle, and from Branch
XIX. Title 23, near the beginning, to Branch XXX. Title 5, in the
middle.  Making allowance for variations of spelling and sundry minor
differences of reading, by no means always in favour of the earlier
scribe, the Berne fragments are identical with the corresponding
portions of the Brussels manuscript, and it is therefore safe to assume
that the latter is on the whole an accurate transcript of the entire
original Romance.

The only note of time in the book itself is contained in the
declaration at the end.  From this it appears that it was written by
order of the Seingnor of Cambrein for Messire Jehan the Seingnor of
Neele.  M. Potvin, without giving any reason for so doing, assumes that
this Lord of Cambrein is none other than the Bishop of Cambrai.  If
this assumption be correct, the person referred to was probably either
John of Berhune, who held the see from 1200 till July 27, 1219, or his
successor Godfrey of Fontaines (Conde), who held it till 1237.  To me,
however, it seems more likely that the personage intended was in
reality the 'Seingnor' of Cambrin, the chef-lieu of a canton of the
same name, on a small hill overlooking the peat-marshes of Bethune,
albeit I can find no other record of any such landed proprietor's
existence.

Be this as it may, the Messire Jehan, Seingnor of Neele, can hardly be
other than the John de Nesle who was present at the battle of Bouvines
in 1214, and who in 1225 sold the lordship of Bruges to Joan of
Flanders. (5)  These dates therefore may be regarded as defining that
of the original Romance within fairly narrow limits.

This conclusion is confirmed by other evidence.  An early Welsh
translation of the story was published with an English version and a
glossary by the Rev. Robert Williams in the first volume of his
"Selections from the Hengwrt MSS". (6)  The first volume of this work
is entitled "Y Seint Greal, being the adventures of King Arthur's
knights of the Round Table, in the quest of the Holy Grail, and on
other occasions.  Originally written about the year 1200".  The volume,
following the manuscript now in the library of W.W.E. Wynne, Esq., at
Peniarth, is divided into two parts.  The first, fol. 1-109 of the
manuscript, represents the thirteenth to the seventeenth book of Sir
Thomas Malory's "Morte d'Arthur".  Of the second, which represents the
Romance here translated, Mr Williams writes: "The second portion of the
Welsh Greal, folios 110-280, contains the adventures of Gwalchmei
Peredur and Lancelot, and of the knights of the Round Table; but these
are not found in the "Morte d'Arthur".  The Peniarth MS. is beautifully
written on vellum, and in perfect preservation, and its date is that of
Henry VI., the early part of the fifteenth century.  The orthography
and style of writing agrees literally with that of the "Mabinogion of
the Llyvr Coch Hergest", which is of that date.  This, of course, is a
transcript of an earlier copy; but there is no certainty when it was
first translated into Welsh, though Aneurin Owen in his "Catalogue of
the Hengwrt MSS." assigns it to the sixth year of Henry I.  It is
mentioned by Davydd ab Gwilym, who died in 1368."

Whatever may be the date of the Welsh version, the translator had no
great mastery of French, and is often at fault as to the meaning both
of words and sentences, and when in a difficulty is only too apt to cut
the knot by omitting the passage bodily.  The book itself, moreover, is
not entire.  On page 275, all between Branch IX. Title 16 and Branch
XI. Title 2, twenty-two chapters in all, is missing.  Again, on page
355, Titles 10-16 in Branch XXI. are left out, while the whole of the
last Branch, containing 28 Titles, is crumpled up into one little
chapter, from which it would seem that the Welshman had read the
French, but thought it waste of pains to translate it.  In all, not to
speak of other defects, there are fifty-six whole chapters in the
present book, of which there is not a word in the Welsh.

In one matter, however, Mr Williams' English translation has stood me
in good stead.  In Branch XXI., as I have said, the French manuscript
makes default of two Titles, but almost the whole of their substance is
supplied by the Welsh version.  By an unlucky accident, before the
hiatus in the French is fully filled up, the Welsh version itself
becomes defective, though the gap thus left open can hardly extend
beyond a very few words. Without this supplement, incomplete as it is,
it would have been impossible to give the full drift of one of the
Romancer's best stories, which is equally unintelligible in both the
French and Welsh texts in their present state.

As the Welsh version gives a number of names both of persons and places
widely differing from those in the French, it may be useful here to
note the principal changes made.  Perceval in the Welsh is called
Peredur, which is said to mean "steel suit".  The Welshman, however,
adds that the name in French is "Peneffresvo Galief", which, unless it
be a misreading or miswriting for Perceval le Galois, is to me wholly
unintelligible.  Perceval's father, Alain li Gros, is in the Welsh Earl
Evrawg, and his sister Dindrane, Danbrann.  King Arthur is Emperor
Arthur, his Queen Guenievre, Gwenhwyvar, and their son Lohot, Lohawt or
Llacheu.  Messire Gawain is Gwalchmei; Chaus, son of Ywain li Aoutres,
Gawns, son of Owein Vrych; Messire Kay or Kex is Kei the Long; Ahuret
the Bastard, Anores; Ygerne, wife of Uther Pendragon, Eigyr; Queen
Jandree, Landyr; and King Fisherman for the most part King Peleur.  Of
places, Cardoil is Caerlleon on Usk, Pannenoisance, Penvoisins;
Tintagel, Tindagoyl; and Avalon, Avallach.

By a double stroke of ill-luck, the complete and wholly independent
Romance here translated has thus been printed by its two former editors
as if it were only a part of some other story. M. Potvin describes it
as the "First Part, the Romance in Prose," of his "Perceval le
Gallois", and Mr Williams accepts it as the "Second Portion" of his "Y
Seint Greal".  This unhappy collocation has led not a few of M.
Potvin's readers to neglect his First Part, under the impression that
the story is retold in the other volumes containing the Romance in
verse; while not a few of Mr Williams' readers have neglected his
Second Portion under the impression that there could be nothing of any
special importance in an adjunct referred to by the Editor in so
perfunctory a manner.  In very truth, however, the Story of the Holy
Graal here told is not only the most coherent and poetic of all the
many versions of the Legend, but is also the first and most authentic.

This seems to be proved beyond doubt by a passage in the History of
Fulke Fitz-Warine, originally written apparently between the years 1256
and 1264.  The passage occurs at the end of the History, and is printed
in verse of which I give a literal prose translation:

     "Merlin saith that in Britain the Great a Wolf shall come
     from the White Launde.  Twelve sharp teeth shall he have,
     six below and six above.  He shall have so fierce a look
     that he shall chase the Leopard forth of the White Launde,
     so much force shall he have and great virtue.  We now know
     that Merlin said this for Fulke the son of Waryn, for each
     of you ought to understand of a surety how in the time of
     the King Arthur that was called the White Launde which is
     now named the White Town.  For in this country was the
     chapel of S. Austin that was fair, where Kahuz, the son of
     Ywein, dreamed that he carried off the candlestick and that
     he met a man who hurt him with a knife and wounded him in
     the side.  And he, on sleep, cried out so loud that King
     Arthur hath heard him and awakened from sleep.  And when
     Kahuz was awake, he put his hand to his side.  There hath he
     found the knife that had smitten him through.  SO TELLETH US
     THE GRAAL, THE BOOK OF THE HOLY VESSEL.  There the King
     Arthur recovered his bounty and his valour when he had lost
     all his chivalry and his virtue.  From this country issued
     forth the Wolf as saith Merlin the Wise, and the twelve
     sharp teeth have we known by his shield.  He bore a shield
     indented as the heralds have devised.  In the shield are
     twelve teeth of gules and argent.  By the Leopard may be
     known and well understood King John, for he bore in his
     shield the leopards of beaten gold." (7)

The story of Kahuz or Chaus here indicated by the historian is told at
length in the opening chapters of the present work and, so far as is
known, nowhere else.  The inference is therefore unavoidable that we
have here "The Graal, the Book of the Holy Vessel" to which the
biographer of Fulke refers.  The use, moreover, of the definite article
shows that the writer held this book to be conclusive authority on the
subject.  By the time he retold the story of Fulke, a whole library of
Romances about Perceval and the Holy Graal had been written, with some
of which it is hard to believe that any historian of the time was
unacquainted.  He nevertheless distinguishes this particular story as
"The Graal", a way of speaking he would scarce have adopted had he
known of any other "Graals" of equal or nearly equal authority.

Several years later, about 1280, the trouveur Sarrazin also cites "The
Graal" ("li Graaus") in the same manner, in superfluous verification of
the then-accepted truism that King Arthur was at one time Lord of Great
Britain.  This appeal to "The Graal" as the authority for a general
belief shows that it was at that time recognised as a well-spring of
authentic knowledge; while the fact that the trouveur was not
confounding "The Graal" with the later version of the story is further
shown by his going on presently to speak of "the Romance that Chrestien
telleth so fairly of Perceval the adventures of the Graal." (8)

Perhaps, however, the most striking testimony to the fact that this
work is none other than the original "Book of the Graal" is to be found
in the "Chronicle of Helinand", well known at the time the Romance was
written not only as a historian but as a troubadour at one time in high
favour at the court of Philip Augustus, and in later years as one of
the most ardent preachers of the Albigensian Crusade.  The passage, a
part of which has been often quoted, is inserted in the Chronicle under
the year 720, and runs in English thus:

     "At this time a certain marvellous vision was revealed by an
     angel to a certain hermit in Britain concerning S. Joseph,
     the decurion who deposed from the cross the Body of Our
     Lord, as well as concerning the paten or dish in the which
     Our Lord supped with His disciples, whereof the history was
     written out by the said hermit and is called "Of the Graal"
     (de Gradali).  Now, a platter, broad and somewhat deep, is
     called in French "gradalis" or "gradale", wherein costly
     meats with their sauce are wont to be set before rich folk
     by degrees ("gradatim") one morsel after another in divers
     orders, and in the vulgar speech it is called "graalz", for
     that it is grateful and acceptable to him that eateth
     therein, as well for that which containeth the victual, for
     that haply it is of silver or other precious material, as
     for the contents thereof, to wit, the manifold courses of
     costly meats.  I have not been able to find this history
     written in Latin, but it is in the possession of certain
     noblemen written in French only, nor, as they say, can it
     easily be found complete.  This, however, I have not
     hitherto been able to obtain from any person so as to read
     it with attention.  As soon as I can do so, I will translate
     into Latin such passages as are more useful and more likely
     to be true." (9)

A comparison of this passage with the Introduction to the present work
(10) leaves no doubt that Helinand here refers to this "Book of the
Graal", which cannot therefore be of a later date than that at which he
made this entry in his "Chronicle".  At the same time, the difficulty
he experienced in obtaining even the loan of the volume shows that the
work had at that time been only lately written, as in the course of a
few years, copies of a book so widely popular must have been
comparatively common.  The date, therefore, at which Helinand's
"Chronicle" was written determines approximately that of the "Book of
the Graal".

In its present state, the "Chronicle" comes to an end with a notice of
the capture of Constantinople by the French in 1204, and it has been
hastily assumed that Helinand's labours as a chronicler must have
closed in that year.  As a matter of fact they had not then even begun.
At that time Helinand was still a courtly troubadour, and had not yet
entered on the monastic career during which his "Chronicle" was
compiled.  He was certainly living as late as 1229, and preached a
sermon, which assuredly shows no signs of mental decrepitude, in that
year at a synod in Toulouse. (11)

Fortunately a passage in the "Speculum Historiale" of Vincent of
Beauvais, himself a younger contemporary and probably a personal
acquaintance of Helinand, throws considerable light on the real date of
Helinand's "Chronicle".  After recounting certain matters connected
with the early years of the thirteenth century, the last date mentioned
being 1209, Vincent proceeds:--

     "In those times, in the diocese of Beauvais, was Helinand
     monk of Froid-mont, a man religious and distinguished for
     his eloquence, who also composed those verses on Death in
     our vulgar tongue which are publicly read, so elegantly and
     so usefully that the subject is laid open clearer than the
     light.  He also diligently digested into a certain huge
     volume a Chronicle from the beginning of the world down to
     his own time.  But in truth this work was dissipated and
     dispersed in such sort that it is nowhere to be found
     entire.  For it is reported that the said Helinand lent
     certain sheets of the said work to one of his familiars, to
     wit, Guarin, Lord Bishop of Senlis of good memory, and thus,
     whether through forgetfulness or negligence or some other
     cause, lost them altogether.  From this work, however, as
     far as I have been able to find it, I have inserted many
     passages in this work of mine own also."

It will thus be seen that about 1209, Helinand became a monk at
Froid-mont, and it is exceedingly improbable that any portion of his
"Chronicle" was written before that date.  On the other hand, his
'familiar' Guarin only became Bishop of Senlis in 1214, and died in
1227, (12) so that it is certain Helinand wrote the last part of his
"Chronicle" not later than the last-mentioned year. The limits of time,
therefore, between which the "Chronicle" was written are clearly
circumscribed; and if it is impossible to define the exact year in
which this particular entry was made, it is not, I fancy, beyond the
legitimate bounds of critical conjecture.

On the first page of the Romance, Helinand read that an Angel had
appeared to a certain hermit in Britain and revealed to him the history
of the Holy Graal.  In transferring the record of this event to his
"Chronicle", he was compelled by the exigencies of his system, which
required the insertion of every event recorded under some particular
year, to assign a date to the occurrence.  A vague "five hundred years
ago" would be likely to suggest itself as an appropriate time at which
the occurrence might be supposed to have taken place; and if he were
writing in 1220, the revelation to the hermit would thus naturally be
relegated to the year 720, the year under which the entry actually
appears. This, of course, is pure guesswork, but the fact remains that
the "Chronicle" was written in or about 1220, and the "Book of the
Graal" not long before it.

The name of the author is nowhere recorded.  He may possibly be
referred to in the "Elucidation" prefixed to the rhymed version of
"Percival le Gallois" under the name of "Master Blihis", but this vague
and tantalising pseudonym affords no hint of his real identity. (13)
Whoever he may have been; I hope that I am not misled by a translator's
natural partiality for the author he translates in assigning him a
foremost rank among the masters of medieval prose romance.

With these testimonies to its age and genuineness, I commend the "Book
of the Graal" to all who love to read of King Arthur and his knights of
the Table Round.  They will find here printed in English for the first
time what I take to be in all good faith the original story of Sir
Perceval and the Holy Graal, whole and incorrupt as it left the hands
of its first author.

--Sebastian Evans,
  Coombe Lea, Bickley, Kent


ENDNOTES:

(1)  6 vols. 8vo.  Mons, 1866-1871.

(2)  Marchal "Cat.", 2 vols. Brussels, 1842.  Vol i.p. 223.

(3)  Lausanne, 1759.

(4)  3 vols. 8vo.  Berne, 1770, etc.  Vol. ii., Introduc. viii.
     and p. 389 et seq.

(5)  Rigord. "Chron." 196, p. 288.  Wm. le Breton, "Phil." xi.
     547.  See also Birch-Hirschfeld, "Die Gralsage", p. 143.

(6)  2 vols. 8vo.  London, Richards, 1876-1892.

(7)  "L'histoire de Foulkes Fitz-Warin". Ed. F. Michel, Paris,
     1840; p. 110.  Ed. T. Wright (Warton Club), London, 1855; p.
     179.  Ed. J. Stevenson ("Roll, Pub. Chron." of R.
     Coggeshall), London, 1875; p. 412.  The MS. containing the
     history (MS. Reg. 12. c. XII.) was first privately printed
     for the late Sir T. Duffus Hardy from a transcript by A.
     Berbrugger.

(8)  "Le Roman de Ham", in the Appendix to F. Michel's "Histoire
     des Ducs de Normandie".  Soc. de l'Hist. de France, 1840,
     pp. 225, 230.

(9)  Helinandi Op. Ed. Migne. "Patrol." Vol. ccxii. col. 814.
     The former part of the passage is quoted with due
     acknowledgment by Vincent of Beauvais, "Spec. Hist." B.
     xxiii. c. 147.  Vincent, however, spells the French word
     "grail", and, by turning Helinand's "nec" into "nune", makes
     him say that the French work can now easily be found
     complete.  Vincent finished his "Speculum Historialz in 1244"
     B. xxi. c. 105.

(10) Vol. i. p. 1, etc.

(11) Sermon xxvi., printed in Minge, u.s. col. 692.  It has been
     doubted whether this sermon, preached in the church of S.
     Jacques, was addressed to the Council held at Toulouse in
     1219, or to the one held in 1229, but a perusal of the
     sermon itself decides the question.  It is wholly irrelevant
     to the topics discussed at the former gathering, while it is
     one continued commentary on the business transacted at the
     latter.  See also Dom Brial, "Hist. Litt. de la France",
     xviii. 92.

(12) "De Mas Latrie. Tres. de Chron.", col. 1488.

(13) Cf. Potvin, "P. le G." ii. 1 and 7, with vol. i. p. 131 and
     vol. ii. p. 112 of the present work (See also the
     Proceedings of the "Hon. Soc. of Cymmrodorion", 1908-9. Ed.)



THE HIGH HISTORY OF THE HOLY GRAAL



BRANCH I.


INCIPIT.

Hear ye the history of the most holy vessel that is called Graal,
wherein the precious blood of the Saviour was received on the day that
He was put on rood and crucified in order that He might redeem His
people from the pains of hell.  Josephus set it in remembrance by
annunciation of the voice of an angel, for that the truth might be
known by his writing of good knights, and good worshipful men how they
were willing to suffer pain and to travail for the setting forward of
the Law of Jesus Christ, that He willed to make new by His death and by
His crucifixion.


TITLE I.

The High Book of the Graal beginneth in the name of the Father and of
the Son and of the Holy Ghost.  These three Persons are one substance,
which is God, and of God moveth the High Story of the Graal.  And all
they that hear it ought to understand it, and to forget all the
wickednesses that they have in their hearts. For right profitable shall
it be to all them that shall hear it of the heart.  For the sake of the
worshipful men and good knights of whose deeds shall remembrance be
made, doth Josephus recount this holy history, for the sake of the
lineage of the Good Knight that was after the crucifixion of Our Lord.
Good Knight was he without fail, for he was chaste and virgin of his
body and hardy of heart and puissant, and so were his conditions
without wickedness.  Not boastful was he of speech, and it seemed not
by his cheer that he had so great courage; Natheless, of one little
word that he delayed to speak came to pass so sore mischances in
Greater Britain, that all the islands and all the lands fell thereby
into much sorrow, albeit thereafter he put them back into gladness by
the authority of his good knighthood. Good knight was he of right, for
he was of the lineage of Joseph of Abarimacie.  And this Joseph was his
mother's uncle, that had been a soldier of Pilate's seven years, nor
asked he of him none other guerdon of his service but only to take down
the body of Our Saviour from hanging on the cross.  The boon him seemed
full great when it was granted him, and full little to Pilate seemed
the guerdon; for right well had Joseph served him, and had he asked to
have gold or land thereof, willingly would he have given it to him.
And for this did Pilate make him a gift of the Saviour's body, for he
supposed that Joseph should have dragged the same shamefully through
the city of Jerusalem when it had been taken down from the cross, and
should have left it without the city in some mean place.  But the Good
Soldier had no mind thereto, but rather honoured the body the most he
might, rather laid it along in the Holy Sepulchre and kept safe the
lance whereof He was smitten in the side and the most Holy Vessel
wherein they that believed on Him received with awe the blood that ran
down from His wounds when He was set upon the rood.  Of this lineage
was the Good Knight for whose sake is this High History treated.
Yglais was his mother's name: King Fisherman was his uncle, and the
King of the Lower Folk that was named Pelles, and the King that was
named of the Castle Mortal, in whom was there as much bad as there was
good in the other twain, and much good was there in them; and these
three were his uncles on the side of his mother Yglais, that was a
right good Lady and a loyal; and the Good Knight had one sister, that
hight Dindrane. He that was head of the lineage on his father's side
was named Nichodemus.  Gais li Gros of the Hermit's Cross was father of
Alain li Gros.  This Alain had eleven brethren, right good knights,
like as he was himself.  And none of them all lived in his knighthood
but twelve years, and they all died in arms for their great hardiment
in setting forward of the Law that was made new.  There were twelve
brethren.  Alain li Gros was the eldest; Gorgalians was next; Bruns
Brandnils was the third; Bertholez li Chauz the fourth; Brandalus of
Wales was the fifth; Elinant of Escavalon was the sixth; Calobrutus was
the seventh; Meralis of the Palace Meadow was the eighth; Fortunes of
the Red Launde was ninth; Melaarmaus of Abanie was the tenth; Galians
of the White Tower the eleventh; Alibans of the Waste City was the
twelfth. All these died in arms in the service of the Holy Prophet that
had renewed the Law by His death, and smote His enemies to the
uttermost of their power.  Of these two manner of folk, whose names and
records you have heard, Josephus the good clerk telleth us was come the
Good Knight of whom you shall well hear the name and the manner
presently.


II.

The authority of the scripture telleth us that after the crucifixion of
Our Lord, no earthly King set forward the Law of Jesus Christ so much
as did King Arthur of Britain, both by himself and by the good knights
that made repair to his court. Good King Arthur after the crucifixion
of Our Lord, was such as I tell you, and was a puissant King, and one
that well believed in God, and many were the good adventures that befel
at his court. And he had in his court the Table Round that was
garnished of the best knights in the world.  King Arthur after the
death of his father led the highest life and most gracious that ever
king led, in such sort that all the princes and all the barons took
ensample of him in well-doing.  For ten years was King Arthur in such
estate as I have told you, nor never was earthly king so praised as he,
until that a slothful will came upon him and he began to lose the
pleasure in doing largesse that he wont to have, nor was he minded to
hold court neither at Christmas-tide nor at Easter nor at Pentecost.
The knights of the Table Round when they saw his well-doing wax slack
departed thence and began to hold aloof from his court, insomuch as
that of three hundred and three-score knights and six that he wont to
have of his household, there were now not more than a five-and-twenty
at most, nor did no adventure befal any more at his court.  All the
other princes had slackened of their well-doing for that they saw King
Arthur maintain so feebly.  Queen Guenievre was so sorrowful thereof
that she knew not what counsel to take with herself, nor how she might
so deal as to amend matters so God amended them not.  From this time
beginneth the history.


III.

It was one Ascension Day that the King was at Cardoil.  He was risen
from meat and went through the hall from one end to the other, and
looked and saw the Queen that was seated at a window. The King went to
sit beside her, and looked at her in the face and saw that the tears
were falling from her eyes.

"Lady," saith the King, "What aileth you, and wherefore do you weep?"

"Sir," saith she, "And I weep, good right have I; and you yourself have
little right to make joy."

"Certes, Lady, I do not."

"Sir," saith she, "You are right.  I have seen on this high day, or on
other days that were not less high than this, when you have had such
throng of knights at your court that right uneath might any number
them.  Now every day are so few therein that much shame have I thereof,
nor no more do no adventures befal therein. Wherefore great fear have I
lest God hath put you into forgetfulness."

"Certes, Lady," saith the King, "No will have I to do largesse nor
aught that turneth to honour.  Rather is my desire changed into
feebleness of heart.  And by this know I well that I lose my knights
and the love of my friends."

"Sir," saith the Queen, "And were you to go to the chapel of S.
Augustine, that is in the White Forest, that may not be found save by
adventure only, methinketh that on your back-repair you would again
have your desire of well-doing, for never yet did none discounselled
ask counsel of God but he would give it for love of him so he asked it
of a good heart."

"Lady," saith the King, "And willingly will I go, forasmuch as that you
say have I heard well witnessed in many places where I have been."

"Sir," saith she, "The place is right perilous and the chapel right
adventurous.  But the most worshipful hermit that is in the Kingdom of
Wales hath his dwelling beside the chapel, nor liveth he now any longer
for nought save only the glory of God."

"Lady," saith the King, "It will behove me go thither all armed and
without knights."

"Sir," saith she, "You may well take with you one knight and a squire."

"Lady," saith the King, "That durst not I, for the place is perilous,
and the more folk one should take thither, the fewer adventures there
should he find."

"Sir," saith she, "One squire shall you take by my good will nor shall
nought betide you thereof save good only, please God!"

"Lady," saith the King, "At your pleasure be it, but much dread I that
nought shall come of it save evil only."

Thereupon the King riseth up from beside the Queen, and looketh before
him and seeth a youth tall and strong and comely and young, that was
hight Chaus, and he was the son of Ywain li Aoutres.

"Lady," saith he to the Queen, "This one will I take with me and you
think well."

"Sir," saith she, "It pleaseth me well, for I have heard much witness
to his valour."

The King calleth the squire, and he cometh and kneeleth down before
him.  The King maketh him rise and saith unto him, "Chaus," saith he,
"You shall lie within to-night, in this hall, and take heed that my
horse be saddled at break of day and mine arms ready.  For I would be
moving at the time I tell you, and yourself with me without more
company."

"Sir," saith the squire, "At your pleasure."

And the evening drew on, and the King and Queen go to bed.  When they
had eaten in hall, the knights went to their hostels.  The squire
remained in the hall, but he would not do off his clothes nor his
shoon, for the night seemed him to be too short, and for that he would
fain be ready in the morning at the King's commandment.  The squire was
lying down in such sort as I have told you, and in the first sleep that
he slept, seemed him the King had gone without him.  The squire was
sore scared thereat, and came to his hackney and set the saddle and
bridle upon him, and did on his spurs and girt on his sword, as it
seemed him in his sleep, and issued forth of the castle a great pace
after the King.  And when he had ridden a long space he entered into a
great forest and looked in the way before him and saw the slot of the
King's horse and followed the track a long space, until that he came to
a launde of the forest whereat he thought that the King had alighted.
The squire thought that the hoof-marks on the way had come to an end
and so thought that the King had alighted there or hard by there.  He
looketh to the right hand and seeth a chapel in the midst of the
launde, and he seeth about it a great graveyard wherein were many
coffins, as it seemed him.  He thought in his heart that he would go
towards the chapel, for he supposed that the King would have entered to
pray there.  He went thitherward and alighted.  When the squire was
alighted, he tied up his hackney and entered into the chapel.  None did
he see there in one part nor another, save a knight that lay dead in
the midst of the chapel upon a bier, and he was covered of a rich cloth
of silk, and had around him waxen tapers burning that were fixed in
four candlesticks of gold.  This squire marvelled much how this body
was left there so lonely, insomuch that none were about him save only
the images, and yet more marvelled he of the King that he found him
not, for he knew not in what part to seek him.  He taketh out one of
the tall tapers, and layeth hand on the golden candlestick, and setteth
it betwixt his hose and his thigh and issueth forth of the chapel, and
remounteth on his hackney and goeth his way back and passeth beyond the
grave-yard and issueth forth of the launde and entereth into the forest
and thinketh that he will not cease until he hath found the King.


IV.

So, as he entereth into a grassy lane in the wood, he seeth come before
him a man black and foul-favoured, and he was somewhat taller afoot
than was himself a-horseback.  And he held a great sharp knife in his
hand with two edges as it seemed him.  The squire cometh over against
him a great pace and saith unto him, "You, that come there, have you
met King Arthur in this forest?"

"In no wise," saith the messenger, "But you have I met, whereof am I
right glad at heart, for you have departed from the chapel as a thief
and a traitor.  For you are carrying off thence the candlestick of gold
that was in honour of the knight that lieth in the chapel dead.
Wherefore I will that you yield it up to me and so will I carry it
back, otherwise, and you do not this, you do I defy!"

"By my faith," saith the squire, "Never will I yield it you! rather
will I carry it off and make a present thereof to King Arthur."

"By my faith," saith the other, "Right dearly shall you pay for it, and
you yield it not up forthwith."

Howbeit, the squire smiteth with his spurs and thinketh to pass him by,
but the other hasteth him, and smiteth the squire in the left side with
the knife and thrusteth it into his body up to the haft.  The squire,
that lay in the hall at Cardoil, and had dreamed this, awoke and cried
in a loud voice: "Holy Mary!  The priest!  Help!  Help, for I am a dead
man!"

The King and the Queen heard the cry, and the chamberlain leapt up and
said to the King: "sir, you may well be moving, for it is day!"

The King made him be clad and shod.  And the squire crieth with such
strength as he hath: "Fetch me the priest, for I die!"

The King goeth thither as fast as he may, and the Queen and the
chamberlain carry great torches and candles.  The King asketh him what
aileth him, and he telleth him all in such wise as he had dreamed it.
"Ha," saith the King, "Is it then a dream?"

"Yea, sir," saith he, "But a right foul dream it is for me, for right
foully hath it come true!" He lifted his left arm. "Sir," saith he,
"Look you there!  Lo, here is the knife that was run into my side up to
the haft!"  After that, he setteth his hand to his hose where the
candlestick was.  He draweth it forth and showeth it to the King.
"Sir," saith he, "For this candlestick that I present to you, am I
wounded to the death!"

The King taketh the candlestick, and looketh thereat in wonderment for
none so rich had he never seen tofore.  The King showeth it to the
Queen.  "Sir," saith the squire, "Draw not forth the knife of my body
until that I be shriven."

The King sent for one of his own chaplains that made the squire confess
and do his houselling right well.  The King himself draweth forth the
knife of the body, and the soul departed forthwith.  The King made do
his service right richly and his shrouding and burial.  Ywain li
Aoutres that was father to the squire was right sorrowful of the death
of his son.  King Arthur, with the good will of Ywain his father, gave
the candlestick to S. Paul in London, for the church was newly founded,
and the King wished that this marvellous adventure should everywhere be
known, and that prayer should be made in the church for the soul of the
squire that was slain on account of the candlestick.


V.

King Arthur armed himself in the morning, as I told you and began to
tell, to go to the chapel of S. Augustine.  Said the Queen to him.
"Whom will you take with you?"

"Lady," saith he, "No company will I have thither, save God only, for
well may you understand by this adventure that hath befallen, that God
will not allow I should have none with me."

"Sir," saith she, "God be guard of your body, and grant you return
safely so as that you may have the will to do well, whereby shall your
praise be lifted up that is now sore cast down."

"Lady," saith he, "May God remember it."

His destrier was brought to the mounting-stage, and the King mounted
thereon all armed.  Messire Ywain li Aoutres lent him his shield and
spear.  When the King had hung the shield at his neck and held the
spear in his hand, sword-girt, on the tall destrier armed, well seemed
he in the make of his body and in his bearing to be a knight of great
pith and hardiment.  He planteth himself so stiffly in the stirrups
that he maketh the saddlebows creak again and the destrier stagger
under him that was right stout and swift, and he smiteth him of his
spurs, and the horse maketh answer with a great leap.  The Queen was at
the windows of the hall, and as many as five-and-twenty knights were
all come to the mounting-stage.  When the King departed, "Lords," saith
the Queen, "How seemeth you of the King?  Seemeth he not a goodly man?"

"Yea, certes, Lady, and sore loss is it to the world that he followeth
not out his good beginning, for no king nor prince is known better
learned of all courtesy nor of all largesse than he, so he would do
like as he was wont."  With that the knights hold their peace, and King
Arthur goeth away a great pace.  And he entereth into a great forest
adventurous, and rideth the day long until he cometh about evensong
into the thick of the forest.  And he espied a little house beside a
little chapel, and it well seemed him to be a hermitage.  King Arthur
rode thitherward and alighteth before this little house, and entereth
thereinto and draweth his horse after him, that had much pains to enter
in at the door, and laid his spear down on the ground and leant his
shield against the wall, and hath ungirded his sword and unlaced his
ventail.  He looked before him and saw barley and provender, and so led
his horse thither and smote off his bridle, and afterwards hath shut
the door of the little house and locked it. And it seemed him that
there was a strife in the chapel.  The ones were weeping so tenderly
and sweetly as it were angels, and the other spake so harshly as it
were fiends.  The King heard such voices in the chapel and marvelled
much what it might be. He findeth a door in the little house that
openeth on a little cloister whereby one goeth to the chapel.  The King
is gone thither and entereth into the little minster, and looketh
everywhere but seeth nought there, save the images and the crucifixes.
And he supposeth not that the strife of these voices cometh of them.
The voices ceased as soon as he was within.  He marvelleth how it came
that this house and hermitage were solitary, and what had become of the
hermit that dwelt therein. He drew nigh the altar of the chapel and
beheld in front thereof a coffin all discovered, and he saw the hermit
lying therein all clad in his vestments, and seeth the long beard down
to his girdle, and his hands crossed upon his breast.  There was a
cross above him, whereof the image came as far as his mouth, and he had
life in him yet, but he was nigh his end, being at the point of death.
The King was before the coffin a long space, and looked right fainly on
the hermit, for well it seemed him that he had been of a good life.
The night was fully come, but within was a brightness of light as if a
score of candles were lighted.  He had a mind to abide there until that
the good man should have passed away.  He would fain have sate him down
before the coffin, when a voice warned him right horribly to begone
thence, for that it was desired to make a judgment within there, that
might not be made so long as he were there.  The King departed, that
would willingly have remained there, and so returned back into the
little house, and sate him down on a seat whereon the hermit wont to
sir.  And he heareth the strife and the noise begin again within the
chapel, and the ones he heareth speaking high and the others low, and
he knoweth well by the voices, that the ones are angels and the others
devils.  And he heareth that the devils are distraining on the hermit's
soul, and that judgment will presently be given in their favour,
whereof make they great joy. King Arthur is grieved in his heart when
he heareth that the angels' voices are stilled.  The King is so heavy,
that no desire hath he neither to eat nor to drink.  And while he
sitteth thus, stooping his head toward the ground, full of vexation and
discontent, he heareth in the chapel the voice of a Lady that spake so
sweet and clear, that no man in this earthly world, were his grief and
heaviness never so sore, but and he had heard the sweet voice of her
pleading would again have been in joy.  She saith to the devils:
"Begone from hence, for no right have ye over the soul of this good
man, whatsoever he may have done aforetime, for in my Son's service and
mine own is he taken, and his penance hath he done in this hermitage of
the sins that he hath done."

"True, Lady," say the devils, "But longer had he served us than he hath
served you and your Son.  For forty years or more hath he been a
murderer and robber in this forest, whereas in this hermitage but five
years hath he been.  And now you Wish to thieve him from us."

"I do not.  No wish have I to take him from you by theft, for had he
been taken in your service in suchwise as he hath been taken in mine,
yours would he have been, all quit."

The devils go their way all discomfit and aggrieved; and the sweet
Mother of our Lord God taketh the soul of the hermit, that was departed
of his body, and so commendeth it to the angels and archangels that
they make present thereof to Her dear Son in Paradise.  And the angels
take it and begin to sing for joy "Te Deum laudamus".  And the Holy
Lady leadeth them and goeth her way along with them.  Josephus maketh
remembrance of this history and telleth us that this worthy man was
named Calixtus.


VI.

King Arthur was in the little house beside the chapel, and had heard
the voice of the sweet Mother of God and the angels.  Great joy had he,
and was right glad of the good man's soul that was borne thence into
Paradise.  The King had slept right little the night and was all armed.
He saw the day break clear and fair, and goeth his way toward the
chapel to cry God mercy, thinking to find the coffin discovered there
where the hermit lay; but so did he not!  Rather, was it covered of the
richest tomb-stone that any might ever see, and had on the top a red
cross, and seemed it that the chapel was all incensed.  When the King
had made his orison therein, he cometh back again and setteth on his
bridle and saddle and mounteth, and taketh his shield and spear and
departeth from the little house and entereth into the forest and rideth
a great pace, until he cometh at right hour of tierce to one of the
fairest laundes that ever a man might see.  And he seeth at the
entrance a spear set bar-wise, and looketh to the right or ever he
should enter therein, and seeth a damsel sitting under a great leafy
tree, and she held the reins of her mule in her hand.  The damsel was
of great beauty and full seemly clad. The King turneth thitherward and
so saluteth her and saith: "Damsel," saith he, "God give you joy and
good adventure."

"Sir," saith she, "So may He do to you!"

"Damsel," saith the King, "Is there no hold in this launde?"

"Sir," saith the damsel, "No hold is there save a most holy chapel and
a hermit that is beside S. Augustine's chapel."

"Is this then S. Augustine's chapel?" saith the King.

"Yea, Sir, I tell it you for true, but the launde and the forest about
is so perilous that no knight returneth thence but he be dead or
wounded; but the place of the chapel is of so great worthiness that
none goeth thither, be he never so discounselled, but he cometh back
counselled, so he may thence return on live. And Lord God be guard of
your body, for never yet saw I none aforetime that seemed more like to
be good knight, and sore pity would it be and you were not, and never
more shall I depart me hence and I shall have seen your end."

"Damsel," saith the King, "Please God, you shall see me repair back
thence."

"Certes," saith the damsel, "Thereof should I be!  right fain, for then
should I ask you tidings at leisure of him that I am seeking."

The King goeth to the bar whereby one entereth into the launde, and
looketh to the right into a combe of the forest and seeth the chapel of
S. Augustine and the right fair hermitage.  Thitherward goeth he and
alighteth, and it seemeth him that the hermit is apparelled to sing the
mass.  He reineth up his horse to the bough of a tree by the side of
the chapel and thinketh to enter thereinto, but, had it been to conquer
all the kingdoms of the world, thereinto might he not enter, albeit
there was none made him denial thereof, for the door was open and none
saw he that might forbid him.  Sore ashamed is the King thereof.
Howbeit, he beholdeth an image of Our Lord that was there within and
crieth Him of mercy right sweetly, and looketh toward the altar.  And
he looketh at the holy hermit that was robed to sing mass and said his
"Confiteor", and seeth at his right hand the fairest Child that ever he
had seen, and He was clad in an alb and had a golden crown on his head
loaded with precious stones that gave out a full great brightness of
light.  On the left hand side, was a Lady so fair that all the beauties
of the world might not compare them with her beauty.  When the holy
hermit had said his "Confiteor" and went to the altar, the Lady also
took her Son and went to sit on the right hand side towards the altar
upon a right rich chair and set her Son upon her knees and began to
kiss Him full sweetly and saith:  "Sir," saith she, "You are my Father
and my Son and my Lord, and guardian of me and of all the world."

King Arthur heareth the words and seeth the beauty of the Lady and of
the Child, and marvelleth much of this that She should call Him her
Father and her Son.  He looketh at a window behind the altar and seeth
a flame come through at the very instant that mass was begun, clearer
than any ray of sun nor moon nor star, and evermore it threw forth a
brightness of light such that and all the lights in the world had been
together it would not have been the like.  And it is come down upon the
altar.  King Arthur seeth it who marvelleth him much thereof.  But sore
it irketh him of this that he may not enter therewithin, and he
heareth, there where the holy hermit was singing the mass, right fair
responses, and they seem him to be the responses of angels.  And when
the Holy Gospel was read, King Arthur looked toward the altar and saw
that the Lady took her Child and offered Him into the hands of the holy
hermit, but of this King Arthur made much marvel, that the holy hermit
washed not his hands when he had received the offering.  Right sore did
King Arthur marvel him thereof, but little right would he have had to
marvel had he known the reason. And when the Child was offered him, he
set Him upon the altar and thereafter began his sacrament.  And King
Arthur set him on his knees before the chapel and began to pray to God
and to beat his breast.  And he looked toward the altar after the
preface, and it seemed him that the holy hermit held between his hands
a man bleeding from His side and in His palms and in His feet, and
crowned with thorns, and he seeth Him in His own figure.  And when he
had looked on Him so long and knoweth not what is become of Him, the
King hath pity of Him in his heart of this that he had seen, and the
tears of his heart come into his eyes.  And he looketh toward the altar
and thinketh to see the figure of the man, and seeth that it is changed
into the shape of the Child that he had seen tofore.


VII.

When the mass was sung, the voice of a holy angel said "Ite, missa
est".  The Son took the Mother by the hand, and they evanished forth of
the chapel with the greatest company and the fairest that might ever be
seen.  The flame that was come down through the window went away with
this company.  When the hermit had done his service and was divested of
the arms of God, he went to King Arthur that was still without the
chapel.  "Sir," saith he to the King, "Now may you well enter herein
and well might you have been joyous in your heart had you deserved so
much as that you might have come in at the beginning of the mass."

King Arthur entered into the chapel without any hindrance. "Sir," saith
the hermit to the King, "I know you well, as did I also King Uther
Pendragon your father.  On account of your sins and your deserts might
you not enter here while mass was being sung.  Nor will you to-morrow,
save you shall first have made amends of that you have misdone towards
God and towards the saint that is worshipped herewithin.  For you are
the richest King of the world and the most adventurous, wherefore ought
all the world to take ensample of you in well-doing and in largesse and
in honour; whereas you are now an ensample of evil-doing to all rich
worshipful men that be now in the world.  Wherefore shall right sore
mishap betide you and you set nor back your doing to the point whereat
you began.  For your court was the sovran of all courts and the most
adventurous, whereas now is it least of worth.  Well may he be sorry
that goeth from honour to shame, but never may he have reproach that
shall do him ill, that cometh from shame to honour, for the honour
wherein he is found rescueth him to God, but blame may never rescue the
man that hath renounced honour for shame, for the shame and wickedness
wherein he is found declare him guilty."


VIII.

"Sir," saith King Arthur, "To amend me have I come hither, and to be
better counselled than I have been.  Well do I see that the place is
most holy, and I beseech you that you pray God that He counsel me and I
will do my endeavour herein to amend me."

"God grant you may amend your life," saith the holy hermit, "in such
sort that you may help to do away the evil Law and to exalt the Law
that is made new by the crucifixion of the Holy Prophet. But a great
sorrow is befallen in the land of late through a young knight that was
harboured in the hostel of the rich King Fisherman, for that the most
Holy Graal appeared to him and the Lance whereof the point runneth of
blood, yet never asked he to whom was served thereof nor whence it
came, and for that he asked it not are all the lands commoved to war,
nor no knight meeteth other in the forest but he runneth upon him and
slayeth him and he may, and you yourself shall well perceive thereof or
ever you shall depart of this launde."

"Sir," saith King Arthur, "God defend me from the anguish of an evil
death and from wickedness, for hither have I come for none other thing
but to amend my life, and this will I do, so God bring me back in
safety."

"Truly," saith the hermit, "He that hath been bad for three years out
of forty, he hath not been wholly good."

"Sir," saith the King, "You speak truth."

The hermit departeth and so commendeth him to God.  The King cometh to
his horse and mounteth the speediest that ever he may, and setteth his
shield on his neck, and taketh his spear in his hand and turneth him
back a great pace.  Howbeit, he had not gone a bowshot's length when he
saw a knight coming disorderly against him, and he sate upon a great
black horse and he had a shield of the same and a spear.  And the spear
was somewhat thick near the point and burned with a great flame, foul
and hideous, and the flame came down as far as over the knight's fist.
He setteth his spear in rest and thinketh to smite the King, but the
King swerveth aside and the other passeth beyond.  "Sir knight,
wherefor hate you me?"

"Of right ought I not to love you," saith the knight.

"Wherefore?" saith the King.

"For this, that you have had my brother's candlestick that was foully
stolen from him!"

"Know you then who I am?" saith the King.

"Yea," saith the knight; "You are the King Arthur that aforetime were
good and now are evil.  Wherefore I defy you as my mortal enemy."

He draweth him back so that his onset may be the weightier.  The King
seeth that he may not depart without a stour.  He setteth his spear in
rest when he seeth the other come towards him with his own spear all
burning.  The King smiteth his horse with his spurs as hard as he may,
and meeteth the knight with his spear and the knight him.  And they
melled together so stoutly that the spears bent without breaking, and
both twain are shifted in their saddles and lose their stirrups.  They
hurtle so strongly either against other of their bodies and their
horses that their eyes sparkle as of stars in their heads and the blood
rayeth out of King Arthur by mouth and nose.  Either draweth away from
other and they take their breath.  The King looketh at the Black
Knight's spear that burneth, and marvelleth him right sore that it is
not snapped in flinders of the great buffet he had received thereof,
and him thinketh rather that it is a devil and a fiend. The Black
Knight is not minded to let King Arthur go so soon, but rather cometh
toward him a great career.  The King seeth him come toward him and so
covereth him of his shield for fear of the flame.  The King receiveth
him on the point of his spear and smiteth him with so sore a shock that
he maketh him bend backward over his horse croup.  The other, that was
of great might, leapeth back into the saddle-bows and smiteth the King
upon the boss of his shield so that the burning point pierceth the
shield and the sleeve of his habergeon and runneth the sharp iron into
his arm.  The King feeleth the wound and the heat, whereof is he filled
with great wrath, and the knight draweth back his spear to him, and
hath great joy at heart when he feeleth the King wounded.  The King was
rejoiced not a whit, and looked at the spear that was quenched thereof
and burned no longer.

"Sir," saith the knight, "I cry you mercy.  Never would my spear have
been quenched of its burning, save it were bathed in your blood."

"Now may never God help me," saith King Arthur, "whenever I shall have
mercy on you, and I may achieve!"

He pricketh towards him a great run, and smiteth him in the broad of
the breast and thrusted his spear half an ell into his body, and
beareth him to the ground, both him and his horse all in a heap, and
draweth his spear back to him and looketh at the knight that lay as
dead and leaveth him in the launde, and draweth him towards the issue
incontinent.  And so as the King went, he heard a great clashing of
knights coming right amidst the forest, so as it seemed there were a
good score or more of them, and he seeth them enter the launde from the
forest, armed and well horsed. And they come with great ado toward the
knight that lay dead in the midst of the launde.  King Arthur was about
to issue forth, when the damsel that he had left under the tree cometh
forward to meet him.

"Sir," saith she, "For God's sake, return back and fetch me the head of
the knight that lieth there dead."

The King looketh back, and seeth the great peril and the multitude of
knights that are there all armed. "Ha, damsel," saith he, "You are
minded to slay me."

"Certes, Sir, that I am not, but sore need will there be that I should
have it, nor never did knight refuse to do the thing I asked nor deny
me any boon I demanded of him.  Now God grant you be not the most
churlish."

"Ha, damsel, I am right sore wounded in the arm whereon I hold my
shield."

"Sir," saith she, "I know it well, nor never may you be heal thereof
save you bring me the head of the knight."

"Damsel," he saith, "I will essay it whatsoever may befal me thereof."


IX.

King Arthur looketh amidst the launde and seeth that they that have
come thither have cut the knight to pieces limb by limb, and that each
is carrying off a foot or a thigh or an arm or a hand and are
dispersing them through the forest.  And he seeth that the last knight
beareth on the point of his spear the head.  The King goeth after him a
great gallop and crieth out to him: "Ha, Sir knight, abide and speak to
me!"

"What is your pleasure?" saith the knight.

"Fair Sir," saith the King, "I beseech you of all loves that you deign
to give me the head of this knight that you are carrying on the point
of your lance."

"I will give it you," saith the knight, "on condition."

"What condition?" saith the King.

"That you tell me who slew the knight whose head I carry that you ask
of me."

"May I not otherwise have it?" saith the King.

"In no wise," saith he.

"Then will I tell you," saith the King.  "Know of a very truth that
King Arthur slew him."

"And where is he?" saith the knight.

"Seek him until you shall have found him," saith King Arthur, "For I
have told you the truth thereof.  Give me the head."

"Willingly," saith the knight.  He lowereth his spear and the King
taketh the head.  The knight had a horn at his neck.  He setteth it to
his mouth and soundeth a blast right loud.  The knights that were set
within the forest hear the horn and return back a great gallop, and
King Arthur goeth his way toward the oak-tree at the issue of the
launde where the damsel is awaiting him.  And the knights come
presently to him that had given the head to the King and ask him
wherefore he hath sounded the horn.

"For this," saith he, "That this knight that is going away yonder hath
told me that King Arthur slew the Black Knight, and I was minded you
should know it that we may follow him."

"We will not follow him," say the knights, "For it is King Arthur
himself that is carrying off the head, and no power have we to do evil
to him nor other sith that he hath passed the bar.  But you shall aby
it that let him go when he was so nigh you!"

They rush in upon him and slay him and cut him up, and each one
carrieth off his piece the same as they had done with the other. King
Arthur is issued forth of the bar, and cometh to the maiden that is
waiting for him and presenteth her the head.

"Sir," saith the damsel, "Gramercy."

"Damsel," saith he, "With a good will!"

"Sir," saith the damsel, "You may well alight, for nought have you to
fear on this side the bar."  With that, the King alighteth.

"Sir," saith she, "Do off your habergeon heedfully and I will bind up
the wound in your arm, for of none may you be made whole save of me
only."

The King doeth off his habergeon, and the damsel taketh of the blood of
the knight's head that still ran all warm, and therewith washeth King
Arthur his wound, and thereafter maketh him do on his habergeon again.

"Sir," saith she, "Never would you have been whole save by the blood of
this Black Knight.  And for this carried they off the body piecemeal
and the head, for that they well knew you were wounded; and of the head
shall I have right sore need, for thereby shall a castle be yielded up
to me that was reft from me by treason, so I may find the knight that I
go seek, through whom it ought to be yielded up to me."

"Damsel," saith the King, "And who is the knight?"

"Sir," saith she, "He was the son of Alain li Gros of the Valleys of
Camelot, and is named Perlesvax."

"Wherefore Perlesvax?" saith the King.

"Sir," saith she, "When he was born, his father was asked how he should
be named in right baptism, and he said that he would he should have the
name Perlesvax, for the Lord of the Moors had reft him of the greater
part of the Valleys of Camelot, and therefore he would that his son
should by this name be reminded thereof, and God should so multiply him
as that he should be knight.  The lad was right comely and right gentle
and began to go by the forests and launch his javelins, Welsh-fashion,
at hart and hind.  His father and his mother loved him much, and one
day they were come forth of their hold, whereunto the forest was close
anigh, to enjoy them.  Now, there was between the hold and the forest,
an exceeding small chapel that stood upon four columns of marble; and
it was roofed of timber and had a little altar within, and before the
altar a right fair coffin, and thereupon was the figure of a man
graven.  Sir," saith the damsel to the King, "The lad asked his father
and mother what man lay within the coffin.  The father answered: 'Fair
son,' saith he, 'Certes, I know not to tell you, for the tomb hath been
here or ever that my father's father was born, and never have I heard
tell of none that might know who it is therein, save only that the
letters that are on the coffin say that when the Best Knight in the
world shall come hither the coffin will open and the joinings all fall
asunder, and then will it be seen who it is that lieth therein.'"


X.

"Damsel," saith the King, "Have many knights passed thereby sithence
that the coffin was set there?"

"Yea, sir, so many that neither I nor none other may tell the number.
Yet natheless hath not the coffin removed itself for none.  When the
lad heareth his father and mother talking thus, he asketh what a knight
may be?  'Fair son,' saith his mother, 'Of right ought you well to know
by your lineage.'  She telleth the lad that he had eleven uncles on his
father's side that had all been slain in arms, and not one of them
lived knight but twelve years.  Sir," saith she to the King, "The lad
made answer that this was nor that he had asked, but how knights were
made? And the father answered that they were such as had more valour
than any other in the world.  After that he said, 'Fair son, they are
clad in habergeons of iron to protect their bodies, and helms laced
upon their heads, and shields and spears and swords girded wherewithal
to defend their bodies.'"


XI.

"Sir," saith the damsel to the King, "When that the father had thus
spoken to the lad, they returned together to the castle. When the
morrow morning came, the lad arose and heard the birds sing and
bethought him that he would go for disport into the forest for the day
sith that it was fair.  So he mounted on one of his father's horses of
the chase and carried his javelins Welshman-fashion and went into the
forest and found a stag and followed him a good four leagues Welsh,
until that he came into a launde and found two knights all armed that
were there doing battle, and the one had a red shield and the other a
white.  He left of tracking the stag to look on at the melly and saw
that the Red Knight was conquering the White.   He launched one of his
javelins at the Red Knight so hard that he pierced his habergeon and
made it pass through the heart.  The knight fell dead.

"Sir," saith the damsel, "The knight of the white shield made great joy
thereof, and the lad asked him, 'were knights so easy to slay?
Methought,' saith the lad, 'that none might never pierce nor damage a
knight's armour, otherwise would I not have run him through with my
javelin,' saith the lad.  Sir, the lad brought the destrier home to his
father and mother, and right grieved were they when they heard the
tidings of the knight he had slain.  And right were they, for thereof
did sore trouble come to them thereafter.  Sir, the squire departed
from the house of his father and mother and came to the court of King
Arthur. Right gladly did the King make him knight when he knew his
will, and afterward he departed from the land and went to seek
adventure in every kingdom.  Now is he the Best Knight that is in the
world.  So go I to seek him, and full great joy shall I have at heart
and I may find him.  Sir, and you should meet him by any adventure in
any of these forests, he beareth a red shield with a white hart.  And
so tell him that his father is dead, and that his mother will lose all
her land so he come not to succour her; and that the brother of the
knight of the Red shield that he slew in the forest with his javelin
warreth upon her with the Lord of the Moors."

"Damsel," saith the King, "And God grant me to meet him, right fain
shall I be thereof, and right well will I set forth your message."

"Sir," saith she, "Now that I have told you him that I seek, it is your
turn to tell me your name."

"Damsel," saith the King, "Willingly.  They that know me call me
Arthur."

"Arthur?  Have you indeed such name?"

"Yea, damsel," saith he.

"So help me God," saith she, "Now am I sorrier for you than tofore, for
you have the name of the worst King in the world, and I would that he
were here in such sort as you are now.  But never again will he move
from Cardoil, do what he may, such dread hath the Queen lest any should
take him from her, according as I have heard witness, for never saw I
neither the one nor the other.  I was moved to go to his court, but I
have met full a score knights one after other, of whom I asked
concerning him, and one told me the same tale as another, for each told
me that the court of King Arthur is the vilest in the world, and that
all the knights of the Table Round have renounced it for the badness
thereof."

"Damsel," saith the King, "Hereof may he well be sorry, but at the
beginning I have heard say he did right well."

"And who careth," saith the damsel, "for his good beginning when the
end is bad?  And much it misliketh me that so seemly knight and so
worshipful man as are you should have the name of so evil a king."

"Damsel," saith the King, "A man is not good by his name, but by his
heart."

"You say true," saith the damsel, "But for the King's name have I
despite of yours.  And whitherward are you going?"

"I shall go to Cardoil, where I shall find King Arthur when I shall
come thither."

"Go to, then, and bestir!" saith she.

"One bad man with another!  No better hope have I of you, sith that you
go thither!"

"Damsel, you may say your pleasure, for thither I go!  God be with you!"

"And may never God guide you," saith she, "and you go the court of King
Arthur!"


XII.

With that the King mounted again and departed, and left the damsel
under the tree and entered into the deep forest and rode with much ado
as fast as he might to come to Cardoil.  And he had ridden a good ten
leagues Welsh when he heard a Voice in the thick of the forest that
began to cry aloud: "King Arthur of Great Britain, right glad at heart
mayst thou be of this that God hath sent me hither unto thee.  And so
He biddeth thee that thou hold court at the earliest thou mayst, for
the world, that is now made worse of thee and of thy slackness in
well-doing, shall thereof be greatly amended!"

With that the Voice is silent, and the King was right joyous in his
heart of that he had heard.  The story speaketh no more here of other
adventure that befel King Arthur in his returning nor on his arriving.
Anyway, he hath ridden so long that he is come back to Cardoil.  The
Queen and the knights made great feast of him and great joy.  The King
was alighted on the mounting-stage and went up into the hall and made
him be disarmed.  And he showed the Queen the wound that he had on his
arm, that had been right great and painful, but it was healing full
fairly.  The King goeth into the chamber and the Queen with him, and
doeth the King be apparelled in a robe of cloth of silk all furred of
ermine, with coat, surcoat and mantle.

"Sir," saith the Queen, "Sore pain and travail have you had."

"Lady, in such wise behoveth worshipful man to suffer in order that he
may have honour, for hardly shall none without travail come to honour."
He recounteth to the Queen all the adventures that have befallen him
sithence that he was departed, and in what manner he was wounded in the
arm, and of the damsel that had so blamed him of his name.

"Sir," saith the queen, "Now may you well know how meet it is that a
man high and rich and puissant should have great shame of himself when
he becometh evil."

"Lady," saith the King, "So much did the damsel do me well to wot, but
greatly did a Voice recomfort me that I heard in the forest, for it
told me that God bade me hold court presently, and that I shall see
there the fairest adventure befal that ever I may see."

"Sir," saith she, "Right joyous ought you to be that your Saviour hath
had you in remembrance.  Now, therefore, fulfil His commandment."

"Certes, Lady, so will I do.  For never had none better desire of
well-doing than have I as at this time, nor of honour nor of largesse."

"Sir," saith she, "God be praised thereof."



BRANCH II.

Now beginneth here the second branch of the Holy Graal the name of the
Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.


TITLE I

King Arthur was at Cardoil with the Queen and right few knights. By
God's pleasure, the wish and the will had come back to him to win
honour and to do largesse as most he might.  He made seal his letters
and sent them throughout all his lands and all the islands, and gave
notice to the barons and knights that he would hold court at
Pannenoisance, that is situate the sea of Wales, at the feast of S.
John after Whitsuntide.  And he was minded to put it off until that
day, for that suntide was already too nigh, and they that should be
thereat might not all come by the earlier day.  The tidings went
through all lands, so that knights come in great plenty thereunto, for
well-doing had so waxed feeble in all the kingdoms, that every one had
avoided King Arthur as one that should do nought more for ever.
Wherefore all began now to marvel whence his new desire had come.  The
knights of the Table Round that were scattered through the lands and
the forests, by God's will learnt the tidings and right great joy had
they thereof, and came back to the court with great ado.  But neither
Messire Gawain nor Lancelot came thither on that day.  But all the
other came that were then on live.  S. John's day came, and the knights
were come from all parts, marvelling much that the King had not held
the court at Whitsuntide, but they knew not the occasion thereof.  The
day was fair and clear and the air fresh, and the hall was wide and
high and garnished of good knights in great plenty.  The cloths were
spread on the tables whereof were great plenty in the hall.  The King
and the Queen had washen and went to sit at the head of one table and
the other knights sate them down, whereof were full five score and five
as the story telleth.  Kay the Seneschal and Messire Ywain the son of
King Urien served that day at the tables at meat, and five-and-twenty
knights beside.  And Lucan the Butler served the golden cup before the
King.  The sun shone through the windows everywhere amidst the hall
that was strown of flowers and rushes and sweet herbs and gave out a
smell like as had it been sprinkled of balm. And straightway after the
first meat had been served, and while they were yet awaiting the
second, behold you three damsels where they enter into the hall!  She
that came first sate upon a mule white as driven snow and had a golden
bridle and a saddle with a bow of ivory banded with precious stones and
a saddle-cloth of a red samite dropped of gold.  The damsel that was
seated on the mule was right seemly of body but scarce so fair of face,
and she was robed in a rich cloth of silk and gold and had a right rich
hat that covered all her head.  And it was all loaded of costly stones
that flamed like fire.  And great need had she that her head were
covered, for she was all bald without hair, and carried on her neck her
right arm slung in a stole of cloth of gold.  And her arm lay on a
pillow, the richest that ever might be seen, and it was all charged of
little golden bells, and in this hand held she the head of a King
sealed in silver and crowned with gold. The other damsel that came
behind rode after the fashion of a squire, and carried a pack trussed
behind her with a brachet thereupon, and at her neck she bore a shield
banded argent and azure with a red cross, and the boss was of gold all
set with precious stones.  The third damsel came afoot with her kirtle
tucked up like a running footman; and she had in her hand a whip
wherewith she drove the two steeds.  Each of these twain was fairer
than the first, but the one afoot surpassed both the others in beauty.
The first cometh before the King, there where he sitteth at meat with
the Queen.

"Sir," saith she, "The Saviour of the world grant you honour and joy
and good adventure and my Lady the Queen and all them of this hall for
love of you!  Hold it not churlishness and I alight not, for there
where knights be may I not alight, nor ought I until such time as the
Graal be achieved."

"Damsel," saith the King, "Gladly would I have it so."

"Sir," saith she, "That know I well, and may it not mislike you to hear
the errand whereon I am come."

"It shall not mislike me," saith the King, "say your pleasure!"

"Sir," saith she, "The shield that this damsel beareth belonged to
Joseph, the good soldier knight that took down Our Lord of hanging on
the rood.  I make you a present thereof in such wise as I shall tell
you, to wit, that you keep the shield for a knight that shall come
hither for the same, and you shall make hang it on this column in the
midst of your hall, and guard it in such wise as that none may take it
and hang at his neck save he only.  And of this shield shall he achieve
the Graal, and another shield shall he leave here in the hall, red,
with a white hart; and the brachet that the damsel carrieth shall here
remain, and little joy will the brachet make until the knight shall
come."

"Damsel," saith the King, "The shield and the brachet will we keep full
safely, and right heartily we thank you that you have deigned to bring
them hither."

"Sir," saith the damsel, "I have not yet told you all that I have in
charge to deliver.  The best King that liveth on earth and the most
loyal and the most righteous, sendeth you greeting; of whom is sore
sorrow for that he hath fallen into a grievous languishment."

"Damsel," saith the King, "Sore pity is it and it be so as you say; and
I pray you tell me who is the King?"

"Sir," saith she, "It is rich King Fisherman, of whom is great grief."

"Damsel," saith the King, "You say true; and God grant him his heart's
desire!"

"Sir," saith she, "Know you wherefore he hath fallen into languishment?"

"Nay, I know not at all, but gladly would I learn."

"And I will tell you," saith she.  "This languishment is come upon him
through one that harboured in his hostel, to whom the most Holy Graal
appeared.  And, for that he would not ask unto whom one served thereof,
were all the lands commoved to war thereby, nor never thereafter might
knight meet other but he should fight with him in arms without none
other occasion.  You yourself may well perceive the same, for your
well-doing hath greatly slackened, whereof have you had much blame, and
all the other barons that by you have taken ensample, for you are the
mirror of the world alike in well-doing and in evil-doing.  Sir, I
myself have good right to plain me of the knight, and I will show you
wherefore."

She lifteth the rich hat from her head and showeth the King and Queen
and the knights in the hall her head all bald without hair.

"Sir," saith she, "My head was right seemly garnished of hair plaited
in rich tresses of gold at such time as the knight came to the hostel
of the rich King Fisherman, but I became bald for that he made not the
demand, nor never again shall I have my hair until such time as a
knight shall go thither that shall ask the question better than did he,
or the knight that shall achieve the Graal.  Sir, even yet have you not
seen the sore mischief that hath befallen thereof.  There is without
this hall a car that three white harts have drawn hither, and lightly
may you send to see how rich it is. I tell you that the traces are of
silk and the axletrees of gold, and the timber of the car is ebony.
The car is covered above with a black samite, and below is a cross of
gold the whole length, and under the coverlid of the car are the heads
of an hundred and fifty knights whereof some be sealed in gold, other
some in silver and the third in lead.  King Fisherman sendeth you word
that this loss I hath befallen of him that demanded not unto whom one
serveth of the Graal.  Sir, the damsel that beareth the shield holdeth
in her hand the head of a Queen that is sealed in lead and crowned with
copper, and I tell you that by the Queen whose head you here behold was
the King betrayed whose head I bear, and the three manner of knights
whose heads are within the car.  Sir, send without to see the
costliness and fashion of the car."

The King sent Kay the Seneschal to see.  He looked straitly thereat
within and without and thereafter returned to the King. "Sir," saith
he, "Never beheld I car so rich, and there be three harts withal that
draw the car, the tallest and fattest one might ever see.  But and you
will be guided by me, you will take the foremost, for he is scarce so
far, and so might you bid make right good collops thereof."

"Avoid there, Kay!" saith the King.  "Foul churlishness have you
spoken!  I would not such a deed were done for another such kingdom as
is this of Logres!"

"Sir," saith the damsel, "He that hath been wont to do churlishness
doth right grudgingly withdraw himself therefrom. Messire Kay may say
whatsoever him pleaseth, but well know I that you will pay no heed to
his talk.  Sir," saith the damsel, "Command that the shield be hung on
this column and that the brachet be put in the Queen's chamber with the
maidens.  We will go on our way, for here have we been long enough."

Messire Ywain laid hold on the shield and took it off the damsel's neck
by leave of the King, and hung it on the column in the midst of the
hall, and one of the Queen's maidens taketh the brachet and carrieth
him to the Queen's chamber.  And the damsel taketh her leave and
turneth again, and the King commendeth her to God.  When the King eaten
in hall, the Queen with the King and the knights go to lean at the
windows to look at the three damsels and the three white harts that
draw the car, and the more part said that the damsel afoot that went
after the two that were mounted should have the most misease.  The bald
damsel went before, and set not her hat on her head until such time as
behoved her enter into the forest; and the knights that were at the
windows might see them no longer.  Then set she her hat again upon her
head.  The King, the Queen, and the knights when they might see them no
more, came down from the windows, and certain of them said that never
until this time had they seen bald-headed damsel save this one only.


II.

Hereupon the story is silent of King Arthur, and turneth again to speak
of the three damsels and the car that was drawn by the three white
harts.  They are entered into the forest and ride on right busily.
When they had left the castle some seven leagues Welsh behind them,
they saw a knight coming toward them on the way they had to go.  The
knight sat on a tall horse, lean and bony.  His habergeon was all rusty
and his shield pierced in more than a dozen places, and the colour
thereon was so fretted away that none might make out the cognizance
thereof.  And a right thick spear bore he in his hand.  When he came
anigh the damsel, he saluted her right nobly.

"Fair welcome, damsel, to you and your company."

"Sir," saith she, "God grant you joy and good adventure!"

"Damsel," saith the knight, "Whence come you?"

"Sir, from a court high-plenary that King Arthur holdeth at
Pannenoisance.  Go you thither, sir knight," saith the damsel, "to see
the King and the Queen and the knights that are there?"

"Nay, not so!" saith he.  "Many a time have I seen them, but right glad
am I of King Arthur that he hath again taken up his well-doing, for
many a time hath he been accustomed thereof."

"Whitherward have you now emprised your way?" saith the damsel.

"To the land of King Fisherman, and God allow me."

"Sir," saith she, "Tell me your name and bide awhile beside me."

The knight draweth bridle and the damsels and the car come to a stay.
"Damsel," saith he, "Well behoveth me tell you my name. Messire Gawain
am I called, King Arthur's nephew."

"What?  are you Messire Gawain?  my heart well told me as much."

"Yea, damsel," saith he, "Gawain am I."

"God be praised thereof, for so good knight as are you may well go see
the rich King Fisherman.  Now am I fain to pray you of the valour that
is in you and the courtesy, that you return with me and convoy me
beyond a certain castle that is in this forest whereof is some small
peril."

"Damsel," saith Messire Gawain, "Willingly, at your pleasure."

He returneth with the damsel through the midst of the forest that was
tall and leafy and little haunted of folk.  The damsel relateth to him
the adventure of the heads that she carried and that were in the car,
like as she did at the court of King Arthur, and of the shield and the
brachet she had left there, but much it misliked Messire Gawain of the
damsel that was afoot behind them.  "Damsel,"  saith Messire Gawain,
"Wherefore doth not this damsel that goeth afoot mount upon the car?"

"Sir," saith she, "This shall she not, for behoveth her go not
otherwise than afoot.  But and you be so good knight as men say,
betimes will she have done her penance."

"How so?" saith Gawain.

"I will tell you," saith she.  "And it shall so be that God bring you
to the hostel of rich King Fisherman, and the most Holy Graal appear
before you and you demand unto whom is served thereof, then will she
have done her penance, and I, that am bald, shall receive again my
hair.  And so you also make not demand thereof, then will it behove us
suffer sore annoy until such time as the Good knight shall come and
shall have achieved the Graal.  For on account of him that first was
there and made not the demand, are all the lands in sorrow and warfare,
and the good King Fisherman is yet in languishment."

"Damsel," saith Messire Gawain, "God grant me courage and will herein
that I may come to do this thing according to your wish, whereof may I
win worship both of God and of the world."


III.

Messire Gawain and the damsels go on their way a great pace through the
high forest, green and leafy, where the birds are singing, and enter
into the most hideous forest and most horrible that any might ever see,
and seemed it that no greenery never there had been, so bare and dry
were all the branches and all the trees black and burnt as it had been
by fire, and the ground all parched and black atop with no green, and
full of great cracks.

"Damsel," saith Messire Gawain, "Right loathly is this forest and right
hideous.  Goeth it on far like this?"

"Sir." saith she, "For nine leagues Welsh goeth it on the same, but we
shall pass not through the whole thereof."

Messire Gawain looketh from time to time on the damsel that cometh
arbor, and sore it irketh him that he may not amend her estate.  They
ride on until that they come to a great valley and Messire Gawain
looketh along the bottom and seeth appear a black castle that was
enclosed within a girdle of wall, foul and evilseeming.  The nigher he
draweth to the castle the more hideous it seemeth him, and he seeth
great halls appear that were right foully mis-shapen, and the forest
about it he seeth to be like as he had found it behind.  He seeth a
water come down from the head of a mountain, foul and horrible and
black, that went amidst the castle roaring so loud that it seemed to be
thunder. Messire Gawain seeth the entrance of the gateway foul and
horrible like as it had been hell, and within the castle heard he great
outcries and lamentations, and the most part heard he saying: "Ha, God!
What hath become of the Good Knight, and when will he come?"

"Damsel," saith Messire Gawain, "What is this castle here that is so
foul and hideous, wherein is such dolour suffered and such weary
longing for the coming of the Good Knight?"

"Sir, this is the castle of the Black Hermit.  Wherefore am I fain to
pray you that you meddle not herein for nought that they within may do
to me, for otherwise it may well be that your death is at hand, for
against them will you have no might nor power."

They come anigh the castle as it were a couple of bow-shots, and
behold, through the gateway come knights armed on black horses and
their arms all black and their shields and spears, and there were a
hundred and fifty and two, right parlous to behold.  And they come a
great gallop toward the damsel, and toward the car, and take the
hundred and fifty-two heads, each one his own, and set them upon their
spears and so enter into the castle again with great joy.  Messire
Gawain seeth the insolence that the knights have wrought, and right
great shame hath he of himself that he hath not moved withal.

"Messire Gawain," saith the damsel, "Now may you know how little would
your force have availed you herein."

"Damsel, an evil castle is this where folk are robbed on such wise."

"Sir, never may this mischief be amended, nor this outrage be done
away, nor the evil-doer therein be stricken down, nor they that cry and
lament within the prison there be set free until such time as the Good
Knight shall come for whom are they yearning as you have heard but now."

"Damsel, right glad may the knight be that by his valour and his
hardiment shall destroy so many evil folk!"

"Sir, therefore is he the Best Knight in the world, and he is yet young
enough of age, but right sorrowful am I at heart that I know not true
tidings of him; for better will have I to see him than any man on live."

"Damsel, so also have I," saith Messire Gawain, "For then by your leave
would I turn me again."

"Not so, sir, but and you shall come beyond the castle, then will I
teach you the way whereby you ought to go."


IV.

With that they go toward the castle all together.  Just as they were
about to pass beyond the castle wall, behold you where a knight cometh
forth of a privy postern of the castle, and he was sitting upon a tall
horse, his spear in his fist, and at his neck had he a red shield
whereon was figured a golden eagle. "Sir knight," saith he to Messire
Gawain, "I pray you bide."

"What is your pleasure?"

"You must needs joust with me," saith he "and conquer this shield, or
otherwise I shall conquer you.  And full precious is the shield,
insomuch as that great pains ought you to take to have it and conquer
it, for it belonged to the best knight of his faith that was ever, and
the most puissant and the wisest."

"Who, then, was he?" saith Messire Gawain.

"Judas Machabee was he, and he it was that first wrought how by one
bird to take another."

"You say true," saith Messire Gawain; "A good knight was he."

"Therefore right joyful may you be," saith he, "and you may conquer the
same, for your own is the poorest and most battered that ever saw I
borne by knight.  For hardly may a man know the colour thereof."

"Thereby may you well see," saith the damsel to the knight, "that his
own shield hath not been idle, nor hath the horse whereon he sitteth
been stabled so well as yours."

"Damsel," saith the knight, "No need is here of long pleading. Needs
must he joust with me, for him do I defy."

Saith Messire Gawain, "I hear well that you say."

He draweth him back and taketh his career and the knight likewise, and
they come together as fast as their horses may carry them, spear in
rest.  The knight smiteth Messire Gawain on the shield whereof he had
no great defence, and passeth beyond, and in the by-pass the knight
to-brake his spear; and Messire Gawain smiteth him with his spear in
the midst of his breast and beareth him to the ground over the croup of
his horse, all pinned upon his spear, whereof he had a good full hand's
breadth in his breast.  He draweth his spear back to him, and when the
knight felt himself unpinned, he leaped to his feet and came straight
to his horse and would fain set his foot in the stirrup when the damsel
of the car crieth out: "Messire Gawain, hinder the knight! for and he
were mounted again, too sore travail would it be to conquer him!"

When the knight heard name Messire Gawain, he draweth him back: "How?"
saith he; "Is this then the good Gawain, King Arthur's nephew?"

"Yea," saith the damsel, "He it is without fail!"

"Sir," saith the knight to Messire Gawain, "Are you he?"

"Yea," saith he, "Gawain I am!"

"Sir, so please you," saith he, "I hold me conquered, and right sorry
am I that I knew you not or ever I had ado with you."

He taketh the shield from his neck and holdeth it to him.  "Sir," saith
he, "Take the shield that belonged to the best knight that was in his
time of his faith, for none know I of whom it shall be better employed
than of you.  And of this shield were vanquished all they that be in
prison in this castle."  Messire Gawain taketh the shield that was
right fair and rich.

"Sir," saith the knight, "Now give me yours, for you will not bear two
shields."

"You say true," saith Messire Gawain.

He taketh the guige from his neck and would have given him the shield,
when the damsel afoot: "Hold, sir knight, you that are named Messire
Gawain!  What would you do?  And he bear your shield into the castle
there, they of the castle will hold you recreant and conquered, and
will come forth thence and carry you into the castle by force, and
there will you be cast into his grievous prison; for no shield is borne
thereinto save of a vanquished knight only."

"Sir knight," saith Messire Gawain, "No good you wish me, according to
that this damsel saith."

"Sir," saith the knight, "I cry you mercy, and a second time I hold me
conquered, and right glad should I have been might I have borne your
shield within yonder, and right great worship should I have had
thereof, for never yet hath entered there the shield of knight so good.
And now ought I to be right well pleased of your coming, sith that you
have set me free of the sorest trouble that ever knight had."

"What is the trouble?" saith Messire Gawain.

"Sir," saith he, "I will tell you.  Heretofore many a time hath there
been a passing by of knights both of hardy and of coward, and it was my
business to contend and joust with them and do battle, and I made them
present of the shield as did I you.  The more part found I hardy and
well able to defend themselves, that wounded me in many places, but
never was knight so felled me to the ground nor dealt me so sore a
buffet as have you.  And sith that you are carrying away the shield and
I am conquered, never here-after shall knight that passeth before this
castle have no dread of me nor of no knight that is herein."

"By my head," saith Messire Gawain, "Now am I gladder of my conquest
than I was before."

"Sir," saith the knight, "By your leave will I go my way, for, and I
may hide not my shame in the castle, needs must I show it openly
abroad."

"God grant you do well!" saith Messire Gawain.

"Messire Gawain," saith the Damsel of the Car, "give me your shield
that the knight would fain have carried off."

"Willingly, damsel," saith he.  The damsel that went afoot taketh the
shield and setteth it in the car.  Howbeit, the knight that was
conquered mounted again upon his horse, and entered again into the
castle, and when he was come thereinto, arose a noise and great outcry
so loud that all the forest and all the valley began to resound
thereof.  "Messire Gawain," saith the Damsel of the Car, "the knight is
shamed and there cast in prison another time.  Now haste, Messire
Gawain!  for now may you go!"

With that they all set forward again upon their way together, and leave
the castle an English league behind.  "Damsel," saith Messire Gawain,
"When it shall please you, I shall have your leave to go."

"Sir," saith she, "God be guard of your body, and right great thanks of
your convoy."

"Lady," saith he, "My service is always ready at your command."

"Sir," saith the damsel, "Gramercy, and your own way see you there by
yonder great cross at the entrance of yonder forest. And beyond that,
will you find the fairest forest and most delightsome when you shall
have passed through this that sore is wearisome."

Messire Gawain turneth him to go, and the damsel afoot crieth out to
him: "Sir, not so heedful are you as I supposed."

Messire Gawain turneth his horse's head as he that was startled:
"Wherefore say you so, damsel?" saith he.

"For this," saith she, "That you have never asked of my Damsel
wherefore she carrieth her arm slung at her neck in this golden stole,
nor what may be the rich pillow whereon the arm lieth. And no greater
heed will you take at the court of the rich King Fisherman."

"Sweet, my friend," saith the Damsel of the Car, "blame not Messire
Gawain only, but King Arthur before him and all the knights that were
in the court.  For not one of them all that were there was so heedful
as to ask me.  Go your ways, Messire Gawain, for in vain would you now
demand it, for I will tell you not, nor shall you never know it save
only by the most coward knight in the world, that is mine own knight
and goeth to seek me and knoweth not where to find me."

"Damsel," saith Messire Gawain, "I durst not press you further."

With that the Damsel departeth, and Messire Gawain setteth him forward
again on the way that she had taught him.



BRANCH III.

INCIPIT.

Here beginneth another branch of the Graal in the name of the Father,
and in the name of the Son, and in the name of the Holy Ghost.


TITLE I

Here is the story silent of the three damsels and the Car and saith
that Messire Gawain hath passed throughout the evil forest and is
entered into the forest passing fair, the broad, the high, the
plenteous of venison.  And he rideth a great pace, but sore abashed is
he of that the damsel had said to him, and misdoubteth him but he shall
have blame thereof in many places.  He rode hard the day long till that
it was evensong and the sun was about to set.  And he looketh before
him and seeth the house of a hermit and the chapel in the thick of the
forest; and a spring flowed forth in front of the chapel right clear
and fresh, and above it was a tree full broad and tall that threw a
shadow over the spring.  A damsel sate under the tree and held a mule
by the reins and at the saddle-bow had she the head of a knight
hanging. And Messire Gawain cometh thitherward and alighteth.

"Damsel," saith he, "God give you good adventure!"

"Sir," saith she, "And you always."

When she was risen up over against him, "Damsel," saith he, "For whom
are you a-waiting here?"

"Sir," saith she, "I am waiting for the hermit of this holy chapel,
that is gone into the forest, and I would fain ask him tidings of a
knight."

"Think you he will tell you them and he knoweth any?"

"Yea, sir, I think so, according to that I have been told."

Therewithal behold you the hermit that was coming, and saluteth the
damsel and Messire Gawain and openeth the door of the house and setteth
the two steeds within and striketh off the bridles and giveth them
green-meat first and barley after, and fain would he have taken off the
saddles when Messire Gawain leapeth before: "Sir," saith he, "Do not
so!  This business is not for you!"

"Hermit though I be," saith he, "yet well know I how to deal withal,
for at the court of King Uther Pendragon have I been squire and knight
two-score years, and a score or mort have I been in this hermitage."

And Messire Gawain looketh at him in wonderment. "Sir," saith he,
"Meseemeth you are not of more than forty years."

"That know I well of a truth," saith the hermit, and Messire Gawain
taketh off the saddles and bethinketh him more of the damsel's mule
than of his own horse.  And the hermit taketh Messire Gawain by the
hand and the damsel and leadeth them into the chapel.  And the place
was right fair.

"Sir," saith the hermit to Messire Gawain, "You will disarm you not,"
saith he, "for this forest is passing adventurous, and no worshipful
man behoveth be disgarnished."

He goeth for his spear and for his shield and setteth them within the
chapel.  He setteth before them such meat as he hath, and when they
have eaten giveth them to drink of the spring.

"Sir," saith the damsel, "Of a knight that I go seek am I come to ask
you tidings."

"Who is the knight?" saith the hermit.

"Sir, he is the Chaste Knight of most holy lineage.  He hath a heart of
gold, the look of a lion, the navel of a virgin maid, a heart of steel,
the body of an elephant, and without wickedness are all his conditions."

"Damsel," saith the hermit, "Nought will I tell you concerning him, for
I know not of a certainty where he is, save this, that he hath lain in
this chapel twice, not once only, within this twelvemonth."

"Sir," saith she, "Will you tell me no more of him, nor none other
witting?"

"In no wise," saith the hermit.

"And you, Messire Gawain?" saith she.

"Damsel," saith he, "As fainly would I see him as you, but none find I
that may tell me tidings of him."

"And the damsel of the Car, Sir, have you seen her?"

"Yea, lady," saith he, "It is but just now sithence that I left her."

"Carried she still her arm slung at her neck?"

"Yea," saith Messire Gawain, "in such wise she carried it."

"Of a long while," saith the damsel, "hath she borne it thus."

"Sir," saith the hermit, "how are you named?"

"Sir," saith he, "Gawain am I called, King Arthur's nephew."

"Thereof I love you the better," saith the hermit.

"Sir," saith the damsel, "You are of kindred to the worst King that is."

"Of what King speak you?" saith Messire Gawain.

"I speak," saith she, "of King Arthur, through whom is all the world
made worser, for he began doing well and now hath become evil.  For
hatred of him hate I a knight that found me nigh S. Augustine's Chapel,
and yet was he the comeliest knight that saw I ever.  He slew a knight
within the bar right hardily.  I asked him for the head of the knight
and he went back for the same and set himself in sore peril.  He
brought it me, and I made him great joy, but when he told me his name
was Arthur I had no fainness of the bounty he had done me, for that he
had the name of that evil King."


II.

"Damsel," saith Messire Gawain, "You may say your pleasure.  I tell you
that King Arthur hath held the richest court that he hath held ever,
and these evil conditions whereof you blame him is he minded to put
away for evermore, and more will he do of good and more of largesse
than was ever known aforetime so long as he shall live; nor know I none
other knight that beareth his name."

"You are right," saith the damsel, "to come to his rescue, for that he
is your uncle, but your rescue will scarce avail him and he deliver not
himself."

"Sir," saith the hermit to Messire Gawain, "The damsel will say her
pleasure.  May God defend King Arthur, for his father made me knight.
Now am I priest, and in this hermitage ever sithence that I came hither
have I served King Fisherman by the will of Our Lord and His
commandment, and all they that serve him do well partake of his reward,
for the place of his most holy service is a refuge so sweet that unto
him that hath been there a year, it seemeth to have been but a month
for the holiness of the place and of himself, and for the sweetness of
his castle wherein have I oftentimes done service in the chapel where
the Holy Graal appeareth.  Therefore is it that I and all that serve
him are so youthful of seeming."

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "By what way may a man go to his castle?"

"Sir," saith the hermit, "None may teach you the way, save the will of
God lead you therein.  And would you fain go thither?"

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "It is the most wish that I have."

"Sir," saith the hermit, "Now God give you grace and courage to ask the
question that the others to whom the Graal hath appeared would ask not,
whereof have many mischances sithence befallen much people."


III.

With that, they left of talking, and the hermit led Messire Gawain into
his house to rest, and the damsel abode still in the chapel.  On the
morrow when dawn appeared, Messire Gawain that had lain all armed,
arose and found his saddle ready and the damsel, and the bridles set
on, and cometh to the chapel and findeth the hermit that was apparelled
to sing mass, and seeth the damsel kneeling before an image of Our
Lady, and she prayed God and the sweet Lady that they would counsel her
that whereof she had need, and wept right tenderly so that the tears
ran down her face.  And when she had prayed of a long space she
ariseth, and Messire Gawain biddeth her God give her good day, and she
returneth his salute.

"Damsel," saith he, "Meseemeth you are not over joyous."

"Sir," saith she, "I have right, for now am I nigh unto my desolation,
sith that I may not find the Good Knight.  Now must I needs go to the
castle of the Black Hermit, and bear thither the head that hangeth at
my saddle-bow, for otherwise shall I not be able to pass through the
forest but my body should there be cast in prison or shamed, and this
shall be the quittance for my passing.  Then will I seek the Damsel of
the Car and so shall I go in safer through the forest."

With that the hermit had begun the mass and Messire Gawain and the
damsel heard it.  When mass was sung, Messire Gawain took leave of the
hermit and the damsel also.  And Messire Gawain goeth one way and the
damsel the other, and either biddeth other to God.


IV.

Hereupon the story is now silent of the damsel, and saith that Messire
Gawain goeth through the high forest and rideth a great pace, and
prayeth God right sweetly that He will set him in such way as that
thereby he may go to the land of the rich King Fisherman.  And he
rideth until the hour of noon, and cometh into the fulness of the
forest and seeth under a tree a squire alighted of a horse of the
chase.  Messire Gawain saluteth him, and the squire saith: "Sir, right
welcome may you be!"

"Fair sweet friend," saith Messire Gawain, "Whither go you?"

"Sir, I go to seek the lord of this forest."

"Whose is the forest?" saith Messire Gawain. "Sir, it belongeth to the
best knight in the world."

"Can you tell me tidings of him?"

"He ought to bear a shield banded azure and argent with a red cross
thereon and a boss of gold.  I say that he is good knight, but little
call have I to praise him, for he slew my father in this forest with a
javelin.  The Good Knight was squire what time he slew him, and fain
would I avenge my father upon him and I may find him, for he reft me of
the best knight that was in the realm of Logres when he slew my father.
Well did he bereave me of him what time he slew him with his javelin
without defiance, nor shall I never be at ease nor at rest until I
shall have avenged him."

"Fair sweet friend," saith Messire Gawain, "Sith that he is knight so
good take heed you increase not your wrong of your own act, and I would
fain that you had found him, so as that no evil had befallen him
thereof."


V.

"So would not I," saith the squire, "for never shall I see him in this
place but I shall run upon him as my mortal enemy!"

"Fair sweet friend," saith Messire Gawain, "you may say your pleasure,
but tell me is there no hold in this forest wherein I may harbour me
the night?"

"Sir," saith the squire, "No hold know I within twenty league of your
way in any quarter.  Wherefore no leisure have you to tarry, for it is
high noon already."

So Messire Gawain saluteth the squire and goeth a great pace as he that
knoweth neither highway nor byway save only as adventure may lead him.
And the forest pleaseth him well for that it is so fair and that he
seeth the deer pass by before him in great herds.  He rode on until it
drew toward evensong at a corner of the forest.  The evening was fair
and calm and the sun was about to set.  And a score league Welsh had he
ridden sithence that he parted from the squire, and sore he misdoubted
him that he should find no hold.  He found the fairest meadow-land in
the world, and looked before him when he had ridden a couple of
bow-shot lengths and saw a castle appear nigh the forest on a mountain.
And it was enclosed of high walls with battlements, and within were
fair halls whereof the windows showed in the outer walls, and in the
midst was an ancient tower that was compassed round of great waters and
broad meadow-lands.  Thitherward Messire Gawain draweth him and looketh
toward the gateway of the castle and seeth a squire issue forth a great
pace upon a hackney, and he came the way that Messire Gawain was
coming.  And when the squire seeth him, and hath drawn somewhat anigh,
he saluteth him right nobly.


VI.

"Sir, right welcome may you be!"

"Good adventure may you have!" saith Messire Gawain.  "Fair sweet
friend, what is this castle here, sir?"

"Sir, it is the castle of the Widow Lady."

"What is the name thereof;"

"Camelot; and it belonged to Alain li Gros, that was a right loyal
knight and worshipful man.  He is dead this long time, and my Lady hath
remained without succour and without counsel. Wherefore is the castle
warred upon of them that would fain reave her thereof by force.  The
Lord of the Moors and another knight are they that war upon her and
would fain reave her of this castle as they have reft her of seven
other already.  Greatly desireth she the return of her son, for no
counsel hath she save only of her one daughter and of five old knights
that help her to guard the castle.  Sir," saith he, "The door is made
fast and the bridge drawn up, for they guard the castle closely, but,
so please you, you will tell me your name and I will go before and make
the bridge be lowered and the gate unfastened, and will say that you
will lodge within to-night."

"Gramercy," saith Messire Gawain, "right well shall my name be known or
ever I depart from the castle."

The squire goeth his way a great pace, and Messire Gawain tided softly
at a walk for he had yet a long way to go.  And he found a chapel that
stood between the forest and the castle, and it was builded upon four
columns of marble and within was a right fair sepulchre.  The chapel
had no fence of any kind about it so that he seeth the coffin within
full clearly, and Messire Gawain bideth awhile to look thereon.  And
the squire entered into the castle and hath made the bridge be lowered
and the door opened. He alighteth and is come into the hall when was
the Widow Lady and her daughter.  Saith the Lady to the squire:
"Wherefore have you returned from doing my message?  Lady, for the
comeliest knight that I have seen ever, and fain would he harbour
within to-night, and he is garnished of all arms and rideth without
company."

"And what name hath he?" saith the Lady.

"Lady, he told me you should know it well or ever he depart from this
castle."

Therewithal the Lady gan weep for joy and her daughter also, and,
lifting her hands towards heaven, "Fair Lord God!" saith the Widow
Lady, "And this be indeed my son, never before have I had joy that
might be likened to this!  Now shall I not be disherited of mine
honour, neither shall I lose my castle whereof they would fain reave me
by wrong, for that no Lord nor champion have I!"


VII.

Thereupon the Widow Lady ariseth up and her daughter likewise, and they
go over the bridge of the castle and see Messire Gawain that was yet
looking on the coffin within the chapel.

"Now haste!" saith the Lady; "At the tomb shall we be well able to see
whether it be he!"

They go to the chapel right speedily, and Messire Gawain seeth them
coming and alighteth. "Lady," saith he, "Welcome may you be, you and
your company."

The Lady answereth never a word until that they are come to the tomb.
When she findeth it not open she falleth down in a swoon. And Messire
Gawain is sore afraid when he seeth it.  The Lady cometh back out of
her swoon and breaketh out into great lamentation.

"Sir," saith the damsel to Messire Gawain, "Welcome may you be! But now
sithence my mother supposed that you had been her son and made great
joy thereof, and now seeth she plainly that you are not he, whereof is
she sore sorrowful, for so soon as he shall return, this coffin
behoveth open, nor until that hour shall none know who it is that lieth
therein."

The Lady riseth up and taketh Messire Gawain by the hand. "Sir," saith
she, "What is your name?"

"Lady," saith he, "I am called Gawain, King Arthur's nephew."

"Sir," saith she, "You shall be he that is welcome both for the sake of
my son and for your own sake."

The Lady biddeth a squire lead his horse into the castle and carry his
shield and spear.  Then they enter into the castle and lead Messire
Gawain into the hall, and make disarm him.  After that, they fetch him
water to wash his hands and his face, for he was distained of the rust
of his habergeon.  The Lady maketh apparel him in a rich robe of silk
and gold, and furred of ermine.  The Widow Lady cometh forth of her
chamber and maketh Messire Gawain sit beside her.  "Sir," saith she,
"Can you tell me any tidings of my son that I have not seen of this
long time past, and of whom at this present am I sore in need?"


VIII.

"Lady," saith he, "No tidings of him know I to tell you, and right
heavy am I thereof, for he is the knight of the world that fainest I
would see and he be your son as I am told.  What name hath he?"

"Sir," saith she, "His name in right baptism is Perceval, and a right
comely squire was he when he departed hence.  Now as at this time is it
said that he is the comeliest knight on live and the most hardy and the
cleanest of all wickedness.  And sore need have I of his hardiment, for
what time that he departed hence he left me in the midst of a great
warfare on behalf of the Knight of the Red Shield that he slew.  Within
the se'nnight thereafter he went away, nor never once have I seen him
sithence, albeit a full seven year hath passed already.  And now the
brother of the knight that he slew and the Lord of the Moors are
warring upon me and are fain to reave me of my castle and God counsel
me not. For my brothers are too far away from me, and King Pelles of
the Lower Folk hath renounced his land for God's sake and entered into
a hermitage.  But the King of Castle Mortal hath in him as much of
wickedness and felony as these twain have in them of good, and enough
thereof have they.  But neither succour nor help may they give me, for
the King of Castle Mortal challengeth my Lord King Fisherman both of
the most Holy Graal and of the Lance whereof the point bleedeth every
day, albeit God forbid he should ever have them."


IX.

"Lady," saith Messire Gawain, "There was at the hostel of King
Fisherman a knight before whom the Holy Graal appeared three times, yet
never once would he ask whereof it served nor whom it honoured."

"Sir," saith the Widow Lady's daughter, "You say true, and the Best
Knight is he of the world.  This say I for love of my brother, and I
love all knights for the love of him, but by the foolish wit of the
knight hath mine uncle King Fisherman fallen into languishment."

"Sir," saith the Lady, "Behoveth all good knights go see the rich King
Fisherman.  Will you not therefore go?"

"Lady," saith Messire Gawain, "Yea, that will I, so speedily as I may,
for not elsewhither have I emprised my way."

"Sir," saith she, "Then are you going to see my son, wherefore tell my
son, and you see him, of mine evil plight and my misease, and King
Fisherman my brother.  But take heed, Messire Gawain, that you be
better mindful than was the knight."

"Lady," saith Messire Gawain, "I shall do as God shall teach me."

In the meanwhile as they were speaking thus together, behold you
therewithal the Widow Lady's five knights that were come in from the
forest and make bring harts and hinds and wild swine.  So they alighted
and made great joy of Messire Gawain when they knew who he was.


X.

When the meat was ready they sate to eat, and full plenteously were
they provided and right well were they served.  Thereupon, behold,
cometh the squire that had opened the door for Messire Gawain, and
kneeleth before the Widow Lady.

"And what tidings?" saith she.

"Lady, there is to be a right great assembly of tourney in the valleys
that aforetime were ours.  Already have they spread the Welsh booths,
and thither are come these two that are warring upon you and great
store other knights.  And they have ordained that he which shall do
best at the assembly shall undertake the garrison of this castle in
such sort as that he shall hold it for his own alone against all other."

The Widow Lady beginneth to weep: "Sir," saith she to Messire Gawain,
"Now may you understand that the castle is not mine own, sith that
these knights say it is theirs as you hear."

"Certes, Lady," saith he, "Herein do they great dishonour and a sin."


XI.

When the table was removed the damsel fell at Messire Gawain's feet,
weeping.  He raiseth her forthwith and saith to her, "Damsel, herein do
you ill."

"For God's sake, Sir, take pity on my Lady mother and me!"

"Certes, damsel, great pity have I of you."

"Sir, now shall it be seen in this strait whether you be good knight,
for good is the knighthood that doeth well for God's sake."

The Widow Lady and her daughter go into the chamber, and Messire
Gawain's bed was made in the midst of the hall.  So he went and lay
down as did also the five knights.  All the night was Messire Gawain in
much thought.  The morrow, when he was risen, he went to hear mass in a
chapel that was within and ate thereafter three sops in wine and then
armed him, and at the same time asked the five knights that were there
in the hall whether they would go see the assembly.

"Yea, Sir," say they, "and you be going thither."

"In faith, thither verily will I go!" saith Messire Gawain.

The knights are armed forthwith, and their horses brought and Messire
Gawain's, and he goeth to take leave of the Widow Lady and her
daughter.  But great joy make they of this that they have heard say
that he will go with their knights to the assembly.


XII.

Messire Gawain and the five knights mounted and issued forth of the
castle and rode a great gallop before a forest.  Messire Gawain looketh
before him about the foreclose of the forest, and seeth the fairest
purlieus that he had seen ever, and so broad they be that he may not
see nor know the fourth part thereof. They are garnished of tall
forests on one hand and on the other, and there are high rocks in the
midst with wild deer among.

"Sir," say the knights, "Lo, these be the Valleys of Camelot whereof my
Lady and her daughter have been bereft, and bereft also hath she been
of the richest castles that be in Wales to the number of seven."

"A wrong is it and a sin!" saith Messire Gawain.

So far have they ridden that they see the ensigns and the shields there
where the assembly is to be held, and they see already mounted the more
part of the knights all armed and running their horses down the
meadow-land.  And they see the tents stretched on the one hand and on
another.  And Messire Gawain bideth, and the five knights under a tree,
and see the knights assembling on one hand and on another.  One of the
five knights that were with him gave him witting of the Lord of the
Moors and the brother of the knight of the Red Shield that had to name
Chaos the Red.  So soon as the tournament was assembled, Messire Gawain
and the knights come to the assembly, and Messire Gawain goeth to a
Welsh knight and beareth him to the ground, both him and his horse, all
in a heap.  And the five come after at a great gallop and each
overthroweth his own, and greatly pride they themselves of Messire
Gawain.  Chaos the Red seeth Messire Gawain but knoweth him not.  He
goeth toward him a full career, and Messire Gawain receiveth him on the
point of his spear and hurtleth against him so sore that he all
to-brast his collarbone and maketh the spear fly from his fist.  And
Messire Gawain searcheth the fellowships of one part and the other, and
findeth not nor encountereth no knight before him in his way but he
putteth him off his horse or woundeth him, either by himself or by one
of the five knights, that make right great joy of that they see him do.
They show him the Lord of the Moors that was coming with a full great
fellowship of folk.  He goeth thitherward a great gallop.  They mell
together either upon other of their spears that they bent and all
to-brast in flinders, and hurtle together so stoutly both of their
horses and their bodies that the Lord of the Moors loseth his stirrups
and hath the hinder saddlebow to-frushed, and falleth down to the
ground over his horse croup in such sort that the peak of his helm
dinteth a full palm's breadth into the turf. And Messire Gawain taketh
the horse that was right rich and good, maugre all of his fellowship,
and giveth it to one of the five knights that maketh it be led to
Camelot of a squire.  Messire Gawain searcheth the ranks on the one
hand and on the other, and doeth such feats of arms as never no knight
might do the same again.  The five knights also showed great hardiment,
and did more of arms that day than ever had they done tofore, for not
one of them but had overthrown at least a single knight and won his
horse.  The Lord of the Moors was mounted again on another rich horse
and had great shame for that Messire Gawain had overthrown him.  He
espieth Messire Gawain and goeth toward him a great gallop and thinketh
to avenge his shame.  They come together either on other with a great
shock, and Messire Gawain smiteth him with the truncheon of his spear
that he had still left, in the midst of his breast, so that it was all
to-splintered.  The Lord of the Moors likewise again to-brast his spear
upon him. Messire Gawain draweth his sword and flingeth the truncheon
to the ground.  The Lord of the Moors doth likewise and commandeth his
folk not to mell betwixt them twain, for never yet had he found no
knight that he had not conquered.  They deal them great buffets on the
helms, either upon other, in such sort that the sparks fly thereout and
their swords are blunted.  The buffets of Messire Gawain are heavier
than the other's, for he dealeth them so mighty and horrible that the
blood rayeth out from the Lord of the Moors by the mouth and the nose
so that his habergeon is all bloody thereof and he may no more endure.
Thereupon he yieldeth him prisoner to Messire Gawain, that is right
glad thereof and his five knights likewise.  The Lord of the Moors
goeth to his tent to alight, and Messire Gawain with him and alighteth.
And Messire Gawain taketh the horse and saith to one of the knights,
"Keep this for me."

And all the knights are repaired to their tents, and with one accord
say they all that the knight of the Red Shield with the eagle of gold
thereon hath done better than we, and they ask the Lord of the Moors
whether he accordeth with them, and he saith "Aye."

"Sir," saith he to Messire Gawain, "You, then, are the warden of this
castle of Camelot."

"Gramercy, lord!" saith Messire Gawain.  He calleth the five knights
and saith unto them: "Lords, my will is that you be there on my behalf
and that you shall safeguard the same by consent of the knights that
are here present."

"Sir, right gladly do we agree thereto."

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain to the Lord of the Moors, "I give you
moreover as my prisoner to the Widow Lady that harboured me last night."

"Sir," saith he, "This have you no right to do.  Assembly of tourney is
not war.  Hence have you no right to imprison my body in castle, for
well am I able to pay my ransom here.  But tell me, what is your name?"

"I am called Gawain."

"Ha, Messire Gawain, many a time have I heard tell of you albeit never
tofore have I seen you.  But sith that the castle of Camelot is in your
keeping, I promise you loyally that before a year and a day neither the
castle nor none of the Lady's land need fear nought from me nor from
any other so far forth as I may hinder him, and hereto do I pledge me
in the presence of all these knights that are here.  And, so you would
have of me gold or silver, thereof will I give you at your will."

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "Gramercy!  I consent freely to as much as
you have said."

Messire Gawain taketh leave and turneth him again toward the castle of
Camelot, and sendeth by a squire the horse of the Lord of the Moors to
the daughter of the Widow Lady, that made great joy thereof.  And the
five knights drive before them the horses they have taken booty.
Whereof great also was the joy.  No need to wonder whether Messire
Gawain were well harboured that night at the castle.  He recounted to
the Lady how the castle was in the keeping of these knights.  When it
came to morning-tide, Messire Gawain took leave and departed from the
castle, but not before he had heard mass, for such was his custom.  The
Widow Lady and her daughter commend him to God, and the castle
remaineth in better keeping than he had found it.



BRANCH IV.


INCIPIT.

Here beginneth another branch of the Graal in the name of the Father,
and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.


TITLE I.

And the story is silent here of the mother of the Good Knight, and
saith that Messire Gawain goeth so as God and adventure lead him toward
the land of the rich King Fisherman.  And he entereth into a great
forest, all armed, his shield at his neck and his spear in his hand.
And he prayeth Our Lord that He counsel him of this holy errand he hath
emprised so as that he may honourably achieve it.  He rode until that
he came at evensong to a hold that was in the midst of the forest.  And
it was compassed about of a great water, and had about it great clumps
of trees so as that scarce with much pains might he espy the hall, that
was right large.  The river that compassed it about was water royal,
for it lost not its right name nor its body as far as the sea. And
Messire Gawain bethought him that it was the hold of a worshipful man,
and draweth him thitherward to lodge.  And as he drew anigh the bridge
of the hold, he looketh and seeth a dwarf sitting on a high bench.  He
leapeth up: "Messire Gawain," saith he, "Welcome may you be!"

"Fair, sweet friend," saith Messire Gawain, "God give you good
adventure!  You know me, then?" saith he.

"Well do I know you," saith the dwarf, "For I saw you at the
tournament.  At a better moment could you not have come hither, for my
lord is not here.  But you will find my lady, the fairest and most
gentle and most courteous in the realm of Logres, and as yet is she not
of twenty years."

"Fair friend," saith Messire Gawain, "What name hath the lord of the
hold?"

"Sir, he is called of Little Gomeret.  I will go tell my lady that
Messire Gawain is come, the good knight, and bid her make great joy."

Howbeit, Messire Gawain marvelleth much that the dwarf should make him
such cheer, for many knaveries hath he found in many places within the
bodies of many dwarfs.  The dwarf is come into the chamber where the
lady was.

"Now, haste, Lady!" saith he, "Make great joy, for Messire Gawain is
come to harbour with you."

"Certes," saith she, "Of this am I right glad and right sorry; glad,
for that the good knight will lie here to-night, sorry, for that he is
the knight that my lord most hateth in the world. Wherefore he warneth
me against him for love of him, for oftentimes hath he told me that
never did Messire Gawain keep faith with dame nor damsel but he would
have his will of them."

"Lady," saith the dwarf, "It is not true albeit it is so said."


II.

Thereupon Messire Gawain entereth into the courtyard and alighteth, and
the lady cometh to meet him and saith to him: "May you be come to joy
and good adventure."

"Lady," saith he, "May you also have honour and good adventure."

The lady taketh him by the hand and leadeth him into the hall and
maketh him be seated on a cushion of straw.  And a squire leadeth his
horse to stable.  And the dwarf summoneth two other squires and doeth
Messire Gawain be disarmed, and helpeth them right busily, and maketh
fetch water to wash his hands and his face.

"Sir," saith the dwarf, "Your fists are still all swollen of the
buffets you gave and received at the tournament."

Messire Gawain answered him nought.  And the dwarf entereth into the
chamber and bringeth a scarlet robe furred of ermine and maketh it be
done on Messire Gawain.  And meat was made ready and the table set, and
the lady sate to eat.  Many a time looked he upon the lady by reason of
her great beauty, and, had he been minded to trust to his heart and his
eyes, he would have all to-changed his purpose; but so straitly was his
heart bound up, and so quenched the desires thereof, that nought would
he allow himself to think upon that might turn to wickedness, for the
sake of the high pilgrimage he had emprised.  Rather 'gan he withdraw
his eyes from looking at the lady, that was held to be of passing great
beauty.  After meat Messire Gawain's bed was made, and he apparelled
himself to lie down.  The lady bade him God give him good adventure,
and he made answer the like.  When the lady was in her chamber, the
dwarf said to Messire Gawain: "Sir, I will lie before you, so as to
keep you company until you be asleep."

"Gramercy," saith he, "And God allow me at some time to reward you of
the service."

The dwarf laid himself down on a mattress before Messire Gawain, and
when he saw that he slept, he ariseth as quickly as he may, and cometh
to a boat that was on the river that ran behind the hall, and entereth
thereinto and roweth up-stream of the river. And he cometh to a
fishery, where was a right fair hall on a little eyot enclosed by a
marshy arm of the river.  The jealous knight was come thither for
disport, and lay in the midst of the hall upon a couch.  The dwarf
cometh forth of his boat thereinto, and lighteth a great candle in his
fist and cometh before the couch.  "What ho, there!" saith the dwarf,
"Are you sleeping?"

And the other waketh up sore startled, and asketh what is the matter
and wherefore is he come?

"In God's name," saith he, "You sleep not so much at your ease as doth
Messire Gawain!"

"How know you that?" saith he.

"Well know I," saith the dwarf, "For I left him but now in your hall,
and methinketh he and your lady are abed together arm to arm."

"How?" saith he, "I forbade her she should ever harbour Messire Gawain."

"In faith," said the dwarf, "She hath made him greater cheer than ever
saw I her make to none other!  But haste you and come, for great fear
have I lest he carry her away!"

"By my head!" saith the knight; "I will go not, howsoever it be! But
she shall pay for it, even though she go!"

"Then of wrong will it be!" saith the dwarf, "as methinketh!"


III.

Messire Gawain lay in the hall that was ware of nought of this. He
seeth that day hath broken fair and clear, and ariseth up. The lady
cometh to the door of the hall and seeth not the dwarf, whereby well
she understandeth his treachery.  She saith to Messire Gawain, "Sir,
for God's sake have pity upon me, for the dwarf hath betrayed me!  And
you withdraw yourself forth of our forest and help not to rescue me
from the smart that my lord will make me suffer, great sin will you
have thereof.  For well know you, that of right ought I not to be held
guilty toward my lord nor toward any other, for aught that you have
done toward me or I toward you."

"You say true," saith Messire Gawain.  Thereupon is he armed, and
taketh leave of the lady and issueth forth of the fair hold and setteth
him in an ambush in the forest nigh thereby.  Straightway behold the
jealous knight where he cometh, he and his dwarf.  He entereth into the
hall.  The lady cometh to meet him.

"Sir," saith she, "Welcome may you be!"

"And you," saith he, "Shame and evil adventure may you have, as the
most disloyal dame on live, for that this night have you harboured in
my hostel and in my bed him that most have I warned you against!"

"Sir," saith she, "In your hostel did I harbour him, but never hath
your bed been shamed by me, nor never shall be!"

"You lie!" saith he, "like a false woman!"

He armeth himself all incontinent and maketh his horse be armed, then
maketh the lady go down and despoil her to her shirt, that crieth him
mercy right sweetly and weepeth.  He mounteth his horse and taketh his
shield and his spear, and maketh the lady be taken of the dwarf by her
tresses and maketh her be led before him into the forest.  And he
bideth above a pool where was a spring, and maketh her enter into the
water that flowed forth full cold, and gathereth saplings in the forest
for rods and beginneth to smite and beat her across upon her back and
her breast in such sort that the stream from the spring was all bloody
therewithal.  And she began to cry out right loud, until at last
Messire Gawain heareth her and draweth forth of the ambush wherein he
was, and cometh thitherward a great gallop.

"By my faith," saith the dwarf, "Look you here where Messire Gawain
cometh!"

"By my faith," saith the knight, "Now know I well that nought is there
here but treachery, and that the matter is well proven!"

By this time, Messire Gawain is come, and saith: "Avoid, Sir knight!
Wherefore slay you the best lady and most loyal that ever have I seen?
Never tofore have I found lady that hath done me so much honour, and
this ought you to be well pleased to know, for neither in her bearing,
nor in her speech, nor in herself found I nought save all goodness
only.  Wherefore I pray you of franchise and of love that you forbear
your wrath and that you set her forth of the water.  And so will I
swear on all the sacred hallows in this chapel that never did I beseech
her of evil nor wantonness nor never had I no desire thereof."

The knight was full of great wrath when he saw that Messire Gawain had
not gone his way thence, and an anguish of jealousy burneth him heart
and body and overburdeneth him of folly and outrage, and Messire Gawain
that is still before him moveth him to yet further transgression.
Natheless, for the fear that he hath of him he speaketh to him:
"Messire Gawain," saith he, "I will set her forth thence on one
condition, that you joust at me and I at you, and, so you conquer me,
quit shall she be of misdoing and of blame, but and if I shall conquer
you, she shall be held guilty herein.  Such shall be the judgment in
this matter."

"I ask no better," saith Messire Gawain.


IV.

Thereupon, the knight biddeth the dwarf make set the lady forth of the
pool of the spring and make her sit in a launde whereas they were to
joust.  The knight draweth him back the better to take his career, and
Messire Gawain cometh as fast as his horse may carry him toward Marin
the Jealous.  And when Marin seeth him coming, he avoideth his buffet
and lowereth his spear and cometh to his wife that was right sore
distraught, and wept as she that suffered blameless, and smote her
through, out the body and slew her, and then turneth him again so fast
as his horse might carry him toward his hold.  Messire Gawain seeth the
damsel dead and the dwarf that fleeth full speed after his lord.  He
overtaketh him and trampleth him under his horses feet so that he
bursteth his belly in the midst.  Then goeth he toward the hold, for he
thinketh to enter therein.  But he found the bridge shut up and the
gate barred.  And Marin crieth out upon him.

"This shame and misadventure hath befallen me along of you, but you
shall pay for it yet and I may live."

Messire Gawain hath no mind to argue with him, but rather draweth him
back and cometh again to where the lady lay dead, and setteth her on
the neck of his horse all bleeding, and then beareth her to a chapel
that was without the entrance of the hold.  Then he alighted and laid
her within the chapel as fairly as most he might, as he that was sore
grieved and wrathful thereof.  After that, he shut the door of the
chapel again as he that was afeared of the body for the wild beasts,
and bethought him that one should come thither to set her in her shroud
and bury her after that he was departed.


V.

Thereupon Messire Gawain departeth, sore an-angered, for it seemed him
that never had no thing tofore befallen him that weighed so heavy on
his heart.  And he rideth thoughtful and down-cast through the forest,
and seeth a knight coming along the way he came.  And in strange
fashion came he.  He bestrode his horse backwards in right outlandish
guise, face to tail, and he had his horse's reins right across his
breast and the base of his shield bore he topmost and the chief
bottommost, and his spear upside down and his habergeon and chausses of
iron trussed about his neck.  He seeth Messire Gawain coming beside the
forest, that hath great wonderment of him when he seeth him.
Natheless, when they draw nigh, he turneth him not to look at Messire
Gawain, but crieth to him aloud: "Gentle knight, you that come there,
for God's sake do me no hurt, for I am the Knight Coward."

"By God," saith Messire Gawain, "You look not like a man to whom any
ought to do hurt!"  And, but for the heaviness of his heart and the
sore wrath that he had, he would have laughed at his bearing with a
right good will.

"Sir Knight," saith Messire Gawain, "nought have you to be afeard of
from me!"

With that he draweth anigh and looketh on him in the face and the
Knight Coward on him.  "Sir," saith he, "Welcome may you be!"

"And you likewise!" saith Messire Gawain.  "And whose man are you, Sir
knight?"

"The Damsel's man of the Car."

"Thereof I love you the better," saith Messire Gawain.

"God be praised thereof," saith the Knight Coward, "For now shall I
have no fear of you."

"Nay, truly," saith Messire Gawain, "Thereof be well assured!"

The Knight Coward seeth Messire Gawain's shield and knoweth it. "Ha,
Sir," saith he, "Now know I well who you are.  Now will I alight and
ride the right way and set my arms to rights.  For you are Messire
Gawain, nor hath none the right to claim this shield but only you."

The knight alighteth and setteth his armour to rights, and prayeth
Messire Gawain abide until he be armed.  So he abideth right willingly,
and helpeth him withal.  Thereupon behold you a knight where he cometh
a great gallop athwart the forest like a tempest, and he had a shield
party black and white. "Abide, Messire Gawain!" saith he, "For on
behalf of Marin the Jealous do I defy you, that hath slain his wife on
your account."

"Sir knight," saith Messire Gawain, "Thereof am I right heavy of heart,
for death had she not deserved."

"That availeth nor," saith the Party Knight, "For I hold you to answer
for the death.  So I conquer you, the wrong is yours; but, and you
conquer me, my lord holdeth his blame and shame for known and will hold
you to forfeit and you allow me to escape hence on live."

"To this will I not agree," saith Messire Gawain, "For God well knoweth
that no blame have I herein."

"Ha, Messire Gawain," saith the Knight Coward, "Fight him not as having
affiance in me, for of me will you have neither succour nor help!"

"Heretofore," saith Messire Gawain, "have I achieved adventures without
you, and this also, and God help me, will I yet achieve."

They come together a full career and break their lances on their
shields, and Messire Gawain hurtleth against the horse and passeth
beyond and overthroweth him and his horse together.  Then draweth he
his sword and runneth upon him.  And the knight crieth out: "Hold,
Messire Gawain!  Are you minded to slay me?  I yield me conquered, for
no mind have I to die for another's folly, and so I cry you mercy
hereof."

Messire Gawain thinketh that he will do him no further harm, for that
of right behoveth him do his lord's bidding.  Messire Gawain holdeth
his hands, and he doth him homage on behalf of his lord for his hold
and all of his land and becometh his man.


VI.

Thereupon the knight departeth and Messire Gawain remaineth there.

"Sir," saith the Knight Coward to Messire Gawain, "I have no mind to be
so hardy as are you; for, so God help me, had he defied me in such-wise
as he defied you, should have fled away forthwith, or elsewise I should
hay fallen at his feet and cried him of mercy."

"You wish for nought but peace," saith Messire Gawain.

"By S. James," saith the Coward, "Therein are you quite right, for of
war cometh nought but evil; nor never have I had no hurt nor wound saw
some branch of a tree or the like gave it me, and I see your face all
seamed and scarred in many places.  So God help me, of such hardiesse
make I but small account, and every day I pray God that He defend me.
And so to God I commend you, for I am going after my Damsel of the Car."

"Not thus shall you go," saith Messire Gawain, "save you tell me first
wherefore your Damsel of the Car beareth her arm slung to her neck in
such-wise."

"Sir, this may I well tell you.  With this hand serve she of the most
Holy-Graal the knight that was in the hostel of King Fisherman that
would not ask whereof the Graal served; for that she held therein the
precious vessel whereinto the glorious blood fell drop by drop from the
point of the lance, so that none other thing is she minded to hold
therein until such time as she shall come back to the holy place where
it is.  Sir," saith the Knight Coward, "Now, so please you, may I well
go hence, and see, here is my spear that I give you, for nought is
there that I have to do therewithal."

Messire Gawain taketh it, for his own was broken short, and departeth
from the knight and commendeth him to God.  And he goeth his way a
great pace, and Messire Gawain also goeth amidst the forest, and full
weary is he and forspent with travail.  And he rode until the sun was
due to set.  And he meeteth a knight that was coming athwart the forest
and came toward Messire Gawain a great gallop like as he were smitten
through the body, and crieth over all the forest: "What is your name,
Sir knight?"

"My name is Gawain."

"Ha, Messire Gawain," saith the other, "In your service am I wounded
thus!"

"How in my service?" saith Messire Gawain.

"Sir, I was minded to bury the damsel that you bare into the chapel,
and Marin the Jealous ran upon me and wounded me in many places in such
manner as you see.  And I had already dug a grave with my sword to bury
the body when he seized it from me and abandoned it to the wild beasts.
Now go I hence yonder to the chapel of a hermit that is in this forest
to confess me, for well know I that I have not long to live for that
the wound lieth me so nigh my heart.  But I shall die the more easily
now that I have found you and shown you the hurt that hath been done me
for your sake."

"Certes," saith Messire Gawain, "this grieveth me."


VII.

Therewithal the knights depart asunder, and Messire Gawain rode on
until he found in the forest a castle right fair and rich, and met an
ancient knight that was issued forth of the castle for disport, and
held a bird on his fist.  He saluteth Messire Gawain and he him again,
and he asked him what castle is this that he seeth show so fair?  And
he telleth him it is the castle of the Proud Maiden that never deigned
ask a knight his name.

"And we, that are her men, durst not do it on her behalf.  But right
well will you be lodged in the castle, for right courteous is she
otherwise and the fairest that ever any may know.  Nor never hath she
had any lord, nor deigned to love no knight save she heard tell that he
was the best knight in the world.  And I will go to her with you of
courtesy."

"Gramercy, Sir," saith Messire Gawain.  They enter into the castle both
twain together, and alight at the mounting-stage before the hall.  The
knight taketh Messire Gawain by the hand and leadeth him up, and maketh
disarm him, and bringeth him a surcoat of scarlet purfled of vair and
maketh him do it on.  Then leadeth he the lady of the castle to Messire
Gawain, and he riseth up to meet her.

"Lady," saith he "Welcome may you be!"

"And you, Sir, be welcome!" saith she, "Will you see my chapel?"

"Damsel," saith he, "At your pleasure."

And she leadeth him and taketh Messire Gawain by the hand, and he
looketh at the chapel and it well seemeth him that never before had he
come into none so fair nor so rich, and he seeth four tombs within, the
fairest that he had seen ever.  And on the right hand side of the
chapel were three narrow openings in the wall that were wrought all
about with gold and precious stones, and beyond the three openings he
seeth great circlets of lighted candles that were before three coffers
of hallows that were there, and the smell thereof was sweeter than balm.

"Sir knight," saith the damsel, "See you these tombs?"

"Yea, damsel," saith Messire Gawain.

"These three are made for the three best knights in the world and the
fourth for me.  The one hath for name Messire Gawain and the second
Lancelot of the Lake.  Each of them do I love for love's sake, by my
faith!  And the third hath for name Perceval.  Him love I better than
the other two.  And within these three openings are the hallows set for
love of them.  And behold what I would do to them and their three heads
were therein; and so I might not do it to the three together, yet would
I do it to two, or even to one only."

She setteth her hand toward the openings and draweth forth a pin that
was fastened into the wall, and a cutting blade of steel droppeth down,
of steel sharper than any razor, and closeth up the three openings.

"Even thus will I cut off their heads when they shall set them into
those three openings thinking to adore the hallows that are beyond.
Afterward will I make take the bodies and set them in the three
coffins, and do them be honoured and enshrouded right richly, for joy
of them in their life may I never have.  And when the end of my life
shall be come as God will, even so will I make set me in the fourth
coffin, and so shall I have company of the three good knights."

Messire Gawain heard the word, whereof he marvelled right sore, and
would right fain that the night were overpassed.  They issue forth of
the chapel.  The damsel maketh Messire Gawain be greatly honoured that
night, and there was great company of knights within that served him
and helped guard the castle.  They show Messire Gawain much worship,
but they knew not that it was he, nor did none ask him, for such was
the custom of the castle.  But well she knew that he oftentimes passed
to and fro amidst the forest, and four of the knights that watched the
forest and the passers-by had she commanded that and if any of these
three knights should pass they should bring him to her without gainsay,
and she would increase the land of each for so doing.


VIII.

Messire Gawain was in the castle that night until the morrow, and went
to hear mass in the chapel or ever he removed thence. Afterward, when
he had heard mass and was armed, he took leave of the damsel and issued
forth of the castle as he that had no desire to abide there longer.
And he entereth into the forest and rideth a long league Welsh and
findeth two knights sitting by a narrow path in the forest.  And when
they see him coming they leap up on their horses all armed and come
against Messire Gawain, shields on sides and spears in fists.

"Bide, Sir knight!" say they, "And tell us your name without leasing!"

"Lords," saith he, "Right willingly!  never hath my name been
withholden when it hath been asked for.  I am called Gawain, King
Arthur's nephew."

"Nay, then, Sir, welcome may you be!  One other demand have we to make
of you.  Will you come with us to the lady in the world who most
desireth you, and will make much joy of you at Castle Orguelleux where
she is?"

"Lord," saith Messire Gawain, "No leisure have I at this time, for I
have emprised my way else-whither."

"Sir," say they, "Needs must you come thither without fail, for in such
wise hath she commanded us that we shall take you thither by force an
you come not of your own good-will."

"I have told you plainly that thither will I not go," saith Messire
Gawain.  With that, they leap forward and take him by the bridle,
thinking to lead him away by force.  And Messire Gawain hath shame
thereof, and draweth his sword and smiteth one of them in such wrath
that he cutteth off his arm.  And the other letteth the bridle go and
turneth him full speed; and his fellow with him that was maimed.  And
away go they toward Castle Orguelleux and the Proud Maiden of the
castle and show her the mischief that hath befallen them.

"Who hath mis-handled you thus?" saith she.

"Certes, lady, Messire Gawain."

"Where found you him?"

"Lady," say they, "In the forest, where he came toward us a full
gallop, and was minded to pass by the narrows of the way, when we bade
him abide and come to you.  But come he would not.  We offered him
force, and he smote my fellow's arm off."

She biddeth a horn be sounded incontinent, and the knights of the
castle arm, and she commandeth them follow Messire Gawain, and saith
that she will increase the land and the charge of him that shall bring
him to her.  They were a good fifteen knights armed. Just as they were
about to issue out of the castle, behold you forthwith two keepers of
the forest where they come, both twain of them smitten through the
body. The damsel and the knights ask who hath done this to them, and
they say it was Messire Gawain that did it, for that they would have
brought him to the castle.

"Is he far away?" saith the damsel.

"Yea," say they, "Four great leagues Welsh."

"Wherefore the greater folly would it be to follow him," saith one of
the sixteen knights, "For nought should we increase thereby save only
our own shame and hurt, and my Lady hath lost him through her own
default, for well know we that he it was that lay within, for that he
beareth a shield sinople with a golden eagle."

"Yea," saith the wounded knight, "Without fail."

"Is this then he?" saith the damsel.  "I know him well now that I have
lost him by my pride and by my outrage; nor never more will knight lie
in my hostel sith that he will be estranged for that I ask not his
name.  But it is too late!  Herein have I failed of this one for ever
and ever save God bring him back to me, and through this one shall I
lose the other two!"


IX.

Herewithal cometh to a stay the pursuit of Messire Gawain, that goeth
his way and prayeth God that He send him true counsel of that he hath
emprised, and that He allow him to come into some place where he may
hear true witting of the hostel of King Fisherman.  And while he was
thus thinking, he heareth a brachet questing, and he cometh toward him
a great pace.  When he is come anigh Messire Gawain he setteth his nose
to the ground and findeth a track of blood through a grassy way in the
forest, and when Messire Gawain was minded to leave the way where the
track of blood was, the brachet came over against him and quested.
Messire Gawain is minded not to abandon the track, wherefore he
followeth the brachet a great pace until he cometh to a marish in the
midst of the forest, and seeth there in the marish a house, ancient and
decayed.  He passeth with the brachet over the bridge, that was right
feeble, and there was a great water under it, and cometh to the hall,
that was wasted and old.  And the brachet leaveth of his questing.
Messire Gawain seeth in the midst of house a knight that was stricken
right through the breast unto the heart and there lay dead.  A damsel
was issuing forth of the chamber and bare the winding-sheet wherein to
enshroud him.

"Damsel," saith Messire Gawain, "Good adventure may you have!"

The damsel that was weeping right tenderly, saith to him: "Sir, I will
answer you not."

She cometh toward the dead knight, thinking that his wounds should have
begun to bleed afresh, but they did not.

"Sir," saith she to Messire Gawain, "Welcome may you be!"

"Damsel," saith he. "God grant you greater joy than you have!"

And the damsel saith to the brachet: "It was not this one I sent you
back to fetch, but him that slew this knight."

"Know you then, damsel, who hath slain him?" saith Messire Gawain.

"Yea," saith she, "well!  Lancelot of the Lake slew him in this forest,
on whom God grant me vengeance, and on all them of King Arthur's court,
for sore mischief and great hurt have they wrought us!  But, please
God, right well shall this knight yet be avenged, for a right fair son
hath he whose sister am I, and so hath he many good friends withal."

"Damsel, to God I commend you!" saith Messire Gawain.  With that, he
issueth forth of the Waste Manor and betaketh him back to the way he
had abandoned, and prayeth God grant he may find Lancelot of the Lake.



BRANCH V.

INCIPIT.

Here beginneth again another branch of the Graal in the name of the
Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.


TITLE I.

Messire Gawain goeth his way and evening draweth on; and on his right
hand was there a narrow pathway that seemed him to be haunted of folk.
Thitherward goeth he, for that he seeth the sun waxeth low, and findeth
in the thick of the forest a great chapel, and without was a right fair
manor.  Before the chapel was an orchard enclosed of a wooden fence
that was scarce so high as a tall man.  A hermit that seemed him a
right worshipful man was leaning against the fence, and looked into the
orchard and made great cheer from time to time.  He seeth Messire
Gawain, and cometh to meet him, and Messire Gawain alighteth.

"Sir," saith the hermit, "Welcome may you be."

"God grant you the joy of Paradise," saith Messire Gawain.  The hermit
maketh his horse be stabled of a squire, and then taketh him by the
hand and maketh him sit beside him to look on the orchard.

"Sir," saith the hermit, "Now may you see that whereof I was making
cheer."

Messire Gawain looketh therewithin and seeth two damsels and a squire
and a child that were guarding a lion.

"Sir," saith the hermit, "Here see my joy, which is this child. Saw you
ever so fair a child his age?"

"Never," saith Messire Gawain.  They go into the orchard to sit, for
the evening was fair and calm.  He maketh disarm him, and thereupon the
damsel bringeth him a surcoat of right rich silk furred of ermine.  And
Messire Gawain looketh at the child that rode upon the lion right
fainly.

"Sir," saith the hermit, "None durst guard him or be master over him
save this child only, and yet the lad is not more than six years of
age.  Sir, he is of right noble lineage, albeit he is the son of the
most cruel man and most felon that is.  Marin the Jealous is his
father, that slew his wife on account of Messire Gawain.  Never
sithence that his mother was dead would not the lad be with his father,
for well knoweth he that he slew her of wrong.  And I am his uncle, so
I make him be tended here of these damsels and these two squires, but
no one thing is there that he so much desireth to see as Messire
Gawain.  For after his father's death ought he of right to be Messire
Gawain's man. Sir, if any tidings you know of him, tell us them."

"By my faith, Sir," saith he, "Tidings true can I give you.  Lo, there
is his shield and his spear, and himself shall you have this night for
guest."

"Fair sir, are you he?" saith the hermit.

"So men call me," saith Messire Gawain, "And the lady saw I slain in
the forest, whereof was I sore an-angered."


II.

"Fair nephew," saith the hermit, "See here your desire.  Come to him
and make him cheer."

The lad alighteth of the lion and smiteth him with a whip and leadeth
him to the den and maketh the door so that he may not issue forth, and
cometh to Messire Gawain, and Messire Gawain receiveth him between his
arms. "Sir," saith the child, "Welcome may you be!"

"God give you growth of honour!" saith Messire Gawain.  He kisseth him
and maketh cheer with him right sweetly.

"Sir," saith the hermit, "He will be of right your man, wherefore ought
you to counsel him and help him, for through you came his mother by her
death, and right sore need will he have of your succour."  The child
kneeleth before him and holdeth up his joined hands.

"Look, Sir," saith the hermit, "Is he not right pitiful?  He offereth
you his homage."

And Messire Gawain setteth his hands within his own: "Certes," saith
Messire Gawain, "Both your honour and your homage receive I gladly, and
my succour and my counsel shall you have so often as you shall have
need thereof.  But fain would I know your name?"

"Sir, I am called Meliot of Logres."

"Sir," saith the hermit, "He saith true, for his mother was daughter of
a rich earl of the kingdom of Logres."


III.

Messire Gawain was well harboured the night and lay in a right fair
house and right rich.  In the morning, when Messire Gawain had heard
mass, the hermit asked him, "Whitherward go you?" and he said, "Toward
the land of King Fisherman, and God allow me."

"Messire Gawain," saith the hermit, "Now God grant you speed your
business better than did the other knight that was there before you,
through whom are all the lands fallen into sorrow, and the good King
Fisherman languisheth thereof."

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "God grant me herein to do His pleasure."

Thereupon he taketh his leave and goeth his way, and the hermit
commendeth him to God.  And Messire Gawain rideth on his journeys until
he hath left far behind the forest of the hermitage, and findeth the
fairest land in the world and the fairest meadowlands that ever had he
seen, and it lasted a good couple of great leagues Welsh.  And he seeth
a high forest before him, and meeteth a squire that came from that
quarter, and seeth that he is sore downcast and right simple.

"Fair friend," saith Messire Gawain, "Whence come you?"

"Sir," saith he, "I come from yonder forest down below."

"Whose man are you?" saith Messire Gawain.

"I belong to the worshipful man that owneth the forest."

"You seem not over joyful," saith Messire Gawain.

"Sir, I have right to be otherwise," saith the squire, "For he that
loseth his good lord ought not to be joyful."

"And who is your lord?"

"The best in the world."

"Is he dead?" saith Messire Gawain.

"Nay, of a truth, for that would be right sore grief to the world, but
in joy hath he not been this long time past."

"And what name hath he?"

"They call him Parlui there where he is."

"And where then, is he, may I know?"

"In no wise, Sir, of me; but so much may I well tell you that he is in
this forest, but I ought not to learn you of the place more at large,
nor ought I to do any one thing that may be against my master's will."

Messire Gawain seeth that the squire is of passing comeliness and seeth
him forthwith bow his head toward the ground and the tears fall from
his eyes.  Thereupon he asketh what aileth him.

"Sir," saith he, "Never may I have joy until such time as I be entered
into a hermitage to save my soul.  For the greatest sin that any man
may do have I wrought; for I have slain my mother that was a Queen, for
this only that she told me I should not be King after my father's
death, for that she would make me monk or clerk, and that my other
brother, who is younger-born than I, should have the kingdom.  When my
father knew that I had slain my mother, he withdrew himself into this
forest, and made a hermitage and renounced his kingdom.  I have no will
to hold the land for the great disloyalty that I have wrought, and
therefore am I resolved that it is meeter I should set my body in
banishment than my father."

"And what is your name?" saith Messire Gawain.

"Sir, my name is Joseus, and I am of the lineage of Joseph of
Abarimacie.  King Pelles is my father, that is in this forest, and King
Fisherman mine uncle, and the King of Castle Mortal, and the Widow Lady
of Camelot my aunt, and the Good Knight Par-lui-fet is of this lineage
as near akin as I."


IV.

With that, the squire departeth and taketh leave of Messire Gawain, and
he commendeth him to God and hath great pity of him, and entereth into
the forest and goeth great pace, and findeth the stream of a spring
that ran with a great rushing, and nigh thereunto was a way that was
much haunted.  He abandoneth his high-way, and goeth all along the
stream from the spring that lasteth a long league plenary, until that
he espieth a right fair house and right fair chapel well enclosed
within a hedge of wood. He looketh from without the entrance under a
little tree and seeth there sitting one of the seemliest men that he
had ever seen of his age.  And he was clad as a hermit, his head white
and no hair on his face, and he held his hand to his chin, and made a
squire hold a destrier right fair and strong and tail, and a shield
with a sun thereon; and he was looking at a habergeon and chausses of
iron that he had made bring before him.  And when he seeth Messire
Gawain he dresseth him over against him and saith: "Fair sir," saith
he, "Ride gently and make no noise, for no need have we of worse than
that we have."

And Messire Gawain draweth rein, and the worshipful man saith to him:
"Sir, for God's sake take it not of discourtesy; for right fainly would
I have besought you to harbour had I not good cause to excuse me, but a
knight lieth within yonder sick, that is held for the best knight in
the world.  Wherefore fain would I he should have no knight come within
this close, for and if he should rise, as sick as he is, none might
prevent him nor hold him back, but presently he should arm him and
mount on his horse and joust at you or any other; and so he were here,
well might we be the worse thereof.  And therefore do I keep him so
close and quiet within yonder, for that I would not have him see you
nor none other, for and he were so soon to die, sore loss would it be
to the world."

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "What name hath he?"

"Sir," saith he, "He hath made him of himself, and therefore do I call
him Par-lui-fer, of dearness and love."

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "May it not be in any wise that I may see
him?"

"Sir," saith the hermit, "I have told you plainly that nowise may it
not be.  No strange man shall not see him within yonder until such time
as he be whole and of good cheer."

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "Will you in nowise do nought for me
whatsoever I may say?"

"Certes, sir, no one thing is there in the world that I would tell him,
save he spake first to me."

Hereof is Messire Gawain right sorrowful that he may not speak to the
knight.  "Sir," saith he to the hermit, "Of what age is the knight, and
of what lineage?"

"Of the lineage of Joseph of Abarimacie the Good Soldier."


V.

Thereupon behold you a damsel that cometh to the door of the chapel and
calleth very low to the hermit, and the hermit riseth up and taketh
leave of Messire Gawain, and shutteth the door of the chapel; and the
squire leadeth away the destrier and beareth the arms within door and
shutteth the postern door of the house. And Messire abideth without and
knoweth not of a truth whether it be the son of the Widow Lady, for
many good men there be of one lineage.  He departeth all abashed and
entereth again into the forest.  The history telleth not all the
journeys that he made. Rather, I tell you in brief words that he
wandered so far by lands and kingdoms that he found a right fair land
and a rich, and a castle seated in the midst thereof.  Thitherward
goeth he and draweth nigh the castle and seeth it compassed about of
high walls, and he seeth the entrance of the castle far without.  He
looketh and seeth a lion chained that lay in the midst of the entrance
to the gate, and the chain was fixed in the wall.  And on either side
of the gate he seeth two serjeants of beaten copper that were fixed to
the wall, and by engine shot forth quarrels from their cross-bows with
great force and great wrath. Messire Gawain durst not come anigh the
gate for that he seeth the lion and these folk.  He looketh above on
the top of the wall and seeth a sort of folk that seemed him to be of
holy life, and saw there priests clad in albs and knights bald and
ancient that were clad in ancient seeming garments.  And in each crenel
of the wall was a cross and a chapel.  Above the wall, hard by an issue
from a great hall that was in the castle, was another chapel, and above
the chapel was a tall cross, and on either side of this cross another
that was somewhat lower, and on the top of each cross was a golden
eagle.  The priests and the knights were upon the walls and knelt
toward this chapel, and looked up to heaven and made great joy, and
well it seemed him that they beheld God in Heaven with His Mother.
Messire Gawain looketh at them from afar, for he durst not come anigh
the castle for these that shoot their arrows so strongly that none
armour might defend him.  Way seeth he none to right nor left save he
go back again.  He knoweth not what to do. He looketh before him and
seeth a priest issue forth of the gateway.  "Fair sir," saith Messire
Gawain, "Welcome may you be!"

"Good adventure to you also," saith the good man, "What is your
pleasure?"

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "So please you, I would fain ask you to
tell me what castle is this?"

"It is," saith he, "the entrance to the land of the rich King
Fisherman, and within yonder are they beginning the service of the Most
Holy Graal."

"Allow me then," saith Messire Gawain, "that I may pass on further, for
toward the land of King Fisherman have I emprised my way."

"Sir," saith the priest, "I tell you of a truth that you may not enter
the castle nor come nigher unto the Holy Graal, save you bring the
sword wherewith S. John was beheaded."

"What?" saith Messire Gawain, "Shall I be evilly entreated and I bring
it not?"

"So much may you well believe me herein," saith the priest, "And I tell
you moreover that he who hath it is the fellest misbelieving King that
lives.  But so you bring the Sword, this entrance will be free to you,
and great joy will be made of you in all places wherein King Fisherman
hath power."

"Then must I needs go back again," saith Messire Gawain, "Whereof I
have right to be sore sorrowful."

"So ought you not to be," saith the priest, "For, so you bring the
sword and conquer it for us, then will it be well known that you are
worthy to behold the Holy Graal.  But take heed you remember him who
would not ask whereof it served."

Thereupon Messire Gawain departeth so sorrowful and full of thought
that he remembereth not to ask in what land he may find the sword nor
the name of the King that hath it.  But he will know tidings thereof
when God pleaseth.


VI.

The history telleth us and witnesseth that he rode so far that he came
to the side of a little hill, and the day was right fair and clear.  He
looketh in front of him before a chapel and seeth a tall burgess
sitting on a great destrier that was right rich and fair.  The burgess
espieth Messire Gawain and cometh over against him, and saluteth him
right courteously and Messire Gawain him.

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "God give you joy."

"Sir," saith the goodman, "Right sorrowful am I of this that you have a
horse so lean and spare of flesh.  Better would it become so worshipful
man as you seem to be that he were better horsed."

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "I may not now amend it, whereof am I
sorry; another shall I have when it shall please God."

"Fair sir," saith the burgess, "Whither are you bound to go?"

"I go seek the sword wherewith the head of S. John Baptist was cut off."

"Ha, sir," saith the burgess, "You are running too sore a peril. A King
hath it that believeth not in God, and is sore fell and cruel.  He is
named Gurgalain, and many knights have passed hereby that went thither
for the sword, but never thence have they returned.  But, and you are
willing to pledge me your word that so God grant you to conquer the
sword, you will return hither and show it me on your return, I will
give you this destrier, which is right rich, for your own."

"Will you?" saith Messire Gawain, "Then are you right courteous, for
you know me not."

"Certes, sir," saith he, "So worshipful man seem you to be, that you
will hold well to this that you have covenanted with me."

"And to this do I pledge you my word," saith Messire Gawain, "that, so
God allow me to conquer it, I will show it to you on my return."


VII.

Thereupon the burgess alighteth and mounteth upon Messire Gawain's
horse, and Messire Gawain upon his, and taketh leave of the burgess and
goeth his way and entereth into a right great forest beyond the city,
and rideth until sundown and findeth neither castle nor city.  And he
findeth a meadow in the midst of the forest, right broad, and it ran on
beyond, like as there were the stream of a spring in the midst.  He
looketh toward the foot of the meadow close by the forest, and seeth a
right large tent, whereof the cords were of silk and the pegs of ivory
fixed in the ground, and the tops of the poles of gold and upon each
was a golden eagle.  The tent was white round about, and the hanging
above was of the richest silk, the same as red samite. Thitherward
goeth Messire Gawain and alighteth before the door of the tent, and
smiteth off the bridle of his horse, and letteth him feed on the grass,
and leaneth his spear and his shield without the tent, and looketh
narrowly within and seeth a right rich couch of silk and gold, and
below was a cloth unfolded as it were a feather-bed, and above a
coverlid of ermine and vair without any gold, and at the head of the
couch two pillows so rich that fairer none ever saw, and such sweet
smell gave they forth that it seemed the tent was sprinkled of balm.
And round about the couch were rich silken cloths spread on the ground.
And at the head of the couch on the one side and the other were two
seats of ivory, and upon them were two cushions stuffed with straw,
right rich, and at the foot of the couch, above the bed, two
candlesticks of gold wherein were two tall waxen tapers.  A table was
set in the midst of the tent, that was all of ivory banded of gold,
with rich precious stones, and upon the table was the napkin spread and
the basin of silver and the knife with an ivory handle and the rich set
of golden vessels.  Messire Gawain seeth the rich couch and setteth him
down thereon all armed in the midst, and marvelleth him wherefore the
tent is so richly apparelled and yet more that therein he seeth not a
soul. Howbeit, he was minded to disarm him.


VIII.

Thereupon, behold you, saluteth a dwarf that entereth the tent and
saluteth Messire Gawain.  Then he kneeleth before him and would fain
disarm him.  Then Messire Gawain remembereth him of the dwarf through
whom the lady was slain.

"Fair sweet friend, withdraw yourself further from me, for as at this
time I have no mind to disarm."

"Sir," saith the dwarf, "Without misgiving may you do so, for until
to-morrow have you no occasion to be on your guard, and never were you
more richly lodged than to-night you shall be, nor more honourably."

With that Messire Gawain began to disarm him, and the dwarf helpeth
him.  And when he was disarmed, he setteth his arms nigh the couch and
his spear and sword and shield lying within the tent, and the dwarf
taketh a basin of silver and a white napkin, and maketh Messire Gawain
wash his hands and his face. Afterward, he unfasteneth a right fair
coffer, and draweth forth a robe of cloth of gold furred of ermine and
maketh Messire Gawain be clad therewithal.

"Sir," saith the dwarf, "Be not troubled as touching your destrier, for
you will have him again when you rise in the morning.  I will lead him
close hereby to be better at ease, and then will I return to you."

And Messire Gawain giveth him leave.  Thereupon, behold you, two
squires that bear in the wine and set the meats upon the table and make
Messire Gawain sit to eat, and they have great torches lighted on a
tall cresset of gold and depart swiftly.  Whilst Messire Gawain was
eating, behold you, thereupon, two damsels that come into the tent and
salute him right courteously.  And he maketh answer, the fairest he may.

"Sir," say the damsels, "God grant you force and power tomorrow to
destroy the evil custom of this tent."

"Is there then any evil custom herein, damsel?" saith he.

"Yea, sir, a right foul custom, whereof much it grieveth me, but well
meseemeth that you are the knight to amend it by the help of God."


IX.

Therewith he riseth from the table, and one of the squires was
apparelled to take away the cloths.  And the two damsels take him by
the hand and lead him without the tent, and they set them down in the
midst of the meadow.  "Sir," saith the elder damsel, "What is your
name?"

"Damsel," saith he, "Gawain is my name."

"Thereof do we love you the better, for well we know that the evil
custom of the tent shall be done away on condition that you choose
to-night the one of us two that most shall please you."

"Damsel, gramercy," saith he.  Thereupon he riseth up, for he was
weary, and draweth him toward the couch, and the damsels help him and
wait upon his going to bed.  And when he was lien down, they seated
themselves before him and lighted the taper and leant over the couch
and prospered him much service.  Messire Gawain answered them naught
save "Gramercy," for he was minded to sleep and take his rest.

"By God," saith the one to the other, "And this were Messire Gawain,
King Arthur's nephew, he would speak to us after another sort, and more
of disport should we find in him than in this one. But this is a
counterfeit Gawain, and the honour we have done him hath been ill
bestowed.  Who careth?  To-morrow shall he pay his reckoning."


X.

Thereupon, lo you, the dwarf where he cometh.  "Fair friend," say they,
"Keep good watch over this knight that he flee not away, for he goeth
a-cadging from, hostel to hostel and maketh him be called Messire
Gawain, but Messire Gawain meseemeth is he not. For, and it were he,
and we had been minded to watch with him two nights, he would have
wished it to be three or four."

"Damsel," saith the dwarf, "He may not flee away save he go afoot, for
his horse is in my keeping."

And Messire Gawain heareth well enough that which the damsels say, but
he answereth them never a word.  Thereupon they depart, and say: God
give him an ill night, for an evil knight and a vanquished and
recreant, and command the dwarf that he move not on any occasion.
Messire Gawain slept right little the night, and so soon as he saw the
day, arose and found his arms ready and his horse that had been led all
ready saddled before the tent. He armed himself as swiftly as he might,
and the dwarf helpeth him and saith to him: "Sir, you have not done
service to our damsels as they would fain you should, wherefore they
make sore complaint of you."

"That grieveth me," saith Messire Gawain, "if that I have deserved it."

"It is great pity," saith the dwarf, "when knight so comely as be you
is so churlish as they say."

"They may say their pleasure," saith he, "for it is their right. I know
not to whom to render thanks for the good lodging that I have had save
to God, and if I shall see the lord of the tent or the lady I shall con
them much thanks thereof."


XI.

Thereupon, lo you, where two knights come in front of the tent on their
horses, all armed, and see Messire Gawain that was mounted and had his
shield on his neck and his spear in his fist, as he that thinketh to go
without doing aught further.  And the knights come before him: "Sir,"
say they, "Pay for your lodging!  Last night did we put ourselves to
misease on your account and left you the tent and all that is therein
at your pleasure, and now you are fain to go in this fashion."

"What pleaseth it you that I should do?" saith Messire Gawain.

"It is meet I should requite you of my victual and the honour of the
tent."

Thereupon, lo you, where the two damsels come that were of right great
beauty.  "Sir Knight," say they, "Now shall we see whether you be King
Arthur's nephew!"

"By my faith," saith the dwarf, "Methinketh this is not he that shall
do away the evil custom whereby we lose the coming hither of knights!
Albeit if he may do it, I will forego mine ill will toward him."

Messire Gawain thus heard himself mocked by day as well as by night and
had great shame thereof.  He seeth that he may not depart without a
fight.  One of the knights drew to backward and was alighted; the other
was upon his horse all armed, his shield on his neck and grasping his
spear in his fist.  And he cometh toward Messire Gawain full career and
Messire Gawain toward him, and smiteth him so wrathfully that he
pierceth his shield and pinneth his shield to his arm and his arm to
his rib and thrusteth his spear into his body, and hurtleth against him
so sore that he beareth him to the ground, him and his horse together
at the first blow.

"By my head!  Look at Messire Gawain the counterfeit!  Better doth he
to-day than he did last night!"

He draweth back his spear, and pulleth forth his sword and runneth upon
him, when the knight crieth him mercy and saith that he holdeth himself
vanquished.  Messire Gawain bethinketh him what he shall do and whether
the damsels are looking at him.

"Sir knight," saith the elder, "Need you not fear the other knight
until such time as this one be slain, nor will the evil custom be done
away so long as this one is on live.  For he is the lord of the other
and because of the shameful custom hath no knight come hither this
right long space."

"Hearken now," saith the knight, "the great disloyalty of her! Nought
in the world is there she loved so well in seeming as did she me, and
now hath she adjudged me my death!"

"Again I tell you plainly," saith she, "that never will it be done away
unless he slay you."

Thereupon Messire Gawain lifteth the skirt of his habergeon and
thrusteth his sword into his body.  Thereupon, lo you, the other
knight, right angry and sorrowful and full of wrath for his fellow that
he seeth dead, and cometh in great rage to Messire Gawain and Messire
Gawain to him, and so stoutly they mell together that they pierce the
shields and pierce the habergeons and break the flesh of the ribs with
the points of their spears, and the bodies of the knights and their
horses hurtle together so stiffly that saddle-bows are to-frushed and
stirrups loosened and girths to-brast and fewtres splintered and spears
snapped short, and the knights drop to the ground with such a shock
that the blood rayeth forth at mouth and nose.  In the fall that the
knight made, Messire Gawain brake his collar-bone in the hurtle.
Thereupon the dwarf crieth out: "Damsel, your counterfeit Gawain doth
it well!"

"Our Gawain shall he be," say they, "so none take him from us!"

Messire Gawain draweth from over the knight and cometh toward his
horse, and right fain would he have let the knight live had it not been
for the damsels.  For the knight crieth him mercy and Messire Gawain
had right great pity of him.  Howbeit the damsels cry to him; "And you
slay him not, the evil custom will not be overthrown."

"Sir," saith the younger damsel, "And you would slay him, smite him in
the sole of his foot with your sword, otherwise will he not die yet."

"Damsel," saith the knight, "Your love of me is turned to shame! Never
more ought knight to set affiance nor love on damsel.  But God keep the
other that they be not such as you!"

Messire Gawain marvelleth at this that the damsel saith to him, and
draweth him back, and hath great pity of the knight, and cometh to the
other side whither the horses were gone, and taketh the saddle of the
knight that was dead and setteth it on his own horse and draweth him
away.  And the wounded knight was remounted, for the dwarf had helped
him, and fleeth toward the forest a great gallop.  And the damsels cry
out, "Messire Gawain, your pity will be our death this day!  For the
Knight without Pity is gone for succour, and if he escape, we shall be
dead and you also!"


XII.

Thereupon Messire Gawain leapeth on his horse and taketh a spear that
was leaning against the tent and followeth the knight in such sort that
he smiteth him to the ground.  Afterward he saith to him: "No further
may you go!"

"That grieveth me," saith the knight, "For before night should I have
been avenged of you and of the damsels."

And Messire Gawain draweth his sword and thrusteth it into the sole of
his foot a full palm's breadth, and the knight stretcheth himself forth
and dieth.  And Messire Gawain returneth back, and the damsels make
great joy of him and tell him that never otherwise could the evil
custom have been done away.  For, and he had gone his way, all would
have been to begin over again, for he is of such kind seeing that he
was of the kindred of Achilles, and that all his ancestors might never
otherwise die.  And Messire Gawain alighteth, and the damsels would
have searched the wound in his side, and he telleth them that he taketh
no heed thereof.

"Sir," say they, "Again do we proffer you our service, for well we know
that you are a good knight.  Take for your lady-love which of us you
will."

"Gramercy, damsel," saith Messire Gawain, "Your love do I refuse not
and to God do I commend you."

"How?" say the damsels, "Will you go your way thus?  Certes, meeter
were it to-day for you to sojourn in this tent and be at ease."

"It may not be," saith he, "for leisure have I none to abide here."

"Let him go!" saith the younger, "for the falsest knight is he of the
world."

"By my head," saith the elder, "it grieveth me that he goeth, for stay
would have pleased me well."

Therewithal Messire Gawain departeth and is remounted on his horse.
Then he entereth into the forest.



BRANCH VI.

INCIPIT.

Another branch that Josephus telleth us recounteth and witnesseth of
the Holy Graal, and here beginneth for us in the name of the Father,
and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.


TITLE I.

Messire Gawain rode until he came to a forest, and seeth a land right
fair and rich in a great enclosure of wall, and round the land and
country-side within, the wall stretched right far away. Thitherward he
cometh and seeth but one entrance thereinto, and he seeth the fairest
land that ever he beheld and the best garnished and the fairest
orchards.  The country was not more than four leagues Welsh in length,
and in the midst thereof was a tower on a high rock.  And on the top
was a crane that kept watch over it and cried when any strange man came
into the country. Messire Gawain rode amidst the land and the crane
cried out so loud that the King of Wales heard it, that was lord of the
land. Thereupon, behold you, two knights that come after Messire Gawain
and say to him: "Hold, Sir knight, and come speak with the king of this
country, for no strange knight passeth through his land but he seeth
him."

"Lords," saith Messire Gawain, "I knew not of the custom. Willingly
will I go."

They led him thither to the hall where the King was, and Messire Gawain
alighteth and setteth his shield and his spear leaning against a
mounting stage and goeth up into the hall.  The King maketh great joy
of him and asketh him whither he would go?

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "Into a country where I was never."

"Well I know," saith the king, "where it is, for that you are passing
through my land.  You are going to the country of King Gurgalain to
conquer the sword wherewith S. John was beheaded."


II.

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "You say true.  God grant me that I may
have it!"

"That may not be so hastily," saith the King, "For you shall not go
forth of my land before a year."

"Ha, Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "For God's sake, mercy!"

"None other mercy is here," saith the King.  Straightway he maketh
Messire Gawain be disarmed and afterward maketh bring a robe wherewith
to apparel him, and showeth him much honour.  But ill is he at ease,
wherefore he saith to him: "Sir, wherefore are you fain to hold me here
within so long?"

"For this, that I know well you will have the sword and will not return
by me."

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "I pledge you my word that, so God give me
to conquer it, I will return by you."

"And I will allow you to depart from me at your will.  For nought is
there that I so much desire to see."

He lay the night therewithin, and on the morrow departed thence and
issued forth of the land right glad and joyful.  And he goeth toward
the land of King Gurgalain.  And he entereth into a noisome forest at
the lower part and findeth at the right hour of noon a fountain that
was enclosed of marble, and it was overshadowed of the forest like as
it were with leaves down below, and it had rich pillars of marble all
round about with fillets of gold and set with precious stones.  Against
the master-pillar hung a vessel of gold by a silver chain, and in the
midst of the fountain was an image so deftly wrought as if it had been
alive.  When Messire appeared at the fountain, the image set itself in
the water and was hidden therewith.  Messire Gawain goeth down, and
would fain have taken hold on the vessel of gold when a voice crieth
out to him: "You are not the Good Knight unto whom is served thereof
and who thereby is made whole."

Messire Gawain draweth him back and seeth a clerk come to the fountain
that was young of age and clad in white garments, and he had a stole on
his arm and held a little square vessel of gold, and cometh to the
little vessel that was hanging on the marble pillar and looketh
therein, and then rinseth out the other little golden vessel that he
held, and then setteth the one that he held in the place of the other.
Therewithal, behold, three damsels that come of right great beauty, and
they had white garments and their heads were covered with white cloths,
and they carried, one, bread in a little golden vessel, and the other
wine in a little ivory vessel, and the third flesh in one of silver.
And they come to the vessel of gold that hung against the pillar and
set therein that which they have brought, and afterward they make the
sign of the cross over the pillar and come back again. But on their
going back, it seemed to Messire Gawain that only one was there.
Messire Gawain much marvelled him of this miracle.  He goeth after the
clerk that carried the other vessel of gold, and saith unto him: "Fair
Sir, speak to me."

"What is your pleasure?" saith the clerk.

"Whither carry you this golden vessel and that which is therein?"

"To the hermits," saith he, "that are in this forest, and to the Good
knight that lieth sick in the house of his uncle King Hermit."

"Is it far from hence?" saith Messire Gawain.

"Yea, Sir," saith the clerk, "to yourself.  But I shall be there sooner
than will you."

"By God," saith Messire Gawain, "I would fain I were there now, so that
I might see him and speak to him."

"That believe I well," saith the clerk, "But now is the place not here."

Messire Gawain taketh leave and goeth his way and rideth until he
findeth a hermitage and seeth the hermit therewithout.  He was old and
bald and of good life.

"Sir," saith he to Messire Gawain, "Whither go you?"

"To the land of King Gurgalain, Sir; is this the way?"

"Yea," saith the hermit, "But many knights have passed hereby that
hither have never returned."

"Is it far?" saith he.

"He and his land are hard by, but far away is the castle wherein is the
sword."

Messire Gawain lay the night therewithin.  On the morrow when he had
heard mass, he departed and rode until he cometh to the land of King
Gurgalain, and heareth the folk of the land making dole right sore.
And he meeteth a knight that cometh a great pace to a castle.


IV.

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "Wherefore make the folk of this castle
such dole, and they of all this land and all this country? For I hear
them weep and beat their palms together on every side."

"Sir," saith he, "I will tell you.  King Gurgalain had one only son of
whom he hath been bereft by a Giant that hath done him many mischiefs
and wasted much of his land.  Now hath the King let everywhere be cried
that to him that shall bring back his son and slay the Giant he will
give the fairest sword of the world, the which sword he hath, and of
all his treasure so much as he may be fain to take.  As at this time,
he findeth no knight so hardy that he durst go; and much more blameth
he his own law than the law of the Christians, and he saith that if any
Christian should come into his land, he would receive him."

Right joyous is Messire Gawain of these tidings, and departeth from the
castle and rideth on until he cometh to the castle of King Gurgalain.
The tidings come to the King that there is a Christian come into his
castle.  The King maketh great joy thereof, and maketh him come before
him and asketh him of his name and of what land he is.

"Sir," saith he, "My name is Gawain and I am of the land of King
Arthur."

"You are," saith he, "of the land of the Good Knight.  But of mine own
land may I find none that durst give counsel in a matter I have on
hand.  But if you be of such valour that you be willing to undertake to
counsel me herein, right well will I reward you. A Giant hath carried
off my son whom I loved greatly, and so you be willing to set your body
in jeopardy for my son, I will give you the richest sword that was ever
forged, whereby the head of S. John was cut off.  Every day at right
noon is it bloody, for that at that hour the good man had his head cut
off."

The King made fetch him the sword, and in the first place showeth him
the scabbard that was loaded of precious stones and the mountings were
of silk with buttons of gold, and the hilt in likewise, and the pommel
of a most holy sacred stone that Enax, a high emperor of Rome, made be
set thereon.  Then the King draweth it forth of the scabbard, and the
sword came forth thereof all bloody, for it was the hour of noon.  And
he made hold it before Messire Gawain until the hour was past, and
thereafter the sword becometh as clear as an emerald and as green.  And
Messire looketh at it and coveteth it much more than ever he did
before, and he seeth that it is as long as another sword, albeit, when
it is sheathed in the scabbard, neither scabbard nor sword seemeth of
two spans length.


V.

"Sir Knight," saith the King, "This sword will I give you, and another
thing will I do whereof you shall have joy."

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "And I will do your need, if God please
and His sweet Mother."

Thereupon he teacheth him the way whereby the Giant went, and the place
where he had his repair, and Messire Gawain goeth his way thitherward
and commendeth himself to God.  The country folk pray for him according
to their belief that he may back repair with life and health, for that
he goeth in great peril.  He hath ridden until that he cometh to a
great high mountain that lay round about a land that the Giant had all
laid waste, and the enclosure of the mountain went round about for a
good three leagues Welsh, and therewithin was the Giant, so great and
cruel and horrible that he feared no man in the world, and for a long
time had he not been sought out by any knight, for none durst won in
that quarter.  And the pass of the mountain whereby he went to his hold
was so strait that no horse might get through; wherefore behoveth
Messire Gawain leave his horse and his shield and spear and to pass
beyond the mountain by sheer force, for the way was like a cut between
sharp rocks.  He is come to level ground and looketh before him and
seeth a hold that the Giant had on the top of a rock, and espieth the
Giant and the lad where they were sitting on the level ground under a
tree.  Messire Gawain was armed and had his sword girt on, and goeth
his way thitherward. And the Giant seeth him coming and leapeth up and
taketh in hand a great axe that was at his side, and cometh toward
Messire Gawain all girded for the fight and thinketh to smite him a
two-handed stroke right amidst the head.  But Messire Gawain swerveth
aside and bestirreth him with his sword and dealeth him a blow such
that he cut off his arm, axe and all.  And the Giant returneth backward
when he feeleth himself wounded, and taketh the King's son by the neck
with his other hand and grippeth him so straitly that he strangleth and
slayeth him.  Then he cometh back to Messire Gawain and falleth upon
him and grippeth him sore strait by the flanks, and lifteth him three
foot high off the ground and thinketh to carry him to his hold that was
within the rock.  And as he goeth thither he falleth, Messire Gawain
and all, and he lieth undermost.  Howbeit, he thinketh to rise, but
cannot, for Messire Gawain sendeth him his sword right through his
heart and beyond.  Afterward, he cut off the head and cometh there
where the King's child lay dead, whereof is he right sorrowful.  And he
beareth him on his neck, and taketh the Giant's head in his hand and
returneth there where he had left his horse and shield and spear, and
mounteth and cometh back and bringeth the King's son before the King
and the head of the Giant hanging.


VI.

The King and all they of the castle come to meet him with right great
joy, but when they see the young man dead, their great joy is turned
into right great dole thereby.  And Messire Gawain alighteth before the
castle and presenteth to the King his son and the head of the Giant.

"Certes," said he, "might I have presented him to you on live, much
more joyful should I have been thereof."

"This believe I well," saith the King, "Howbeit, of so much as you have
done am I well pleased, and your guerdon shall you have."

And he looketh at his son and lamenteth him right sweetly, and all they
of the castle after him.  Thereafter he maketh light a great show of
torches in the midst of the city, and causeth a great fire to be made,
and his son be set thereon in a brazen vessel all full of water, and
maketh him be cooked and sodden over this fire, and maketh the Giant's
head be hanged at the gate.


VII.

When his son was well cooked, he maketh him be cut up as small as he
may, and biddeth send for all the high men of his land and giveth
thereof to each so long as there was any left.  After that he maketh
bring the sword and giveth it to Messire Gawain, and Messire Gawain
thanketh him much thereof.

"More yet will I do for you," saith the King.  He biddeth send for all
the men of his land to come to his hall and castle.

"Sir," saith he, "I am fain to baptize me."

"God be praised thereof," saith Messire Gawain.  The King biddeth send
for a hermit of the forest, and maketh himself be baptized, and he had
the name of Archis in right baptism; and of all them that were not
willing to believe in God, he commanded Messire Gawain that he should
cut off their heads.


VIII.

In such wise was this King baptized that was the lord of Albanie, by
the miracle of God and the knighthood of Messire Gawain, that departeth
from the castle with right great joy and rideth until he has come into
the land of the King of Wales and bethought him he would go fulfil his
pledge.  He alighted before the hall, and the King made right great
cheer when he saw him come.  And Messire Gawain hath told him: "I come
to redeem my pledge. Behold, here is the sword."

And the King taketh it in his hand and looketh thereon right fainly,
and afterward maketh great joy thereof and setteth it in his treasury
and saith: "Now have I done my desire."

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "Then have you betrayed me."

"By my head," saith the King, "That have I not, for I am of the lineage
of him that beheaded S. John, wherefore have I better right to it than
you."

"Sir," say the knights to the King, "Right loyal and courteous knight
is Messire Gawain, wherefore yield him that which he hath conquered,
for sore blame will you have of evil-treating him."

"I will yield it," saith the King "on such condition that the first
damsel that maketh request of him, what thing soever she may require
and whatsoever it be shall not be denied of him."

And Messire Gawain agreeth thereto, and of this agreement thereafter
did he suffer much shame and anguish and was blamed of many knights.
And the King yielded him the Sword.  He lay the night therewithin, and
on the morrow so soon as he might, he departed and rode until he came
without the city where the burgess gave him the horse in exchange for
his own.  And he remembered him of his covenant, and abideth a long
space and leaneth him on the hilt of his sword until the burgess
cometh. Therewithal made they great joy the one of the other, and
Messire showeth him the sword, and the burgess taketh it and smiteth
his horse with his spurs and goeth a great gallop toward the city. And
Messire Gawain goeth after a great pace and crieth out that he doth
great treachery.

"Come not after me into the city," saith the burgess, "for the folk
have a commune."

Howbeit, he followeth after into the city for that he might not
overtake him before, and therein he meeteth a great procession of
priests and clerks that bore crosses and censers.  And Messire Gawain
alighteth on account of the procession, and seeth the burgess that hath
gone into the church and the procession after.

"Lords," saith Messire Gawain, "Make yield me the sword whereof this
burgess that hath entered your church hath plundered me."

"Sir," say the priests, "Well know we that it is the sword wherewith S.
John was beheaded, wherefore the burgess hath brought it to us to set
with our hallows in yonder, and saith that it was given him."

"Ha, lords!" saith Messire Gawain, "Not so!  I have but shown it to him
to fulfil my pledge.  And he hath carried it off by treachery."

Afterward he telleth them as it had befallen him, and the priests make
the burgess give it up, and with great joy Messire Gawain departeth and
remounteth his horse and issueth forth of the city. He hath scarce gone
far before he meeteth a knight that came all armed, as fast as his
horse could carry him, spear in rest.

"Sir," saith he to Messire Gawain, "I have come to help you.  We were
told that you had been evil-entreated in the city, and I am of the
castle that succoureth all strange knights that pass hereby whensoever
they have need thereof."

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "Blessed be the castle!  I plain me not of
the trespass for that right hath been done me.  And how is the castle
named?"

"Sir, they call it the Castle of the Ball.  Will you return back
thither with me, since you are delivered, and lodge there the night
with Messire, that is a right worshipful man, and of good conditions?"

Therewith they go together to the castle, that was right fair and
well-seeming.  They enter in, and when they were within, the Lord, that
sate on a mounting-stage of marble, had two right fair daughters, and
he made them play before him with a ball of gold, and looked at them
right fainly.  He seeth Messire Gawain alight and cometh to meet him
and maketh him great cheer.  Afterward, he biddeth his two daughters
lead him into the hall.


IX.

When he was disarmed, the one brought him a right rich robe, and after
meat the two maidens sit beside him and make him right great cheer.
Thereupon behold you, a dwarf that issueth forth of a chamber, and he
holdeth a scourge.  And he cometh to the damsels and smiteth them over
their faces and their heads.

"Rise up," saith he, "ye fools, ill-taught!  Ye make cheer unto him
whom you ought to hate!  For this is Messire Gawain, King Arthur's
nephew, by whom was your uncle slain!"

Thereupon they rise, all ashamed, and go into the chamber, and Messire
Gawain remaineth there sore abashed.  But their father comforteth him
and saith: "Sir, be not troubled for aught that he saith, for the dwarf
is our master: he chastiseth and teacheth my daughters, and he is wroth
for that you have slain his brother, whom you slew the day that Marin
slew his wife on your account, whereof we are right sorrowful in this
castle."

"So also am I," saith Messire Gawain, "But no blame of her death have I
nor she, as God knoweth of very truth."


X.

Messire Gawain lay the night at the castle, and departed on the morrow,
and rode on his journeys until he cometh to the castle at the entrance
to the land of the rich King Fisherman, where he seeth that the lion is
not at the entrance nor were the serjeants of copper shooting.  And he
seeth in great procession the priests and them of the castle coming to
meet him, and he alighteth, and a squire was apparelled ready, that
took his armour and his horse, and he showeth the sword to them that
were come to meet him.  It was the hour of noon.  He draweth the sword,
and seeth it all bloody, and they bow down and worship it, and sing 'Te
Deum laudamus'.  With such joy was Messire Gawain received at the
castle, and he set the sword back in his scabbard, and kept it right
anigh him, and made it not known in all the places where he lodged that
it was such.  The priests and knights of the castle make right great
joy, and pray him right instantly that so God should lead him to the
castle of King Fisherman, and the Graal should appear before him, he
would not be so forgetful as the other knights.  And he made answer
that he would do that which God should teach him.


XI.

"Messire Gawain," saith the master of the priests, that was right
ancient: "Great need have you to take rest, for meseemeth you have had
much travail."

"Sir, many things have I seen whereof I am sore abashed, nor know I
what castle this may be."

"Sir," saith the priest, "This Castle is the Castle of Inquest, for
nought you shall ask whereof it shall not tell you the meaning, by the
witness of Joseph, the good clerk and good hermit through whom we have
it, and he knoweth it by annunciation of the Holy Ghost."

"By my faith," saith Messire Gawain, "I am much abashed of the three
damsels that were at the court of King Arthur.  Two of them carried,
the one the head of a king and the other of a queen, and they had in a
car an hundred and fifty heads of knights whereof some were sealed in
gold, other in silver, and the rest in lead."

"True," saith the priest, "For as by the queen was the king betrayed
and killed, and the knights whereof the heads were in the car, so saith
she truth as Joseph witnesseth to us, for he saith of remembrance that
by envy was Adam betrayed, and all the people that were after him and
the people that are yet to come shall have dole thereof for ever more.
And for that Adam was the first man is he called King, for he was our
earthly father, and his wife Queen.  And the heads of the knights
sealed in gold signify the new law, and the heads sealed in silver the
old, and the heads sealed in lead the false law of the Sarrazins.  Of
these three manner of folk is the world stablished."

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "I marvel of the castle of the Black
Hermit, there where the heads were all taken from her, and the Damsel
told me that the Good Knight should cast them all forth when he should
come.  And the other folk that are therewithin are longing for him."

"Well know you," saith the priest, "that on account of the apple that
Eve gave Adam to eat, all went to hell alike, the good as well as the
evil, and to cast His people forth from hell did God become man, and
cast these souls forth from hell of His bounty and of His puissance.
And to this doth Joseph make us allusion by the castle or the Black
Hermit which signifieth hell, and the Good Knight that shall thence
cast forth them that are within. And I tell you that the Black Hermit
is Lucifer, that is Lord of hell in like manner as he fain would have
been Lord of Paradise."

"Sir," saith the priest, "By this significance is he fain to draw the
good hermits on behalt of the new law wherein the most part are not
well learned, wherefore he would fain make allusion by ensample."

"By God," saith Messire Gawain, "I marvel much of the Damsel that was
all bald, and said that never should she have her hair again until such
time as the Good Knight should have achieved the Holy Graal."

"Sir," saith the good man, "Each day full bald behoveth her to be, ever
since bald she became when the good King fell into languishment on
account of the knight whom he harboured that made not the demand.  The
bald damsel signifieth Joseu Josephus, that was bald before the
crucifixion of Our Lord, nor never had his hair again until such time
as He had redeemed His people by His blood and by His death.  The car
that she leadeth after her signifieth the wheel of fortune, for like as
the car goeth on the wheels, doth she lay the burden of the world on
the two damsels that follow her; and this you may see well, for the
fairest followeth afoot and the other was on a sorry hackney, and they
were poorly clad, whereas the third had costlier attire.  The shield
whereon was the red cross, that she left at the court of King Arthur,
signifieth the most holy shield of the rood that never none durst lift
save God alone."

Messire Gawain heareth these significances and much pleaseth him
thereof, and thinketh him that none durst set his hand to nor lift the
shield that hung in the King's hall, as he had heard tell in many
places; wherefore day by day were they waiting for the Good Knight that
should come for the shield.


XII.

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "By this that you tell me you do me to wit
that whereof I was abashed, but I have been right sorrowful of a lady
that a knight slew on my account albeit no blame had she therein, nor
had I."

"Sir," saith the priest, "Right great significance was there in her
death, for Josephus witnesseth us that the old law was destroyed by the
stroke of a sword without recover, and to destroy the old law did Our
Lord suffer Himself to be smitten in the side of a spear.  By this
stroke was the old law destroyed, and by His crucifixion.  The lady
signifieth the old law.  Would you ask more of me?" saith the priest.

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "I met a knight in the forest that rode
behind before and carried his arms upside down.  And he said that he
was the Knight Coward, and his habergeon carried he on his neck, and so
soon as he saw me he set his arms to rights and rode like any other
knight."

"The law was turned to the worse," saith the priest, "before Our Lord's
crucifixion, and so soon as He was crucified, was again restored to
right."

"Even yet have I not asked you of all," saith Messire Gawain, "For a
knight came and jousted with me party of black and white, and
challenged me of the death of the lady on behalf of her husband, and
told me and I should vanquish him that he and his men would be my men.
I did vanquish him and he did me homage."

"It is right," saith the priest, "On account of the old law that was
destroyed were all they that remained therein made subject, and shall
be for ever more.  Wish you to enquire of aught further?" saith the
priest.

"I marvel me right sore," saith Messire Gawain, "of a child that rode a
lion in a hermitage, and none durst come nigh the lion save the child
only, and he was not of more than six years, and the lion was right
fell.  The child was the son of the lady that was slain on my account."

"Right well have you spoken," saith the priest, "in reminding me
thereof.  The child signifieth the Saviour of the world that was born
under the old law and was circumcised, and the lion whereon he rode
signifieth the world and the people that are therein, and beasts and
birds that none may govern save by virtue of Him alone."

"God!" saith Messire Gawain, "How great joy have I at heart of that you
tell me!  Sir, I found a fountain in a forest, the fairest that was
ever seen, and an image had it within that hid itself when it saw me,
and a clerk brought a golden vessel and took another golden vessel that
hung at the column that was there, and set his own in place thereof.
Afterward, came three damsels and filled the vessel with that they had
brought thither, and straightway meseemed that but one was there."

"Sir," saith the priest, "I will tell you no more thereof than you have
heard, and therewithal ought you to hold yourself well apaid, for
behoveth not discover the secrets of the Saviour, and them also to whom
they are committed behoveth keep them covertly."


XIII.

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "I would fain ask you of a King. When I
had brought him his son back dead, he made him be cooked and thereafter
made him be eaten of all the folk of his land."

"Sir," saith the priest, "Already had he leant his heart upon Jesus
Christ, and would fain make sacrifice of his flesh and blood to Our
Lord, and for this did he make all those of his land eat thereof, and
would fain that their thoughts should be even such as his own.  And
therefore was all evil belief uprooted from his land, so that none
remained therein."

"Blessed be the hour," saith Messire Gawain, "that I came herewithin!"

"Mine be it!" saith the priest.

Messire Gawain lay therewithin the night, and right well lodged was he.
The morrow, when he had heard mass, he departed and went forth of the
castle when he had taken leave.  And he findeth the fairest land of the
world and the fairest meadow-grounds that were ever seen, and the
fairest rivers and forests garnished of wild deer and hermitages.  And
he rideth until he cometh one day as evening was about to draw on, to
the house of a hermit, and the house was so low that his horse might
not enter therein.  And his chapel was scarce taller, and the good man
had never issued therefrom of forty years past.  The Hermit putteth his
head out of the window when he seeth Messire Gawain and saith, "Sir,
welcome may you be," saith he.

"Sir, God give you joy, Will you give me lodging to-night?" saith
Messire Gawain.

"Sir, herewithin none harboureth save the Lord God alone, for earthly
man hath never entered herewithin but me this forty year, but see, here
in front is the castle wherein the good knights are lodged."

"What is the castle?"

"Sir, the good King Fisherman's, that is surrounded with great waters
and plenteous in all things good, so the lord were in joy. But behoveth
them harbour none there save good knights only."

"God grant," saith Messire Gawain, "that I may come therein."


XIV.

When he knoweth that he is nigh the castle, he alighteth and confesseth
him to the hermit, and avoweth all his sins and repenteth him thereof
right truly.

"Sir," saith the hermit, "Now forget not, so God be willing to allow
you, to ask that which the other knight forgat, and be not afeard for
ought you may see at the entrance of the castle, but ride on without
misgiving and adore the holy chapel you will see appear in the castle,
there where the flame of the Holy Spirit descendeth each day for the
most Holy Graal and the point of the lance that is served there."

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "God teach me to do His will!"

He taketh leave, and goeth his way and rideth until the valley
appeareth wherein the castle is seated garnished of all things good,
and he seeth appear the most holy chapel.  He alighteth, and then
setteth him on his knees and boweth him down and adoreth right sweetly.
Thereafter he remounteth and rideth until he findeth a sepulchre right
rich, and it had a cover over, and it lay very nigh the castle, and it
seemed to be within a little burial-ground that was enclosed all round
about, nor were any other tombs therein.  A voice crieth to him as he
passeth the burial-ground: "Touch not the sepulchre, for you are not
the Good Knight through whom shall it be known who lieth therein."

Messire Gawain passeth beyond when he had heard the voice and draweth
nigh the entrance of the castle, and seeth that three bridges are
there, right great and right horrible to pass. And three great waters
run below, and him seemeth that the first bridge is a bowshot in length
and in breadth not more than a foot.  Strait seemeth the bridge and the
water deep and swift and wide.  He knoweth not what he may do, for it
seemeth him that none may pass it, neither afoot nor on horse.


XV.

Thereupon, lo you, a knight that issueth forth of the castle and cometh
as far as the head of the bridge, that was called the Bridge of the
Eel, and shouteth aloud: "Sir Knight, pass quickly before it shall be
already night, for they of the castle are awaiting us."

"Ha," saith Messire Gawain, "Fair sir, but teach me how I may pass
hereby."

"Certes, Sir Knight, no passage know I to this entrance other than
this, and if you desire to come to the castle, pass on without
misgiving."

Messire Gawain hath shame for that he hath stayed so long, and
forthinketh him of this that the Hermit told him, that of no mortal
thing need he be troubled at the entrance of the castle, and
therewithal that he is truly confessed of his sins, wherefore behoveth
him be the less adread of death.  He crosseth and blesseth himself and
commendeth himself to God as he that thinketh to die, and so smiteth
his horse with his spurs and findeth the bridge wide and large as soon
as he goeth forward, for by this passing were proven most of the
knights that were fain to enter therein.  Much marvelled he that he
found the bridge so wide that had seemed him so narrow.  And when he
had passed beyond, the bridge, that was a drawbridge, lifted itself by
engine behind him, for the water below ran too swiftly for other bridge
to be made.  The knight draweth himself back beyond the great bridge
and Messire Gawain cometh nigh to pass it, and this seemed him as long
as the other.  And he seeth the water below, that was not less swift
nor less deep, and, so far as he could judge, the bridge was of ice,
feeble and thin, and of a great height above the water, and he looked
at it with much marvelling, yet natheless not for that would he any the
more hold back from passing on toward the entrance.  He goeth forward
and commendeth himself to God, and cometh in the midst thereof and
seeth that the bridge was the fairest and richest and strongest he had
ever beheld, and the abutments thereof were all full of images.  When
he was beyond the bridge, it lifted itself up behind him as the other
had done, and he looketh before him and seeth not the knight, and is
come to the third bridge and nought was he adread for anything he might
see.  And it was not less rich than the other, and had columns of
marble all round about, and upon each a knop so rich that it seemed to
be of gold.  After that, he beholdeth the gate over against him, and
seeth Our Lord there figured even as He was set upon the rood, and His
Mother of the one side and S. John of the other, whereof the images
were all of gold, with rich precious stones that flashed like fire. And
on the right hand he seeth an angel, passing fair, that pointed with
his finger to the chapel where was the Holy Graal, and on his breast
had he a precious stone, and letters written above his head that told
how the lord of the castle was the like pure and clean of all
evil-seeming as was this stone.


XVI.

Thereafter at the entrance of the gate he seeth a lion right great and
horrible, and he was upright upon his feet.  So soon as he seeth
Messire Gawain, he croucheth to the ground, and Messire Gawain passeth
the entrance without gainsay and cometh to the castle, and alighteth
afoot, and setteth his shield and his spear against the wall of the
hall, and mounteth up a flight of marble steps and cometh into a hall
right fair and rich, and here and there in divers places was it painted
with golden images.  In the midst thereof he findeth a couch right fair
and rich and high, and at the foot of this couch was a chess-board
right fair and rich, with an orle of gold all full of precious stones,
and the pieces were of gold and silver and were not upon the board.
Meanwhile, as Messire Gawain was looking at the beauty of the
chess-board and the hall, behold you two knights that issue forth of a
chamber and come to him.

"Sir," say the knights, "Welcome may you be."

"God give you joy and good adventure," saith Messire Gawain.

They make him sit upon the couch and after that make him be disarmed.
They bring him, in two basins of gold, water to wash his face and
hands.  After that, come two damsels that bring him a rich robe of silk
and cloth of gold.  Then they make him do on the same.  Then say the
two damsels to him, "Take in good part whatsoever may be done to you
therewithin, for this is the hostel of good knights and loyal."

"Damsels," saith Messire Gawain, "So will I do. Gramercy of your
service."

He seeth well that albeit the night were dark, within was so great
brightness of light without candles that it was marvel. And it seemed
him the sun shone there.  Wherefore marvelled he right sore whence so
great light should come.


XVII.

When Messire Gawain was clad in the rich robe, right comely was he to
behold, and well seemed he to be a knight of great valour. "Sir," say
the knights, "May it please you come see the lord of this castle?"

"Right gladly will I see him," saith he, "For I would fain present him
with a rich sword."

They lead him into the chamber where lay King Fisherman, and it seemed
as it were all strown and sprinkled of balm, and it was all strown with
green herbs and reeds.  And King Fisherman lay on a bed hung on cords
whereof the stavs were of ivory; and therein was a mattress of straw
whereon he lay, and above a coverlid of sables whereof the cloth was
right rich.  And he had a cap of sables on his head covered with a red
samite of silk, and a golden cross, and under his head was a pillow all
smelling sweet of balm, and at the four corners of the pillow were four
stones that gave out a right great brightness of light; and over
against him was a pillar of copper whereon sate an eagle that held a
cross of gold wherein was a piece of the true cross whereon God was
set, as long as was the cross itself; the which the good man adored.
And in four tall candle sticks of gold were four tall wax tapers set as
often as was need.  Messire Gawain cometh before the King and saluteth
him.  And the King maketh him right great cheer, and biddeth him be
welcome.

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "I present you with the sword whereof John
was beheaded."

"Gramercy." saith the King: "Certes, I knew well that you would bring
it, for neither you nor other might have come in hither without the
sword, and if you had not been of great valour you would not have
conquered it."

He taketh the sword and setteth it to his mouth and so kisseth it right
sweetly and maketh right great joy thereof.  And a damsel cometh to sit
at the head of the bed, to whom he giveth the sword in keeping.  Two
others sit at his feet that look at him right sweetly.

"What is your name?" saith the King.

"Sir, my name is Gawain."

"Ha, Messire Gawain," saith he, "This brightness of light that shineth
there within cometh to us of God for love of you.  For every time that
a knight cometh hither to harbour within this castle it appeareth as
brightly as you see it now.  And greater cheer would I make you than I
do were I able to help myself, but I am fallen into languishment from
the hour that the knight of whom you have heard tell harboured
herewithin.  On account of one single word he delayed to speak, did
this languishment come upon me.  Wherefore I pray you for God's sake
that you remember to speak it, for right glad should you be and you may
restore me my health.  And see here is the daughter of my sister that
hath been plundered of her land and disinherited in such wise that
never can she have it again save through her brother only whom she
goeth to seek; and we have been told that he is the Best Knight of the
world, but we can learn no true tidings of him."

"Sir," saith the damsel to her uncle the King, "Thank Messire Gawain of
the honour he did to my lady-mother when he came to her hostel.  He
stablished our land again in peace, and conquered the keeping of the
castle for a year, and set my lady-mother's five knights there with us
to keep it.  The year hath now passed, wherefore will the war be now
renewed against us and God succour us not, and I find not my brother
whom we have lost so long."

"Damsel," saith Messire Gawain, "I helped you so far as I might, and so
would I again and I were there.  And fainer am I to see your brother
than all the knights of the world.  But no true tidings may I hear of
him, save so much, that I was at a hermitage where was a King hermit
and he bade me make no noise for that the Best Knight of the world lay
sick therewithin, and he told me that name was Par-lui-fet.  I saw his
horse being led by a squire before the chapel, and his arms and shield
whereon was a sun figured."

"Sir," saith the damsel, "My brother's name is not Par-lui-fet, but
Perlesvax in right baptism, and it is said of them that have seen him
that never comelier knight was known."

"Certes," saith the King, "Never saw I comelier than he that came in
hither nor better like to be good knight, and I know of a truth that
such he is, for otherwise never might he have entered hereinto.  But
good reward of harbouring him had I not, for I may help neither myself
nor other.  For God's sake, Messire Gawain, hold me in remembrance this
night, for great affiance have I in your valour."

"Certes, Sir, please God, nought will I do within yonder, whereof I may
be blamed of right."


XVIII.

Thereupon Messire Gawain was led into the hall and findeth twelve
ancient knights, all bald, albeit they seemed not to be so old as they
were, for each was of a hundred year of age or more and yet none of
them seemed as though he were forty.  They have set Messire Gawain to
eat at a right rich table of ivory and seat themselves all round about
him.

"Sir," saith the Master of the Knights, "Remember you of that the good
King hath prayed of you and told you this night as you have heard."

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "God remember it!"

With that bring they larded meats of venison and wild-boar's flesh and
other in great plenty, and on the table was rich array of vessels of
silver and great cups of gold with their covers, and the rich
candlesticks where the great candles were burning, albeit their
brightness was hidden of the great light that appeared within.


XIX.

Thereon, lo you, two damsels that issue forth of a chapel, whereof the
one holdeth in her hands the most Holy Graal, and the other the Lance
whereof the point bleedeth thereinto.  And the one goeth beside the
other in the midst of the hall where the knights and Messire Gawain sat
at meat, and so sweet a smell and so holy came to them therefrom that
they forgat to eat.  Messire Gawain looketh at the Graal, and it seemed
him that a chalice was therein, albeit none there was as at this time,
and he seeth the point of the lance whence the red blood ran thereinto,
and it seemeth him he seeth two angels that bear two candlesticks of
gold filled with candles.  And the damsels pass before Messire Gawain,
and go into another chapel.  And Messire Gawain is thoughtful, and so
great a joy cometh to him that nought remembereth he in his thinking
save of God only.  The knights are all daunted and sorrowful in their
hearts, and look at Messire Gawain.  Thereupon behold you the damsels
that issue forth of the chamber and come again before Messire Gawain,
and him seemeth that he seeth three there where before he had seen but
two, and seemeth him that in the midst of the Graal he seeth the figure
of a child.  The Master of the Knights beckoneth to Messire Gawain.
Messire Gawain looketh before him and seeth three drops of blood fall
upon the table.  He was all abashed to look at them and spake no word.


XX.

Therewith the damsels pass forth and the knights are all adread and
look one at the other.  Howbeit Messire Gawain may not withdraw his
eyes from the three drops of blood, and when he would fain kiss them
they vanish away, whereof he is right sorrowful, for he may not set his
hand nor aught that of him is to touch thereof.  Therewithal behold you
the two damsels that come again before the table and seemeth to Messire
Gawain that there are three, and he looketh up and it seemeth him to be
the Graal all in flesh, grid he seeth above, as him thinketh, a King
crowned, nailed upon a rood, and the spear was still fast in his side.
Messire Gawain seeth it and hath great pity thereof, and of nought doth
he remember him save of the pain that this King suffereth.  And the
Master of the Knights summoneth him again by word of mouth, and telleth
him that if he delayeth longer, never more will he recover it.  Messire
Gawain is silent, as he that heareth not the knight speak, and looketh
upward.  But the damsels go back into the chapel and carry back the
most Holy Graal and the Lance, and the knights make the tablecloths be
taken away and rise from meat and go into another hall and leave
Messire Gawain all alone.  And he looketh all around and seeth the
doors all shut and made fast, and looketh to the foot of the hall and
seeth two candlesticks with many candles burning round about the
chessboard, and he seeth that the pieces are set, whereof the one sort
are silver and the other gold.  Messire Gawain sitteth at the game, and
they of gold played against him and mated him twice.  At the third
time, when he thought to revenge himself and saw that he had the worse,
he swept the pieces off the board.  And the damsel issued forth of a
chamber and made a squire take the chess-board and the pieces and so
carry them away.  And Messire Gawain, that was way-worn of his
wanderings to come thither where he now hath come, slept upon the couch
until the morrow when it was day, and he heard a horn sound right
shrill.


XXI.

Thereupon he armeth him and would fain go to take leave of King
Fisherman, but he findeth the doors bolted so that he may not get
forth.  And right fair service seeth he done in a chapel, and right
sorrowful is he for that he may not hear the mass.  A damsel cometh
into the hall and saith to him: "Sir, now may you hear the service and
the joy that is made on account of the sword you presented to the good
King, and right glad at heart ought you to have been if you had been
within the chapel.  But you lost entering therein on account of a right
little word.  For the place of the chapel is so hallowed of the holy
relics that are therein that man nor priest may never enter therein
from the Saturday at noon until the Monday after mass."

And he heard the sweetest voices and the fairest services that were
ever done in chapel.  Messire Gawain answereth her not a word so is he
abashed.  Howbeit the damsel saith to him: "Sir, God be guardian of
your body, for methinketh that it was not of your own default that you
would not speak the word whereof this castle would have been in joy."

With that the damsel departeth and Messire Gawain heareth the horn
sound a second time and a voice warning him aloud: "He that is from
without, let him go hence!  for the bridges are lowered and the gate
open, and the lion is in his den.  And thereafter behoveth the bridge
be lifted again on account of the King of the Castle Mortal, that
warreth against this castle, and therefore of this thing shall he die."


XXII.

Thereupon Messire Gawain issueth forth of the hall and findeth his
horse all made ready at the mounting-stage, together with his arms.  He
goeth forth and findeth the bridges broad and long, and goeth his way a
great pace beside a great river that runneth in the midst of the
valley.  And he seeth in a great forest a mighty rain and tempest, and
so strong a thunderstorm ariseth in the forest that it seemeth like all
the trees should be uprooted.  So great is the rain and the tempest
that it compelleth him set his shield over his horse's head lest he be
drowned of the abundance of rain.  In this mis-ease rideth he down
beside the river that runneth in the forest until he seeth in a launde
across the river a knight and a damsel right gaily appointed riding at
pleasure, and the knight carrieth a bird on his fist, and the damsel
hath a garland of flowers on her head.  Two brachets follow the knight.
The sun shineth right fair on the meadow and the air is right clear and
fresh.  Messire Gawain marvelleth much of this, that it raineth so
heavily on his way, whereas, in the meadow where the knight and the
damsel are riding, the sun shineth clear and the weather is bright and
calm.  And he seeth them ride joyously.  He can ask them naught for
they are too far away.  Messire Gawain looketh about and seeth on the
other side the river a squire nearer to him than is the knight.

"Fair friend" saith Messire Gawain, "How is this that it raineth upon
me on this side the river, but on the other raineth it not at all?"

"Sir," saith the squire, "This have you deserved, for such is the
custom of the forest."

"Will this tempest that is over me last for ever?" saith Messire Gawain.

"At the first bridge you come to will it be stayed upon you," saith the
squire.


XXIII.

Therewith the squire departeth, and the tempest rageth incontinent
until he is come to the bridge; and he rideth beyond and cometh to the
meadow, and the storm is stayed so that he setteth his shield to rights
again upon his neck.  And he seeth before him a castle where was a
great company of folk that were making great cheer.  He rideth until he
cometh to the castle and seeth right great throng of folk, knights and
dames and damsels. Messire Gawain alighteth, but findeth in the castle
none that is willing to take his reins, so busied are they making
merry. Messire Gawain presenteth himself on the one side and the other,
but all of them avoid him, and he seeth that he maketh but an ill stay
therewithin for himself, wherefore he departeth from the castle and
meeteth a knight at the gate.

"Sir," saith he, "What castle is this?"

"And see you not," saith the knight, "that it is a castle of joy?"

"By my faith" saith Messire Gawain, "They of the castle be not
over-courteous, for all this time hath none come to take my reins."

"Not for this lose they their courtesy," saith the knight, "For this is
no more than you have deserved.  They take you to be as slothful of
deed as you are of word, and they saw that you were come through the
Forest Perilous whereby pass all the discomfited, as well appeareth by
your arms and your horse."

Therewith the knight departeth, and Messire Gawain hath ridden a great
space sorrowful and sore abashed, until he cometh to a land parched and
poor and barren of all comfort, and therein findeth he a poor castle,
whereinto he cometh and seeth it much wasted, but that within was there
a hall that seemed haunted of folk. And Messire Gawain cometh
thitherward and alighteth, and a knight cometh down the steps of the
hall right poorly clad.

"Sir," saith the knight to Messire Gawain, "Welcome may you be!"

After that, he taketh him by the hand and leadeth him upward to the
hall, that was all waste.  Therewithal issue two damsels from a
chamber, right poorly clad, that were of passing great beauty, and make
great cheer to Messire Gawain.  So, when he was fain to disarm, behold
you thereupon a knight that entereth into the hall, and he was smitten
with the broken end of a lance through his body.  He seeth Messire
Gawain, whom he knoweth.

"Now haste!" saith he, "and disarm you not!  Right joyful am I that I
have found you! I come from this forest wherein have I left Lancelot
fighting with four knights, whereof one is dead, and they think that it
is you, and they are of kindred to the knight that you slew at the tent
where you destroyed the evil custom.  I was fain to help Lancelot, when
one of the knights smote me as you may see."

Messire Gawain goeth down from the hall and mounteth all armed upon his
horse.


XXIV.

"Sir," saith the knight of the hall, "I would go help you to my power,
but I may not issue forth of the castle until such time as it be
replenished of the folk that are wont to come therein and until my land
be again given up to me through the valour of the Good Knight."

Messire Gawain departeth from the castle as fast as horse may carry
him, and entereth the forest and followeth the track of the blood along
the way the knight had come, and rideth so far in the forest as that he
heareth the noise of swords, and seeth in the midst of the launde
Lancelot and the three knights, and the fourth dead on the ground.  But
one of the knights had drawn him aback, for he might abide the combat
no longer, for the knight that brought the tidings to Messire Gawain
had sore wounded him. The two knights beset Lancelot full sore, and
right weary was he of the buffets that he had given and received.
Messire Gawain cometh to one of the knights and smiteth him right
through the body and maketh him and his horse roll over all of a heap.


XXV.

When Lancelot perceiveth Messire Gawain, much joy maketh he thereof.
In the meanwhile as the one held the other, the fourth knight fled full
speed through the midst of the forest, and he that the knight had
wounded fell dead.  They take their horses, and Messire Gawain telleth
Lancelot he hath the most poverty-stricken host that ever he hath seen,
and the fairest damsels known, but that right poorly are they clad.
"Shall we therefore take them of our booty?"

"I agree," saith Lancelot, "But sore grieveth me of the knight that
hath thus escaped us."

"Take no heed," saith Messire Gawain, "We shall do well enough herein."

Thereupon they return back toward the poor knight's hostel and alight
before the hall, and the Poor Knight cometh to meet them, and the two
damsels, and they deliver to them the three horses of the three knights
that were dead.  The knight hath great joy thereof, and telleth them
that now is he a rich man and that betimes will his sisters be better
clad than are they now, as well as himself.


XXVI.

Thereupon come they into the hall.  The knight maketh one of his own
squires stable the horses and the two damsels help disarm Lancelot and
Messire Gawain.

"Lords," saith the knight, "So God help me, nought have I to lend you
wherewith to clothe you, for robe have I none save mine own jerkin."

Lancelot hath great pity thereof and Messire Gawain, and the two
damsels take off their kirtles that were made like surcoats of cloth
that covered their poor shirts, and their jackets that, were all
to-torn and ragged and worn, and present them to the knights to clothe
them.  They were fain not to refuse, lest the damsels should think they
held them not in honour, and did on the two kirtles right poor as they
were.  The damsels had great joy thereof that so good knights should
deign wear garments so poor.

"Lords," saith the Poor Knight, "The knight that brought the tidings
hither, and was stricken through of a lance-shaft, is dead and lieth on
a bier in a chapel within the castle, and he confessed himself right
well to a hermit and bade salute you both, and was right fain you
should see him after that he were dead, and he prayed me instantly that
I would ask you to be to-morrow at his burial, for better knights than
be ye might not be thereat, so he told me."

"Certes," saith Lancelot, "A good knight was he, and much mischief is
it of his death; and sore grieveth me that I know not his name nor of
what country he was."

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "He said that you should yet know it well."

The two good knights lay the night at the castle, and the Poor Knight
lodged them as well as he might.  When it cometh to morning, they go to
the chapel to hear mass and to be at the burial of the body.  After
that they take leave of the Poor Knight and the two damsels and depart
from the castle all armed.

"Messire Gawain," saith Lancelot, "They know not at court what hath
become of you, and they hold you for dead as they suppose."

"By my faith," saith Messire Gawain, "thitherward will I go, for I have
had sore travail, and there will I abide until some will shall come to
me to go seek adventure."

He recounteth to Lancelot how the Graal hath appeared to him at the
court of King Fisherman: "And even as it was there before me, I forgat
to ask how it served and of what?"

"Ha, Sir," saith Lancelot, "Have you then been there?"

"Yea," saith he, "And thereof am I right sorry and glad: glad for the
great holiness I have seen, sorry for that I asked not that whereof
King Fisherman prayed me right sweetly."

"Sir," saith Lancelot, "Right sorely ill have you wrought, nor is there
not whereof I have so great desire as I have to go to his castle."

"By my faith," saith Messire Gawain, "Much shamed was I there, but this
doth somewhat recomfort me, that the Best Knight was there before me
that gat blame thereof in like manner as I."

Lancelot departeth from Messire Gawain, and they take leave either of
other.  They issue forth of a forest, and each taketh his own way
without saying a word.



BRANCH VII.

TITLE I.

Here the story is silent of Messire Gawain and beginneth to speak of
Lancelot, that entereth into a forest and rideth with right great ado
and meeteth a knight in the midst of the forest that was coming full
speed and was armed of all arms.

"Sir," saith Lancelot, "Whence come you?"

"Sir," saith Lancelot, "I come from the neighbourhood of King Arthur's
Court."

"Ha, Sir, can you tell me tidings of a knight that beareth a green
shield such as I bear?  If so, he is my brother."

"What name hath he?" saith Lancelot.

"Sir," saith he, "His name is Gladoens, and he is a good knight and a
hardy, and he hath a white horse right strong and swift."

"Be there other knights in your country that bear such arms as your
shield and his besides you and he?"

"Certes, Sir, none."

"And wherefore do you ask?" saith Lancelot.

"For this, that a certain man hath reft him of one of his castles for
that he was not there.  Howbeit, I know well that he will have it again
through his good knighthood."

"Is he so good knight?" saith Lancelot.

"Certes, Sir, yea!  He is the best of the Isles of the Moors."

"Sir, of your mercy, lower your coif."

He quickly thereon lowereth his coif, and Lancelot looketh at him in
the face.  "Certes, Sir Knight," saith he, "you very much resemble him."

"Ha, Sir," saith the knight, "Know you then any tidings of him?"

"Certes, Sir," saith he, "Yea!  and true tidings may I well say, for he
rode at my side five leagues Welsh, nor never saw I one man so like
another as are you to him."

"Good right hath he to resemble me," saith the knight, "for we are
twins, but he was born first and hath more sense and knighthood than I;
nor in all the Isles of the Moors is there damsel that hath so much
worth and beauty as she of whom he is loved of right true love, and
more she desireth to see him than aught else that liveth, for she hath
not seen him of more than a year, wherefore hath she gone seek her
prize, my brother, by all the forests of the world. Sir," saith the
knight, "Let me go seek my brother, and tell me where I may find him."

"Certes," saith Lancelot, "I will tell you though it grieve me sore."

"Wherefore?" saith the knight, "Hath he done you any mis-deed?"

"In no wise," saith Lancelot, "Rather hath he done so much for me that
I love you thereof and offer you my service."

"Sir," saith the knight, "I am going my way, but for God's sake tell me
where I shall find my brother."

"Sir," saith Lancelot, "I will tell you.  This morning did I bid his
body farewell and help to bury him."

"Ha, Sir," saith the knight, "Do you tell me true?"

"Certes," saith Lancelot, "True it is that I tell you."

"Is he slain then, my brother?" saith the knight.

"Yea, and of succouring me," saith Lancelot.

"Ha, sir," saith the knight, "For God's sake tell me nought that is not
right."

"By God, Sir," saith he, "Sore grieved am I to tell it you, for never
loved I knight so much in so brief a time as I loved him. He helped to
save me from death, and therefore will I do for you according to that
he did for me."

"Sir," saith the knight, "If he be dead, a great grief is it to myself,
for I have lost my comfort and my life and my land without recovery."

"Sir," saith Lancelot, "He helped me to save my life, and yours will I
help to save henceforth for ever and so be that I shall know of your
jeopardy."

The knight heareth that his brother is dead and well believeth
Lancelot, and beginneth to make dole thereof the greatest that was ever
heard.  And Lancelot saith to him, "Sir Knight, let be this dole, for
none recovery is there; but my body do I offer you and my knighthood in
any place you please, where I may save your honour."

"Sir," saith the knight, "With good will receive I your help and your
love, sith that you deign to offer me the same, and now have I sorer
need of them than ever. Sir," saith the knight, "Sith that my brother
is dead, I will return back and bear with my wrong, though well would
he have amended it had he been on live."

"By my head," saith Lancelot, "I will go with you, that so may I reward
you of that he hath done for me.  He delivered his body to the death
for me, and in like manner freely would I fain set mine own in jeopardy
for love of you and of him."


II.

"Sir," saith the knight, "Right good will do I owe you of this that you
say to me, so your deeds be but the same herein."

"Yea, so help me God," saith Lancelot, "The same shall they be, if God
lend me the power."

With that, they go on their way together, and the knight comforteth him
much of that which Lancelot hath said to him, but of the death of his
brother was he right sorrowful.  And they ride until they come to the
land of the Moors; then espy they a castle upon a rock, and below was a
broad meadow-land.

"Sir," saith the Knight of the Green Shield to Lancelot, "This castle
was my brother's and is now mine, and much it misliketh me that it hath
fallen to me on this wise.  And the knight that reft it of my brother
is of so great hardihood that he feareth no knight on live, and you
will presently see him issue forth of this castle so soon as he shall
perceive you."

Lancelot and the knight ride until they draw nigh the castle. And the
knight looketh in the way before him, and seeth a squire coming on a
hackney, that was carrying before him a wild boar dead.  The Knight of
the Green Shield asketh him whose man he is, and the squire maketh
answer: "I am man of the Lord of the Rock Gladoens, that cometh there
behind, and my lord cometh all armed, he and others, for the brother of
Gladoens hath defied him on behalf of his brother, but right little
recketh my lord of his defiance."


III.

Lancelot heareth how he that is coming is the enemy of him to whom had
he been alive, his love most was due.  The Knight of the Green Shield
pointed him out so soon as he saw him.

"Sir," saith he to Lancelot, "Behold him by whom I am disherited, and
yet worse would he do to me and he knew that my brother were dead."

Lancelot, without saving more, so soon as he had espied the Knight of
the Rock, smiteth his horse with his spurs and cometh toward him.  The
Lord of the Rock, that was proud and hardy, seeth Lancelot coming and
smiteth with his spurs the horse whereon he sitteth.  They come with so
swift an onset either upon other that they break their spears upon
their shields, and hurtle together so sore that the Knight of the Rock
Gladoens falleth over the croup of his horse.  Lancelot draweth his
sword and cometh above him, and he crieth him mercy and asketh him
wherefore he wisheth to slay him?  Lancelot saith for the sake of
Gladoens from whom he hath reft his land and his castle.  "And what is
that to you?" saith the knight.  "Behoveth his brother challenge me
thereof."

"As much it behoveth me as his brother," saith Lancelot.

"Wherefore you?"

"For this," saith Lancelot, "That as much as he did for me will I do to
you."

He cutteth off his head and giveth it incontinent to the Knight of the
Green Shield.

"Now tell me," saith Lancelot, "Sith that he is dead, is he purged of
that whereof you appeached him?"

"Sir," saith the knight, "I hold him rightly quit thereof, for, sith
that he is dead, all claim on behalf of his kindred is abated by his
death."

"And I pledge you my faith loyally," saith Lancelot, "as I am a knight,
that never shall you be in peril nor in jeopardy of aught wherein I may
help you, so I be in place and free, but my help shall you have for
evermore, for that your brother staked his life to help me."


IV.

Lancelot and the knight lay the night at the Rock Gladoens, and the
Knight of the Green Shield had his land at his pleasure, and all were
obedient to him.  And the upright and loyal were right glad, albeit
when they heard the tidings of Gladoens' death they were right
sorrowful thereof.  Lancelot departed from the castle on the morrow,
and the knight remained therein, sorrowful for his brother that he had
lost, and glad for the land that he had gotten again.  Lancelot goeth
back right amidst the forest and rideth the day long, and meeteth a
knight that was coming, groaning sore.  And he was stooping over the
fore saddle-bow for the pain that he had.  He meeteth Lancelot and
saith to him: "Sir, for God's sake, turn back, for you will find there
the most cruel pass in the world there where I have been wounded
through the body.  Wherefore I beseech you not go thither."

"What pass is it then?" saith Lancelot.

"Sir," saith he, "It is the pass of the Castle of Beards, and it hath
the name of this, that every knight that passeth thereby must either
leave his beard there or challenge the same, and in such sort have I
challenged my beard that meseemeth I shall die thereof."

"By my head," saith Lancelot, "I hold not this of cowardize, sith that
you were hardy to set your life in jeopardy to challenge your beard,
but now would you argue me of cowardize when you would have me turn
back.  Rather would I be smitten through the body with honour, so and I
had not my death thereof, than lose with shame a single hair of my
beard."

"Sir," saith the knight, "May God preserve you, for the castle is far
more cruel than you think, and God guide the knight that may destroy
the evil custom of the castle, for right shameful is the custom to
strange knights that pass thereby."


V.

Lancelot departeth from the knight and cometh toward the castle. Just
as he had passed over a great bridge, he looketh about and seeth two
knights come all armed to the entrance of the castle, and they made
hold their horses before them, and their shields and spears are before
them leaning against the wall.  Lancelot looketh at the gateway of the
castle and seeth the great door all covered with beards fastened
thereon, and heads of knights in great plenty hung thereby.  So, as he
was about to enter the gate, two knights issue therefrom over against
him.

"Sir," saith the one, "Abide and pay your toll!"

"Do knights, then, pay toll here?" saith Lancelot.

"Yea!" say the knights, "All they that have beards, and they that have
none are quit.  Sir, now pay us yours, for a right great beard it is,
and thereof have we sore need."

"For what?" saith Lancelot.

"I will tell you," saith the knight.  "There be hermits in this forest
that make hair-shirts thereof."

"By my head," saith Lancelot, "Never shall they have hair-shirt of
mine, so I may help it."

"That shall they," say the knights, "Of yours as of the other, or
dearly shall you pay therefor!"


VI.

Right wroth waxeth Sir Lancelot, and cometh to the knight, and smiteth
him with his spear amidst the breast with such a thrust that it passeth
half an ell beyond, and overthroweth him and his horse together.  The
other knight seeth his fellow wounded to the death, and cometh towards
him with a great sweep and breaketh his spear upon his shield.
Howbeit, Lancelot beareth him to the ground right over his horse-croup
and maketh him fall so heavily that he breaketh one of his legs.  The
tidings are come to the Lady of the Castle that a knight hath come to
the pass that hath slain one of her knights and wounded the other.  The
Lady is come thither, and bringeth two of her damsels with her.  She
seeth Lancelot that is fain to slay the knight that lieth wounded on
the ground.

"Sir," saith the Lady to Lancelot, "Withdraw yourself back and slay him
not, but alight and speak to me in safety."

"Lady," saith one of the maidens, "I know him well.  This is Lancelot
of the Lake, the most courteous knight that is in the court of King
Arthur."

He alighteth and cometh before the Lady.  "Lady," saith he, "what is
your pleasure?"

"I desire," saith she, "that you come to my hostel to harbour, and that
you make me amends of the shame you have done me."


VII.

"Lady," saith Lancelot, "Shame have I never done you nor shall do, but
the knights took in hand too shameful a business when they were minded
to take the beards of stranger knights by force."

"Sir," saith she, "I will forego mine ill-will on condition that you
harbour herewithin to-night."

"Lady," saith Lancelot, "I desire not your ill-will, wherefore will I
gladly do your pleasure."

He setteth him within the castle and maketh his horse be led in after
him, and the Lady hath the dead knight brought into the chapel and
buried.  The other she biddeth be disarmed and clothed and commandeth
that his wounds be searched.  Then maketh she Lancelot be disarmed and
clad right richly in a good robe, and telleth him that she knoweth well
who he is.

"Lady," saith Lancelot, "It is well for me."

Thereupon they sit to eat, and the first course is brought in by
knights in chains that had their noses cut off; the second by knights
in chains that had their eyes put out; wherefore they were led in by
squires.  The third course was brought in by knights that had but one
hand and were in chains.  After that, came other knights that had each
but one foot and brought in the fourth course.  At the fifth course
came knights right fair and tall, and each brought a naked sword in his
hand and presented their heads to the Lady.


VIII.

Lancelot beheld the martyrdom of these knights, and sore misliking had
he of the services of such folk.  They are risen from meat and the lady
goeth to her chamber and sitteth on a couch.

"Lancelot," saith the Lady, "you have seen the justice and the lordship
of my castle.  All these knights have been conquered at the passing of
my door."

"Lady," saith Lancelot, "foul mischance hath befallen them."

"The like mischance would have befallen you had you not been knight so
good.  And greatly have I desired to see you this long time past.  And
I will make you lord of this castle and myself."

"Lady," saith he, "the lordship of this castle hold I of yourself
without mesne, and to you have I neither wish nor right to refuse it.
Rather am I willing to be at your service."

"Then," saith she, "you will abide with me in this castle, for more do
I love you than any other knight that liveth."

"Lady," saith Lancelot, "Gramercy, but in no castle may I abide more
than one night until I have been thither whither behoveth me to go."

"Whither are you bound?" saith she.

"Lady," saith he, "to the Castle of Souls."

"Well know I the castle," saith she. "The King hath the name Fisherman,
and lieth in languishment on account of two knights that have been at
his castle and made not good demand.  Would you fain go thither?" saith
the Lady.

"Yea," saith Lancelot.

"Then pledge me your faith that you will return by me to speak to me,
so the Graal shall appear to you and you ask whereof it serveth."

"Yea, truly," saith Lancelot, "were you beyond sea!"

"Sir," saith one of the damsels, "So much may you well promise, for the
Graal appeareth not to no knight so wanton as be ye.  For you love the
Queen Guenievre, the wife of your lord, King Arthur, nor so long as
this love lieth at your heart may you never behold the Graal."


IX.

Lancelot heard the damsel and blushed of despite.

"Ha, Lancelot," saith the Lady, "Love you other than me?"

"Lady," saith he, "the damsel may say her pleasure."

Lancelot lay the night at the castle, and right wroth was he of the
damsel that calleth the love of him and the Queen disloyal. And the
morrow when he had heard mass, he took leave of the Lady of the Castle,
and she besought him over and over to keep his covenant, and he said
that so would he do without fail. Therewithal he issueth forth of the
castle and entereth into a tall and ancient forest, and rideth the day
long until he cometh to the outskirt of the forest, and seeth a tall
cross at the entrance of a burying-ground enclosed all round about with
a hedge of thorns.  And the way lay through the burying ground.
Lancelot entered therein and the night was come.  He seeth the
graveyard full of tombs and sepulchres.  He looketh behind and seeth a
chapel wherein were candles burning.  Thitherward goeth he, and passeth
beyond without saying aught more by the side of a dwarf that was
digging a grave in the ground.

"Lancelot," saith the dwarf, "you are right not to salute me, for you
are the man of all the world that most I hate; and God grant me
vengeance of your body.  So will He what time you are stricken down
here within!"

Lancelot heard the dwarf, but deigned not to answer him of nought.  He
is come to the chapel, and alighteth and maketh fast the bridle of his
horse to a tree, and leaneth his shield and spear without.  After that
he entereth into the chapel, and findeth a damsel laying out a knight
in his winding-sheen.  As soon as Lancelot was entered therewithin the
wounds of the knight were swollen up and began to bleed afresh.

"Ha, Sir Knight, now see I plainly that you slew him that I am wrapping
in his windingsheet!"


X.

Thereupon, behold you, two knights that are carrying other two knights
dead.  They alight and then set them in the chapel.  And the dwarf
crieth out to them: "Now shall it be seen how you avenge your friends
of the enemy that fell upon you!"

The knight that had fled from the forest when Messire Gawain came
thither where the three lay dead, was come therewithin and knew
Lancelot, whereupon saith he: "Our mortal enemy are you, for by you
were these three knights slain."

"Well had they deserved it," saith Lancelot, "and in this chapel am I
in no peril of you, wherefore as at this time will I depart not hence,
for I know not the ways of the forest."

He was in the chapel until the day broke, when he issued forth thereof,
and sore it weighed upon him that his horse was still fasting.  He
taketh his arms and is mounted. The dwarf crieth out aloud: "What
aileth you?" saith he to the two knights, "Will you let your mortal
enemy go thus?"

With that the two knights mount their horses and go to the two issues
of the grave-yard, thinking that Lancelot is fain to flee therefrom;
but no desire hath he thereof, wherefore he cometh to the knight that
was guarding the entrance whereby he had to issue out, and smiteth him
so stiffly that he thrusteth the point of his spear right through his
body.  The other knight that was guarding the other entrance, that had
fled out of the forest before, had no mind to avenge his fellow, and
fled incontinent so fast as he might.  And Lancelot taketh the horse of
the knight he had slain and driveth him before him, for he thinketh
that some knight may haply have need thereof.  He rideth on until he
cometh to a hermitage in the forest where he alighteth and hath his
horses stabled, and the Hermit giveth them of the best he hath. And
Lancelot heard mass, and afterward are a little and fell on sleep.
Thereafter, behold you, a knight that cometh to the Hermit and seeth
Lancelot that was about to mount.

"Sir," saith he, "Whither go you?"

"Sir Knight," saith Lancelot, "thither shall I go where God may please;
but you, whitherward are you bound to go?"

"Sir, I go to see one of my brethren and my two sisters, for I have
been told that he hath fallen on such mishap as that he is called the
Poor Knight, whereof am I sore sorrowful."

"Certes," saith Lancelot, "poor he is, the more the pity! Howbeit, will
you do him a message from me?"

"Sir," saith the knight, "Right willingly!"

"Will you present him with this horse on my behalf, and tell him how
Lancelot that harboured with him hath sent it?"

"Sir," saith the knight, "Right great thanks, and blessed may you be,
for he that doth a kindness to a worshipful man loseth it not."

"Salute the two damsels for me," saith Lancelot.

"Sir, right willingly!"

The knight delivereth the horse to his squire, and taketh leave of
Lancelot.


XI.

Thereupon, Lancelot departeth from the hermitage and rideth on until he
cometh forth of the forest, and findeth a waste land, a country broad
and long wherein wonned neither beast nor bird, for the land was so
poor and parched that no victual was to be found therein.  Lancelot
looketh before him and seeth a city appear far away.  Thither rideth he
full speed and seeth that the city is so great that it seemeth him to
encompass a whole country.  He seeth the walls that are falling all
around, and the gates ruined with age.  He entereth within and findeth
the city all void of folk, and seeth the great palaces fallen down and
waste, and the great grave-yards full of sepulchres, and the tall
churches all lying waste, and the markets and exchanges all empty.  He
rideth amidst the streets, and findeth a great palace that seemeth him
to be better and more ancient than all the others.  He bideth awhile
before it and heareth within how knights and ladies are making great
dole.  And they say to a knight: "Ha, God, sore grief and pity is this
of you, that you must needs die in such manner, and that your death may
not be respited!  Sore hatred ought we to bear toward him that hath
adjudged you such a death."

The knights and ladies swoon over him as he departeth.  Lancelot hath
heard all this and much marvelleth he thereof, but nought thereof may
he see.


XII.

Thereupon, lo you, the knight that cometh down into the midst of the
hall, clad in a short red jerkin; and he was girt with a rich girdle of
gold, and had a rich clasp at his neck wherein were many rich stones,
and on his head had he a great cap of gold, and he held great axe.  The
knight was of great comeliness and young of age.  Lancelot seeth him
coming, and looketh upon him right fainly when he seeth him appear.
And the knight saith to him, "Sir, alight!"

"Certes," saith Lancelot, "Willingly."

He alighteth and maketh his horse fast to a ring of silver that was on
the mounting-stage, and putteth his shield from his neck and his spear
from his hand.

"Sir," saith he to the knight, "What is your pleasure?"

"Sir, needs must you cut me off my head with this axe, for of this
weapon hath my death been adjudged, but and you will not, I will cut
off your own therewith."

"Hold, Sir," saith Lancelot, "What is this you tell me?"

"Sir," saith the knight, "you must needs do even as I say, sith that
you are come into this city."

"Sir," saith Lancelot, "Right foolish were he that in such a jeopardy
should not do the best for himself, but blamed shall I be thereof and I
shall slay you when you have done me no wrong."

"Certes," saith the Knight, "In no otherwise may you go hence."

"Fair Sir," saith Lancelot, "So gentle are you and so well nurtured,
how cometh it that you take your death so graciously? You know well
that I shall kill you before you shall kill me, sith that so it is."

"This know I well for true," saith the Knight, "But you will promise me
before I die, that you will return into this city within a year from
this, and that you will set your head in the same jeopardy without
challenge, as I have set mine."

"By my head," saith Lancelot, "Needeth no argument that I shall choose
respite of death to dying here on the spot.  But I marvel me of this
that you are so fairly apparelled to receive your death."


XIII.

"Sir," saith the Knight, "He that would go before the Saviour of the
World ought of right to apparel him as fairly as he may.  I am by
confession purged of all wickedness and of all the misdeeds that ever I
have committed, and do repent me truly thereof, wherefore at this
moment am I fain to die."

Therewithal he holdeth forth the axe, and Lancelot taketh it and seeth
that it is right keen and well whetted.

"Sir," saith the Knight, "Hold up your hand toward the minster that you
see yonder."

"Sir," saith Lancelot, "Willingly."

"Thus, then, will you swear to me upon the holy relics that are within
this minster, that on this day year at the hour that you shall have
slain me, or before, you yourself will come back here and place your
head in the very same peril as I shall have placed mine, without
default?"

"Thus," saith Lancelot, "do I swear and give you thereto my pledge."

With that, the Knight kneeleth and stretcheth his neck as much as he
may, and Lancelot taketh the axe in his hands, and then saith to him,
"Sir Knight, for God's sake, have mercy on yourself!"

"Let cut off my head!" saith the Knight, "For otherwise may I not have
mercy upon you!"

"In God's name," saith Lancelot, "fain would I deny you!"

With that, he swingeth the axe and cutteth off the head with such a
sweep that he maketh it fly seven foot high from the body.  The Knight
fell to the ground when his head was cut off, and Lancelot flung down
the axe, and thinketh that he will make but an ill stay there for
himself.  He cometh to his horse, and taketh his arms and mounteth and
looketh behind him, but seeth neither the body of the Knight nor the
head, neither knoweth he what hath become of them all, save only that
he heard much dole and a great cry far off in the city of knights and
ladies, saying that he shall be avenged, please God, at the term set,
or before. Lancelot hath heard and understood all that the knights say
and the ladies, and issueth forth of the city.



BRANCH VIII.

Of the most Holy Graal here beginneth another branch in such wise as
the authority witnesseth and Joseph that made recoverance thereof, in
the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.


TITLE I.

This high history and profitable witnesseth us that the son of the
Widow Lady sojourned still with his uncle King Pelles in the hermitage,
and through distress of the evil that he had had since he came forth of
the house of King Fisherman, was he confessed to his uncle and told him
of what lineage he was, and that his name was Perceval.  But the good
Hermit the good King had given him the name of Parluifet, for that he
was made of himself.  King Hermit was one day gone into the forest, and
the good knight Parluifet felt himself sounder of health and lustier
than he wont to be.  He heard the birds sing in the forest, and his
heart began to swell of knighthood, and he minded him of the adventures
he wont to find in the forest and of the damsels and knights that he
wont to meet, and never was he so fain of arms as was he at that time,
for that he had been sojourning so long within doors. He felt courage
in his heart and lustiness in his limbs and fainness in his thought.
Right soon armeth he himself and setteth the saddle on his horse and
mounteth forthwith.  He prayeth God give him adventure that he may meet
good knight, setteth himself forth of his uncle's hermitage and
entereth into the forest that was broad and shady.  He rideth until he
cometh into a launde that was right spacious, and seeth a leafy tree
that was at the head of the launde.  He alighteth in the shadow, and
thinketh to himself that two knights might joust on this bit of ground
fair and well, for the place was right broad.  And, even as he was
thinking on this wise, he heard a horse neigh full loud in the forest
three times, and right glad was he thereof and said: "Ha, God, of your
sweetness grant that there be a knight with that horse, so may I prove
whether there be any force or valour or knighthood in me.  For I know
not now what strength I may have, nor even whether my heart be sound
and my limbs whole. For on a knight that hath neither hardihood nor
valour in himself, may not another knight that hath more force in him
reasonably prove his mettle, for many a time have I heard say that one
is better than other.  And for this pray I to the Saviour and this be a
knight that cometh there, that he may have strength and hardihood and
mettle to defend his body against mine own, for great desire have I to
run upon him.  Grant now that he slay me not, nor I him!"


II.

Therewithal, he looketh before him, and seeth the knight issue from the
forest and enter into the launde.  The knight was armed and had at his
neck a white shield with a cross of gold.  He carried his lance low,
and sate upon a great destrier and rode at a swift pace.  As soon as
Perceval seeth him, he steadieth him in his stirrups and setteth spear
in rest and smiteth his horse with his spurs, right joyous, and goeth
toward the knight a great gallop.  Then he crieth: "Sir Knight, cover
you of your shield to guard you as I do of mine to defend my body, for
you do I defy on this side slaying, and our Lord God grant that I find
you so good knight as shall try what hardihood of heart I may have, for
I am not such as I have been aforetime, and better may one learn of a
good knight than of a bad."

With that he smiteth the knight upon his shield with such a sweep that
he maketh him lose one of his stirrups and pierceth his shield above
the boss, and passeth beyond full speed.  And the knight marvelleth
much, and maketh demand, saying, "Fair Sir, what misdeed have I done
you?"

Perceval is silent, and hath no great joy of this that he hath not
overthrown the knight, but not so easy was he to overthrow, for he was
one of the knights of the world that could most of defence of arms.  He
goeth toward Perceval as fast as his horse may carry him and Perceval
toward him.  They mell together upon their shields right stiffly, so
that they pierce and batter them with the points of their spears.  And
Perceval thrusteth his spear into the flesh two finger-breadths, and
the knight doth not amiss, for he passeth his spear right through his
arm so that the shafts of the lances were splintered.  They hurtle
together either against other at the passing so mightily, that the
flinders of iron from the mail of their habergeons stick into their
foreheads and faces, and the blood leapeth forth by mouth and nose so
that their habergeons were all bloody.  They drew their swords with a
right great sweep.  The knight of the white shield holdeth Perceval's
rein and saith: "Gladly would I know who you are and wherefore you hate
me, for you have wounded me right sore, and sturdy knight have I found
you and of great strength."

Perceval saith not a word to him and runneth again upon him sword
drawn, and the knight upon him, and right great buffets either giveth
other on the helm, so that their eyes all sparkle of stars and the
forest resoundeth of the clashing of their swords.  Right tough was the
battle and right horrible, for good knights were both twain.  But the
blood that ran down from their wounds at last slackened their sinews,
albeit the passing great wrath that the one had against the other, and
the passing great heat of their will, had so enchafed them they scarce
remembered the wounds that they had, and still dealt each other great
buffets without sparing.


III.

King Hermit cometh from labouring in the forest and findeth not his
nephew in the hermitage, whereof is he right sorrowful, and he mounteth
on a white mule that he had therewithin.  She was starred in the midst
of her forehead with a red cross.  Josephus the good clerk witnesseth
us that this same mule had belonged to Joseph of Abarimacie at the time
he was Pilate's soldier, and that he bequeathed her to King Pelles.
King Hermit departeth from the hermitage and prayeth God grant him to
find his nephew. He goeth through the forest and rideth until he
draweth nigh the launde where the two knights were.  He heareth the
strokes of the swords, and cometh towards them full speed and setteth
him between the twain to forbid them.

"Ha, sir," saith he to the Knight of the White Shield, "Right great ill
do you to combat against this knight that hath lain sick this long time
in this forest, and fight sorely have you wounded him."

"Sir," saith the-knight, "As much hath he done by me, and never would I
have run upon him now had he not challenged me, and he is not minded to
tell me who he is nor whence ariseth his hatred of me."

"Fair Sir," saith the Hermit, "And you, who are you?"

"Sir," saith the knight, "I will tell you. I am the son of King Ban of
Benoic."

"Ha, fair nephew," saith King Hermit to Perceval, "See here your
cousin, for King Ban of Benoic was your father's cousin-german. Make
him right great cheer!"

He maketh them take off their helmets and lower their ventails, and
then kiss one another, afterward he leadeth them to his hermitage.
They alight together.  He calleth his own squire that waited upon him,
and made them be disarmed right tenderly.  There was a damsel within
that was cousin-german to King Pelles and had tended Perceval within in
his sickness.  She washeth their wounds right sweetly and cleanseth
them of the blood.  And they see that Lancelot is sorer wounded than
Perceval.

"Damsel," saith the Hermit, "How seemeth you?"

"Sir," saith she, "Needs must this knight sojourn here, for his wound
is in a right perilous place."

"Hath he danger of death?"

"Sir," saith she, "In no wise of this wound, but behoveth him take good
heed thereto."

"God be praised!" saith he, "and of my nephew how seemeth you?"

"Sir, the wound that he hath will be soon healed.  He will have none
ill thereof."


IV.

The damsel, that was right cunning of leech-craft, tended the wounds of
the knights, and made them whole as best she might, and King Hermit
himself gave counsel therein.  But and Perceval had borne his shield
that was there within, of sinople with a white hart, Lancelot would
have known him well, nor would there have been any quarrel between
them, for he had heard tell of this shield at the court of King Arthur.
The authority of this story recordeth that the two knights are in
hermitage, and that Perceval is well-nigh whole; but Lancelot hath sore
pain of his wound and is still far from his healing.



BRANCH IX.

TITLE I.

Now the story is silent about the two knights for a little time, and
speaketh of the squire that Messire Gawain meeteth in the midst of the
forest, that told him he went seek the son of the Widow Lady that had
slain his father.  And the squire saith that he will go to avenge him,
wherefore cometh he to the court of King Arthur, for that he had heard
tell how all good knights repaired thither.  And he seeth the shield
hang on the column in the midst of the hall that the Damsel of the Car
had brought thither.  The squire knoweth it well, and kneeleth before
the King and saluteth him, and the King returneth his salute and asketh
who he is.

"Sir," saith he, "I am the son of the Knight of the Red Shield of the
Forest of Shadows, that was slain of the Knight that ought to bear the
shield that hangeth on this column, wherefore would I right gladly hear
tidings of him."

"As gladly would I," saith the King, "so that no evil came to him
thereof, for he is the knight of the world that I most desire."

"Sir," saith the Squire, "Well behoveth me to hate him for that he slew
my father.  He that ought to bear this shield was squire when he slew
him, wherefore am I the more sorrowful for that I thought to be avenged
upon him squire.  But this I may not do, wherefore I pray you for God's
sake that you will make me knight, for the like favour are you
accustomed to grant unto others."

"What is your name, fair friend?" saith the King.

"Sir," saith he, "I am called Clamados of the Shadows."

Messire Gawain that had repaired to court, was in the hall, and said to
the King: "If this squire be enemy of the Good Knight that ought to
bear this shield, behoveth you not set forward his mortal enemy but
rather set him back, for he is the Best Knight of the world and the
most chaste that liveth in the world and of the most holy lineage, and
therefore have you sojourned right long time in this castle to await
his coming.  I say not this for the hindering of the squire's
advancement, but that you may do nought whereof the Good Knight may
have cause of complaint against you."

"Messire Gawain," saith Queen Guenievre, "well know I that you love my
Lord's honour, but sore blame will he have if he make not this one
knight, for so much hath he never refused to do for any; nor yet will
the Good Knight have any misliking thereof, for greater shame should he
have, and greater despite of the hatred of a squire than of a knight;
for never yet was good knight that was not prudent and well-advised and
slow to take offence. Wherefore I tell you that he will assuredly
listen to reason, and I commend my Lord the rather that he make him
knight, for much blame would he have of gainsaying him."

"Lady," saith Messire Gawain, "So you are content, I am happy."

The King made him knight right richly, and when he was clad in the
robes, they of the court declare and witness that never this long time
past had they seen at the court knight of greater comeliness.  He
sojourned therein long time, and was much honoured of the King and all
the barons.  He was every day on the watch for the Good Knight that
should come for the shield, but the hour and the place were not as yet.


II.

When he saw that he did not come, he took leave of the King and the
Queen and all them of the court, and departed, thinking him that he
would go prove his knighthood in some place until he should have heard
tidings of his mortal enemy.  He rideth amidst the great forests
bearing a red shield like as did his father, and he was all armed as
for defending of his body.  And a long space of time he rideth, until
one day he cometh to the head of a forest, and he espied his way that
ran between two mountains and saw that he had to pass along the midst
of the valley that lay at a great depth.  He looketh before him and
seeth a tree far away from him, and underneath were three damsels
alighted, and one prayed God right heartily aloud that He would send
them betimes a knight that durst convoy them through this strait pass.


III.

Clamodos heareth the damsel and cometh thitherward.  When they espied
him, great joy have they thereof and rise up to meet him. "Sir," say
they, "Welcome may you be!"

"Damsels," saith he, "Good adventure may you have!  And whom await you
here?" saith he.

"We await," saith the Mistress of the damsels, "some knight that shall
clear this pass, for no knight durst pass hereby."

"What is the pass; then, damsel?" saith he.

"It is the one of a lion, and a lion, moreover, so fell and horrible
that never was none seen more cruel.  And there is a knight with the
lion between the two mountains that is right good knight and hardy and
comely.  Howbeit none durst pass without great company of folk.  But
the knight that hath repair with the lion is seldom there, for so he
were there we need fear no danger, for much courtesy is there in him
and valour."

And the knight looketh and seeth in the shadow of the forest three fair
stags harnessed to a car.

"Ha," saith he, "you are the Damsel of the Car, wherefore may you well
tell me tidings of the knight of whom I am in quest."

"Who is he?" saith the Damsel.

"It is he that should bear a shield banded argent and azure with a red
cross."

"Of him am I likewise in quest," saith the Damsel; "please God, we
shall hear tidings of him betimes."

"Damsel" saith the knight, "that would I.  And for that you are in
quest of him as am I likewise, I will convoy you beyond this pass."

The Damsel maketh her Car go on before, and the damsels go before the
knight; and so enter they into the field of the lion, and right fair
land found they therewithin.  Clamados looketh and seeth the hall
within an enclosure and seeth the lion that lay at the entrance of the
gateway.  As soon as he espieth Clamados and the damsels, he cometh
toward them full speed, mouth open and ears pricked up.

"Sir," saith the Damsel, "and you defend not your horse on foot, he is
dead at the first onset."


IV.

Clamados is alighted to his feet, by her counsel, and holdeth his spear
in his fist, and the lion rampeth toward him all in a fury. Clamados
receiveth him on the point of his spear, and smiteth him therewith so
stoutly that it passeth a fathom beyond his neck. He draweth back his
spear without breaking it, and thinketh to smite him again.  But the
lion cheateth him, and arising himself on his two hinder feet, setteth
his fore feet on his shoulders, then huggeth him toward him like as one
man doth another.  But the grip was sore grievous, for he rendeth his
habergeon in twain and so teareth away as much flesh as he can claw
hold on.


V.

When Clamados felt himself wounded, he redoubled his hardihood, and
grippeth the lion so straitly to him that he wringeth a huge roar out
of him, and then flingeth him to the ground beneath him. Then he
draweth his sword and thrusteth it to the heart right through the
breast.  The lion roareth so loud that all the mountains resound
thereof.  Clamados cutteth off his head and goeth to hang it at the
door of the hall.  Then he cometh back to his horse and mounteth the
best he may.  And the Damsel saith to him, "Sir, you are sore wounded."

"Damsel," said he, "please God, I shall take no hurt thereof."

Thereupon, behold you a squire that issueth forth of the hall and
cometh after him full speed.  "Hold, Sir Knight," saith he; "Foul wrong
have you wrought, for you have slain the lion of the most courteous
knight that may be known, and the fairest and most valiant of this
kingdom, and in his despite have you hung the head at his door!  Right
passing great outrage have you done hereby!"

"Fair sweet friend," saith Clamados, "it may well be that the lord is
right courteous, but the lion was rascal and would have slain me and
them that were passing by.  And your lord loved him so much he should
have chained him up, for better liketh me that I slew him than that he
should slay me."

"Sir," saith the squire, "there is no road this way, for it is a
forbidden land whereof certain would fain reave my lord, and it was
against the coming of his enemies that the lion was allowed forth
unchained."

"And what name hath your lord, fair friend?" saith Clamados.

"Sir, he is called Meliot of Logres, and he is gone in quest of Messire
Gawain, of whom he holdeth the land, for right dear is he to him."

"Messire Gawain," saith Clamados, "left I at the court of King Arthur,
but behoveth him depart thence or ever I return thither."

"By my head," saith the squire, "faith would I you might meet them both
twain, if only my lord knew that you had slain him his lion."

"Fair friend," saith Clamados, "and he be as courteous as you say, no
misliking will he have of me thereof, for I slew him in defending mine
own body, and God forbid I should meet any that would do me evil
therefor."


VI.

Thereupon the knight and the damsels depart and pass the narrow strait
in the lion's field, and ride on until they draw nigh a right rich
castle seated in a meadowland surrounded of great waters and high
forests, and the castle was always void of folk. And they were fain to
turn thitherward, but they met a squire that told them that in the
castle was not a soul, albeit and they would ride forward they would
find great plenty of folk.  So far forward have they ridden that they
are come to the head of a forest and see great foison of tents
stretched right in the midst of a launde, and they were compassed round
of a great white sheet that seemed from afar to be a long white wall
with crenels, and it was a good league Welsh in length.  They came to
the entrance of the tents and heard great joy within, and when they had
entered they saw dames and damsels, whereof was great plenty, and of
right passing great beauty were they.  Clamados alighteth, that was
right sore wounded.  The Damsel of the Car was received with right
great joy.  Two of the damsels come to Clamados, of whom make they
right great joy.  Afterward they lead him to a tent and made disarm
him.  Then they washed his wounds right sweetly and tenderly.  Then
they brought him a right rich robe and made him be apparelled therein,
and led him before the ladies of the tents, that made right great joy
of him.


VII.

"Lady," saith the Damsel of the Car, "This knight hath saved my life,
for he hath slain the lion on account of which many folk durst not come
to you, wherefore make great joy of him."

"Greater joy may I not make, than I do, nor the damsels that are
herein, for we await the coming of the Good Knight that is healed, from
day to day.  And now is there nought in the world I more desire to see."

"Lady," saith Clamados, "Who is this Good Knight?"

"The son of the Widow Lady of the Valleys of Camelot," saith she.

"Tell me, Lady, do you say that he will come hither presently?"

"So methinketh," saith she.

"Lady, I also shall have great joy thereof, and God grant he come
betimes!"

"Sir Knight," saith she, "What is your name?"

"Lady" saith he, "I am called Clamados, and I am son of the lord of the
Forest of Shadows."

She throweth her arms on his neck and kisseth and embraceth him right
sweetly, and saith: "Marvel not that I make you joy thereof, for you
are the son of my sister-in-law, nor have I any friend nor
blood-kindred so nigh as are you, and fain would I you should be lord
of all my land and of me, as is right and reason."

The damsels of the tents make right great joy of him when they know the
tidings that he is so nigh of kin to the Lady of the Tents.  And he
sojourned therewithin until that he was whole and heal, awaiting the
coming of the knight of whom he had heard the tidings.  And the damsels
marvel them much that he cometh not, for the damsel that had tended him
was therewithin and telleth them that he was healed of his arm, but
that Lancelot is not yet whole, wherefore he is still within the
hermitage.


VIII.

This high history witnesseth us and recordeth that Joseph, who maketh
remembrance thereof, was the first priest that sacrificed the body of
Our Lord, and forsomuch ought one to believe the words that come of
him.  You have heard tell how Perceval was of the lineage of Joseph of
Abarimacie, whom God so greatly loved for that he took down His body
hanging on the cross, which he would not should lie in the prison there
where Pilate had set it. For the highness of the lineage whereof the
Good Knight was descended ought one willingly to hear brought to mind
and recorded the words that are of him.  The story telleth us that he
was departed of the hermitage all sound and whole, albeit he hath left
Lancelot, for that his wound was not yet healed, but he hath promised
him that he will come back to him so soon as he may.  He rideth amidst
a forest, all armed, and cometh toward evensong to the issue of the
forest and seeth a castle before him right fair and well seated, and
goeth thitherward for lodging, for the sun was set.  He entereth into
the castle and alighteth.  The lord cometh to meet him that was a tall
knight and a red, and had a felon look, and his face scarred in many
places; and knight was there none therewithin save only himself and his
household.


IX.

When he seeth Perceval alighted, he runneth to bar the door, and
Perceval cometh over against him.  For all greeting, the knight
saluteth him thus: "Now shall you have," saith he, "such guerdon as you
have deserved.  Never again shall you depart hence, for my mortal enemy
are you, and right hardy are you thus to throw yourself upon me, for
you slew my brother the Lord of the Shadows, and Chaos the Red am I
that war upon your mother, and this castle have I reft of her.  In like
manner will I wring the life out of you or ever you depart hence!"

"Already," saith Perceval, "have I thrown myself on this your hostel to
lodge with you, wherefore to blame would you be to do me evil.  But
lodge me this night as behoveth one knight do for another, and on the
morrow at departing let each do the best he may."

"By my head!" saith Chaos the Red, "mortal enemy of mine will I never
harbour here save I harbour him dead."

He runneth to the hall above, and armeth himself as swiftly as he may,
and taketh his sword all naked in his hand and cometh back to the place
where Perceval was, right full of anguish of heart for this that he
said, that he would war upon his mother and had reft her of this
castle.  He flung his spear to the ground, and goeth toward him on foot
and dealeth him a huge buffet above the helmet upon the coif of his
habergeon, such that he cleaveth the mail and cutteth off two
fingers'-breadth of the flesh in such sort that he made him reel three
times round.


X.

When Chaos the Red felt himself wounded, he was sore grieved thereof,
and cometh toward Perceval and striketh him a great buffet above in the
midst of his helmet, so that he made the sparks fly and his neck stoop
and his eyes sparkle of stars.  And the blow slippeth down on to the
shield, so that it is cleft right down to the boss.  Perceval felt his
neck stiff and heavy, and feeleth that the knight is sturdy and of
great might.  He cometh back towards him, and thinketh to strike him
above in the midst of his head, but Chaos swerved aside from him;
howbeit Perceval reached him and caught his right arm and cutteth it
sheer from his side, sword and all, and sendeth it flying to the
ground, and Chaos runneth upon him, thinking to grapple him with his
left arm, but his force was waning; nathless right gladly would he have
avenged himself and he might.  Howbeit, Perceval setteth on him again
that loved him not in his heart, and smiteth him again above on the
head, and dealeth him such a buffet as maketh his brains be all
to-scattered abroad.  His household and servants were at the windows of
the hall.  When they see that their lord is nigh to the death, they cry
to Perceval: "Sir, you have slain the hardiest knight in the kingdom of
Logres, and him that was most redoubted of his enemies; but we can do
no otherwise; we know well that this castle is your mother's and ought
to be yours.  We challenge it not; wherefore may you do your will of
whatsoever there is in the castle; but allow us to go to our lord that
there lieth dead, and take away the body and set it in some seemly
place for the sake of his good knighthood, and for that it behoveth us
so to do."

"Readily do I grant it you," saith Perceval.

They bear the body to a chapel, then they disarm him and wind him in
his shroud.  After that they lead Perceval into the hall and disarm him
and say to him: "Sir, you may be well assured that there be none but us
twain herewithin and two damsels, and the doors are barred, and behold,
here are the keys which we deliver up to you."

"And I command you," saith Perceval, "that you go straightway to my
mother, and tell her that she shall see me betimes and I may get done,
and so salute her and tell her I am sound and whole. And what is the
name of this castle?"

"Sir, it hath for name the Key of Wales, for it is the gateway of the
land."


XI.

Perceval lay the night in the castle he had reconquered for his mother,
and the morrow, when he was armed, he departed.  These promised that
they would keep the castle loyally and would deliver it up to his
mother at her will.  He rode until he came to the tents where the
damsels were, and drew rein and listened. But there was not so great
joy as when the damsel that rode like a knight and led the Car came
thither with Clamados.  Great dole heard he that was made, and beating
of palms.  Wherefore he bethought him what folk they might be.
Natheless he was not minded to draw back without entering.  He alighted
in the midst of the tents and set down his shield and his spear, and
seeth the damsels wringing their hands and tearing their hair, and much
marvelleth he wherefore it may be.  A damsel cometh forward that had
set forth from the castle where he had slain the knight: "Sir, to your
shame and ill adventure may you have come hither!"

Perceval looketh at her and marvelleth much of that she saith, and she
crieth out: "Lady, behold here him that hath slain the best knight of
your lineage!  And you, Clamados, that are within there, he hath slain
your father and your uncle!  Now shall it be seen what you will do!"

The Damsel of the Car cometh thitherward and knoweth Perceval by the
shield that he bare of sinople with a white hart.

"Sir," saith she, "welcome may you be!  Let who will make dole, I will
make joy of your coming!"


XII.

Therewith the Damsel leadeth him into a tent and maketh him sit on a
right rich couch; afterward she maketh him be disarmed of her two
damsels and clad in a right rich robe.  Then she leadeth him to the
Queen of the Tents that was still making great dole.

"Lady," saith the Damsel of the Car, "Stint your sorrow, for behold,
here is the Good Knight on whose account were the tents here pitched,
and on whose account no less have you been making this great joy right
up to this very day!"

"Ha," saith she, "Is this then the son of the Widow Lady?"

"Yea, certes," saith the Damsel.

"Ha," saith the Lady, "He hath slain me the best knight of all my kin,
and the one that protected me from mine enemies."

"Lady," saith the Damsel, "this one will be better able to protect and
defend us, for the Best Knight is he of the world and the comeliest."

The Queen taketh him by the hand and maketh him sit beside her. "Sir,"
saith she, "Howsoever the adventure may have befallen, my heart biddeth
me make joy of your coming."

"Lady," saith he, "Gramercy!  Chaos would fain have slain me within his
castle, and I defended myself to my power."

The Queen looketh at him amidst his face, and is taken with a love of
him so passing strong and fervent that she goeth nigh to fall upon him.
"Sir," saith she, "and you will grant me your love, I will pardon you
of all the death of Chaos the Red."

"Lady," saith he, "your love am I right fain to deserve, and mine you
have."

"Sir," saith she, "How may I perceive that you love me?"

"Lady," saith he, "I will tell you.  There is no knight in the world
that shall desire to do you a wrong, but I will help you against him to
my power."

"Such love," saith she, "is the common love that knight ought to bear
to lady.  Would you do as much for another?"

"Lady," saith he, "It well may be, but more readily shall a man give
help in one place than in another."

The Queen would fain that Perceval should pledge himself to her further
than he did, and the more she looketh at him the better he pleaseth
her, and the more is she taken with him and the more desirous of his
love.  But Perceval never once thought of loving her or another in such
wise.  He was glad to look upon her, for that she was of passing great
beauty, but never spake he nought to her whereby she might perceive
that he loved her of inward love.  But in no wise might she refrain her
heart, nor withdraw her eyes, nor lose her desire.  The damsels looked
upon her with wonder that so soon had she forgotten her mourning.


XIII.

Thereupon, behold you Clamados, that had been told that this was the
knight that, as yet only squire, had slain his father and put Chaos his
uncle to death.  He cometh into the tent and seeth him sitting beside
the Queen, that looked at him right sweetly.

"Lady," saith he, "Great shame do you to yourself, in that you have
seated at your side your own mortal enemy and mine.  Never again
henceforth ought any to have affiance in your love nor in your help."

"Clamados," saith the Queen, "the knight hath thrown himself upon me
suddenly.  Wherefore ought I do him no evil, rather behoveth me lodge
him and keep his body in safety.  Nought, moreover, hath he done
whereof he might be adjudged of murder nor of treason."

"Lady," saith Clamados, "He slew my father in the Lonely Forest without
defiance, and treacherously cast a javelin at him and smote him through
the body, wherefore shall I never be at ease until I have avenged him.
Therefore do I appeal and pray you to do me my right, not as being of
your kindred, but as stranger. For right willing am I that kinship
shall avail me nought herein."

Perceval looketh at the knight and seeth that he is of right goodly
complexion of body and right comely of face.  "Fair Sir," saith he, "as
of treason I would that you hold me quit, for never toward your father
nor toward other have had I never a mind to do treason, and God defend
me from such shame, and grant me strength to clear myself of any blame
thereof."

Clamados cometh forward to proffer his gage.

"By my head," saith the Queen, "not this day shall gage be received
herein.  But to-morrow will come day, and counsel therewith, and then
shall fight be done to each."

Clamados is moved of right great wrath, but the Queen of the Tents
showeth Perceval the most honour she may, whereof is Clamados right
heavy, and saith that never ought any to put his trust in woman.  But
wrongly he blameth her therein, for she did it of the passing great
love she hath for Perceval, inasmuch as well she knoweth that he is the
Best Knight of the world and the comeliest.  But it only irketh her the
more that she may not find in him any sign of special liking toward
herself neither in deed nor word, whereof is she beyond measure
sorrowful.  The knights and damsels lay the night in the tents until
the morrow, and went to hear mass in a chapel that was in the midst of
the tents.


XIV.

When mass was sung, straightway behold you, a knight that cometh all
armed, bearing a white shield at his neck.  He alighteth in the midst
of the tents and cometh before the Queen all armed, and saith: "Lady, I
plain me of a knight that is there within that hath slain my lion, and
if you do me not right herein, I will harass you as much or more than I
will him, and will harm you in every wise I may.  Wherefore I pray and
require you, for the love of Messire Gawain, whose man I am, that you
do me right herein."

"What is the knight's name?" saith the Queen.

"Lady," saith he, "He is called Clamados of the Shadows, and methinketh
I see him yonder, for I knew him when he was squire."

"And what is your name?" saith the Queen.

"Lady, I am called Melior of Logres."

"Clamados," saith the Queen, "Hear you what this knight saith?"

"Yea, Lady," saith he; "But again I require that you do me right of the
knight that slew my father and my uncle."

"Lady," saith Melior, "I would fain go.  I know not toward whom the
knight proffereth his gage, but him do I appeal of felony for my lion
that he hath slain."  He taketh in his hand the skirt of his habergeon:
"Lady, behold here the gage I offer you."


XV.

"Clamados," saith the Queen, "Hear you then not that which this knight
saith?"

"Lady," saith he, "I hear him well.  Truth it is that I slew his lion,
but not until after he had fallen upon me, and made the wounds whereof
I have been healed herewithin.  But well you know that the knight who
came hither last night hath done me greater wrong than have I done this
other.  Wherefore would I pray you that I may take vengeance of him
first."

"You hear," saith she, "how this knight that hath come hither all armed
is fain to go back forthwith.  Quit you, therefore, of him first, and
then will we take thought of the other."

"Lady, gramercy!" saith Meliot, "and Messire Gawain will take it in
right good part, for this knight hath slain my lion that defended me
from all my enemies.  Nor is it true that the entrance to your tent was
deserted on account of my lion; and in despite of me hath he hung the
head at my gate."

"As of the lion," saith the Queen, "you have no quarrel against him and
he slew him in defending his body, but as of the despite he did you as
you say, when in nought had you done him any wrong, it shall not be
that right shalt be denied you in my court, and if you desire to
deliver battle, no blame shall you have thereof."


XVI.

Clamados maketh arm him and mounteth on his horse, and he seemeth right
hardy of his arms and valorous.  He cometh right in the midst of the
tent, where the ground was fair and level, and found Meilot of Logres
all armed upon his horse, and a right comely knight was he and a
deliver.  And the ladies and damsels were round about the
tilting-ground.

"Sir," saith the Queen to Perceval, "I will that you keep the field for
these knights."

"Lady," saith he, "At your pleasure."

Meliot moveth toward Clamados right swiftly and Clamados toward him,
and they melled together on their shields in such sort that they
pierced them and cleft the mail of their habergeons asunder with the
points of their spears, and the twain are both wounded so that the
blood rayeth forth of their bodies.  The knights draw asunder to take
their career, for their spears were broken short, and they come back
the one toward the other with a great rush, and smite each other on the
breast with their spears so stiffly that there is none but should have
been pierced within the flesh, for the habergeons might protect them
not.  They hurtle against each other so strongly that knights and
horses fall together to the ground all in a heap.  The Queen and the
damsels have great pity of the two knights, for they see that they are
both so passing sore wounded.  The two knights rise to their feet and
hold their swords naked and run the one on the other right wrathfully,
with such force as they had left.

"Sir," saith the Queen to Perceval, "Go part these two knights asunder
that one slay not the other, for they are sore wounded."

Perceval goeth to part them and cometh to Meliot of Logres. "Sir,"
saith he, "Withdraw yourself back; you have done enough."

Clamados felt that he was sore wounded in two places, and that the
wound he had in his breast was right great.  He draweth himself back.
The Queen is come thither. "Fair nephew," saith she, "Are you badly
wounded?"

"Yea, Lady," saith Clamados.

"Certes," saith the Queen, "this grieveth me, but never yet saw I
knight and he were desirous of fighting, but came at some time by
mischance.  A man may not always stand on all his rights."

She made him be carried on his shield into a tent, and made search his
wounds, and saw that of one had he no need to fear, but that the other
was right sore perilous.


XVII.

"Lady," saith Clamados, "Once more do I pray and require you that you
allow not the knight that slew my father to issue forth from hence,
save he deliver good hostage that he will come back when I shall be
healed."

"So will I do, sith that it is your pleasure."

The Queen cometh to the other knight that was wounded, for that he
declareth himself Messire Gawain's man, and maketh search his wounds,
and they say that he hath not been hurt so sore as is Clamados.  She
commandeth them to tend him and wait upon him right well-willingly,
"Sir," saith she to Perceval, "Behoveth you abide here until such time
as my nephew be heal, for you know well that whereof he plaineth
against you, nor would I that you should depart hence without clearing
you of the blame."

"Lady, no wish have I to depart without your leave, but rather shall I
be ready to clear myself of blame whensoever and wheresoever time and
place may be.  But herewithin may I make not so long sojourn.
Natheless to this will I pledge my word, that I will return thither
within a term of fifteen days from the time he shall be whole."

"Sir," saith the Damsel of the Car, "I will remain here in hostage for
you."

"But do you pray him," saith the Queen, "that he remain herewithin with
us."


XVIII.

"Lady," saith Perceval, "I may not, for I left Lancelot wounded right
sore in my uncle's hermitage."

"Sir," saith the Queen, "I would fain that remaining here might have
pleased you as well as it would me."

"Lady," saith he, "none ought it to displease to be with you, but every
man behoveth keep his word as well as he may, and none ought to lie to
so good a knight as he."

"You promise me, then," saith the Queen, "that you will return hither
the soonest you may, or at the least, within the term appointed after
you shall have learnt that Clamados is healed, to defend you of the
treason that he layeth upon you?"

"Lady," saith he, "and if he die shall I be quit?"

"Yea, truly, Sir, and so be that you have no will to come for love of
me.  For right well should I love your coming."

"Lady," saith he, "never shall be the day my services shall fail you,
so I be in place, and you in need thereof."

He taketh leave and departeth, armed.  The Damsel of the Car commendeth
him to God, and Perceval departeth full speed and rideth so far on his
journeys that he cometh to his uncle's hermitage and entereth in,
thinking to find Lancelot.  But his uncle telleth him that he hath
departed all sound and all heal of his wound, as of all other malady,
as him thinketh.



BRANCH X.

INCIPIT.

Another branch of the Graal again beginneth in the name of the Father,
and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.


TITLE I.

And the story is here silent of Perceval, and saith that Lancelot goeth
his way and rideth by a forest until he findeth a castle amidst his way
at the head of a launde, and seeth at the gateway of the castle an old
knight and two damsels sitting on a bridge. Thitherward goeth he, and
the knight and damsels rise up to meet him, and Lancelot alighteth.

"Sir," saith the Vavasour, "Welcome may you be."

The damsels make great joy of him and lead him into the castle. "Sir,"
saith the Vavasour, "Sore need had we of your coming."

He maketh him go up into the hall above and be disarmed of his arms.
"Sir," saith the Vavasour, "Now may you see great pity of these two
damsels that are my daughters.  A certain man would reave them of this
castle for that no aid nor succour have they save of me alone.  And
little enough can I do, for I am old and feeble, and my kin also are of
no avail, insomuch that hitherto have I been able to find no knight
that durst defend me from the knight that is fain to reave this castle
from me.  And you seem to be of so great valiance that you will defend
me well herein to-morrow, for the truce cometh to an end to-night."

"How?" saith Lancelot, "I have but scarce come in hither to lodge, and
you desire me so soon already to engage myself in battle?"

"Sir," saith the Vavasour, "Herein may it well be proven whether there
be within you as much valour as there seemeth from without to be.  For,
and you make good the claim of these two damsels that are my daughters
to the fiefs that are of right their own, you will win thereby the love
of God as well as praise of the world."

They fall at his feet weeping, and pray him of mercy that they may not
be disherited.  And he raiseth them forthwith, as one that hath great
pity thereof.

"Damsels," saith he, "I will aid you to my power.  But I would fain
that the term be not long."

"Sir," say they, "to-morrow is the day, and to-morrow, so we have no
knight to meet him that challengeth this castle, we shall have lost it.
And our father is an old knight, and hath no longer lustihood nor force
whereby he might defend it for us, and all of our lineage are fallen
and decayed.  This hatred hath fallen on us on account of Messire
Gawain, whom we harboured."

Lancelot lay there the night within the castle and was right well
lodged and worshipfully entreated.  And on the morrow he armed himself
when he had heard mass, and leant at the windows of the hall and seeth
the gate shut and barred, and heareth a horn sound without the gate
three times right loud.

"Sir," saith the Vavasour, "the knight is come, and thinketh that
within here is no defence."

"By my head," saith Lancelot, "but there is, please God!"

The knight bloweth another blast of his horn.

"Hearken, Sir," saith the Vavasour, "It is nigh noon, and he thinketh
him that none will issue hence to meet him."


II.

Lancelot cometh down below and findeth his horse saddled and is mounted
as soon.  The damsels are at his stirrup, and pray him for God's sake
remember to defend the honour that is theirs of the castle, for, save
only he so doth, they must flee like beggars into other lands.
Thereupon the Knight soundeth his horn again.  Lancelot, when he
heareth the blast, hath no mind to abide longer, and forthwith issueth
out of the castle all armed, lance in hand and shield at his neck.  He
seeth the knight at the head of the bridge, all armed under a tree.
Thitherward cometh Lancelot full speed.  The knight seeth him coming,
and crieth to him.

"Sir Knight," saith he, "What demand you?  Come you hither to do me
evil?"

"Yea," saith Lancelot, "for that evil are you fain to do to this
castle; wherefore on behalf of the Vavasour and his daughters do I defy
you."

He moveth against the knight and smiteth him on the shield with his
spear and the knight him.  But Lancelot pierceth his shield for him
with his sword, and smiteth him so stiffly that he pinneth his arm to
his side, and hurtleth against him so passing stoutly that he thrusteth
him to the ground, him and his horse, and runneth over him, sword drawn.

"Ha," saith the knight to Lancelot, "withdraw a little from over me,
and slay me not, and tell me your name, of your mercy."

"What have you to do with my name?" saith Lancelot.

"Sir," saith he, "Gladly would I know it, for a right good knight seem
you to be, and so have I well proven in the first encounter."

"Sir" saith he, "I am called Lancelot of the Lake.  And what is your
name?"

"Sir." saith he, "I am called Marin of the castle of Gomeret.  So am
I--father of Meliot of Logres.  I pray you, by that you most love in
the world, that you slay me not."

"So will I do," saith Lancelot, "and you renounce not your feud against
this castle."

"By my faith," saith the knight, "thus do I renounce it, and I pledge
myself that thenceforth for ever shall it have no disturbance of me."

"Your pledge," saith Lancelot, "will I not accept save you come in
thither."

"Sir," saith the knight, "You have sore wounded me in such sort that I
cannot mount but with right great pain."

Lancelot helpeth him until he was mounted again on his horse, and
leadeth him into the castle with him, and maketh him present his sword
to the Vavasour and his daughters, and yield up his shield and his
arms, and afterward swear upon hallows that never again will he make
war upon them.  Lancelot thereupon receiveth his pledge to forego all
claim to the castle and Marin turneth him back to Gomeret.  The
Vavasour and his daughters abide in great joy.


III.

The story saith that Lancelot went his way by strange lands and by
forests to seek adventure, and rode until he found a plain land lying
without a city that seemed to be of right great lordship.  As he was
riding by the plain land, he looketh toward the forest and seeth the
plain fair and wide and the land right level.  He rideth all the plain,
and looketh toward the city and seeth great plenty of folk issuing
forth thereof.  And with them was there much noise of bag-pipes and
flutes and viols and many instruments of music, and they came along the
way wherein was Lancelot riding.  When the foremost came up to him,
they halted and redoubled their joy.

"Sir," say they, "Welcome may you be!"

"Lords," saith Lancelot, "Whom come ye to meet with such joy?"

"Sir," say they, "they that come behind there will tell you clearly
that whereof we are in need."


IV.

Thereupon behold you the provosts and the lords of the city, and they
come over against Lancelot.

"Sir," say they, "All this joy is made along of you, and all these
instruments of music are moved to joy and sound of gladness for your
coming."

"But wherefore for me," saith Lancelot.

"That shall you know well betimes," say they.  "This city began to burn
and to melt in one of the houses from the very same hour that our king
was dead, nor might the fire be quenched, nor never will be quenched
until such time as we have a king that shall be lord of the city and of
the honour thereunto belonging, and on New Year's Day behoveth him to
be crowned in the midst of the fire, and then shall the fire be
quenched, for otherwise may it never be put out nor extinguished.
Wherefore have we come to meet you to give you the royalty, for we have
been told that you are a good knight."

"Lords," saith Lancelot, "Of such a kingdom have I no need, and God
defend me from it."

"Sir," they say, "You may not be defended thereof, for you come into
this land at hazard, and great grief would it be that so good land as
you see this is were burnt and melted away by the default of one single
man, and the lordship is right great, and this will be right great
worship to yourself, that on New Year's Day you should be crowned in
the fire and thus save this city and this great people, and thereof
shall you have great praise."


V.

Much marvelleth Lancelot of this that they say.  They come round about
him on all sides and lead him into the city.  The ladies and damsels
are mounted to the windows of the great houses and make great joy, and
say the one to another, "Look at the new king here that they are
leading in.  Now will he quench the fire on New Year's Day."

"Lord!" say the most part, "What great pity is it of so comely a knight
that he shall end on such-wise!"

"Be still!" say the others.  "Rather should there be great joy that so
fair city as is this should be saved by his death, for prayer will be
made throughout all the kingdom for his soul for ever!"

Therewith they lead him to the palace with right great joy and say that
they will crown him.  Lancelot found the palace all strown with rushes
and hung about with curtains of rich cloths of silk, and the lords of
the city all apparelled to do him homage. But he refuseth right
stoutly, and saith that their king nor their lord will he never be in
no such sort.  Thereupon behold you a dwarf that entereth into the
city, leading one of the fairest dames that be in any kingdom, and
asketh whereof this joy and this murmuring may be.  They tell him they
are fain to make the knight king, but that he is not minded to allow
them, and they tell him the whole manner of the fire.


VI.

The dwarf and the damsel are alighted, then they mount up to the
palace.  The dwarf calleth the provosts of the city and the greater
lords.

"Lords," saith he, "sith that this knight is not willing to be king, I
will be so willingly, and I will govern the city at your pleasure and
do whatsoever you have devised to do."

"In faith, sith that the knight refuseth this honour and you desire to
have it, willingly will we grant it you, and he may go his way and his
road, for herein do we declare him wholly quit."

Therewithal they set the crown on the dwarf's head, and Lancelot maketh
great joy thereof.  He taketh his leave, and they command him to God,
and so remounteth he on his horse and goeth his way through the midst
of the city all armed.  The dames and damsels say that he would not be
king for that he had no mind to die so soon.  When he came forth of the
city right well pleased was he. He entereth a great forest and rideth
on till daylight began to fall, and seeth before him a hermitage newly
stablished, for the house and the chapel were all builded new.  He
cometh thitherward and alighteth to lodge.  The hermit, that was young
without beard or other hair on his face, issued from his chapel.

"Sir," saith he to Lancelot, "you are he that is welcome."

"And you, sir, good adventure to you," saith Lancelot.  "Never have I
seen hermit so young as you."

"Sir, of this only do I repent me, that I came not hither ere now."


VII.

Therewith he maketh his horse be stabled, and leadeth him into his
hermitage, and so maketh disarm him and setteth him at ease as much as
he may.

"Sir," saith the hermit, "Can you tell me any tidings of a knight that
hath lain sick of a long time in the house of a hermit?"

"Sir," saith Lancelot, "it is no long time agone sithence I saw him in
the house of the good King Hermit, that hath tended me and healed me
right sweetly of the wounds that the knight gave me."

"And is the knight healed, then?" saith the hermit.

"Yea, Sir," saith Lancelot, "Whereof is right great joy.  And wherefore
do you ask me?"

"Well ought I to ask it," saith the hermit, "For my father is King
Pelles, and his mother is my father's own sister."

"Ha, Sir, then is the King Hermit your father?"

"Yea, Sir, certes."

"Thereof do I love you the better," saith Lancelot, "For never found I
any man that hath done me so much of love as hath he. And what, Sir, is
your name?"

"Sir," saith he, "My name is Joseus, and yours, what?"

"Sir," saith he, "I am called Lancelot of the Lake."

"Sir," saith the hermit, "Right close are we akin, I and you."

"By my head," saith Lancelot, "Hereof am I right glad at heart."

Lancelot looketh and seeth in the hermit's house shield and spear,
javelins and habergeon. "Sir," saith Lancelot, "What do you with these
arms?"

"Sir," saith he, "this forest is right lonely, and this hermitage is
far from any folk, and none are there here-within save me and my
squire.  So, when robbers come hither, we defend ourselves therewith."

"But hermits, methought, never assaulted nor wounded nor slew."

"Sir," saith the hermit, "God forbid I should wound any man or slay!"

"And how, then, do you defend yourselves?" saith Lancelot.

"Sir, I will tell you thereof.  When robbers come to us, we arm
ourselves accordingly.  If I may catch hold of any in my hands, he
cannot escape me.  Our squire is so well-grown and hardy that he
slayeth him forthwith or handleth him in such sort that he may never
help himself after."

"By my head," saith Lancelot, "Were you not hermit, you would be
valiant throughout."

"By my head," saith the squire. "You say true, for methinketh there is
none so strong nor so hardy as he in all the kingdom of Logres."

The lodged Lancelot the night the best he could.


VIII.

When as they were in their first sleep, come four robber-knights of the
forest that knew how a knight was lodged therewithin, and had coveted
his horse and his arms.  The hermit that was in his chapel saw them
first, and awoke his squire and made him bring his arms all secretly;
then he made his squire arm.  "Sir," saith the squire, "Shall I waken
the knight?"

"In nowise," saith the hermit, "until such time as we shall know
wherefore."

He maketh open the door of the chapel and taketh a great coil of rope,
and they issue forth, he and his squire, and they perceived the robbers
in the stable where Lancelot's horse was.  The hermit crieth out: the
squire cometh forward and thereupon beareth one to the ground with his
spear.  The hermit seizeth him and bindeth him to a tree so strait that
he may not move.  The other three think to defend them and to rescue
their fellow.  Lancelot leapeth up all startled when he heareth the
noise and armeth himself as quickly as he may, albeit not so quickly
but that or ever he come, the hermit hath taken the other three and
bound them with the fourth.  But of them were some that were wounded
right sore.

"Sir," saith the hermit to Lancelot, "It grieveth me that you have been
awakened."

"Rather," saith Lancelot, "have you done me great wrong for that you
ought to have awakened me sooner."

"Sir," saith the hermit, "We have assaults such as this often enough."

The four robbers cry mercy of Lancelot that he will pray the hermit to
have pity upon them.  And Lancelot saith God help not him that shall
have pity on thieves!  As soon as it was daylight, Lancelot and the
squire led them into the forest, their hands all tied behind their
backs, and have hanged them in a waste place far away from the
hermitage.  Lancelot cometh back again and taketh leave of Joseus the
young hermit, and saith it is great loss to the world that he is not
knight.

"Sir," saith the squire, "to me is it great joy, for many a man should
suffer thereby."

Lancelot is mounted, and Joseus commendeth him to God, praying him much
that he salute his father and cousin on his behalf, and Messire Gawain
likewise that he met in the forest what time he came all weeping to the
hermitage.


IX.

Lancelot hath set him forth again upon his way, and rideth by the high
forests and findeth holds and hermitages enough, but the story maketh
not remembrance of all the hostels wherein he harboured him.  So far
hath he ridden that he is come forth of the forest and findeth a right
fair meadow-land all loaded with flowers, and a river ran in the midst
there of that was right fair and broad, and there was forest upon the
one side and the other, and the meadow lands were wide and far betwixt
the river and the forest.  Lancelot looketh on the river before him and
seeth a man rowing a great boat, and seeth within the boat two knights,
white and bald, and a damsel, as it seemed him, that held in her lap
the head of a knight that lay upon a mattress of straw and was covered
with a coverlid of marten's fur, and another damsel sate at his feet.
There was a knight within in the midst of the boat that was fishing
with an angle, the rod whereof seemeth of gold, and right great fish he
took.  A little cock-boat followed the boat, wherein he set the fish he
took. Lancelot cometh anigh the bank the swiftest he may, and so
saluteth the knights and damsels, and they return his salute right
sweetly.

"Lords," saith Lancelot, "is there no castle nigh at hand nor no
harbour?"

"Yea, Sir," say they, "Beyond that mountain, right fair and rich, and
this river runneth thither all round about it."

"Lords, whose castle is it?"

"Sir," say they, "It is King Fisherman's, and the good knights lodge
there when he is in this country; but such knights have been harboured
there as that the lord of the land hath had good right to plain him
thereof."

The knights go rowing along the river, and Lancelot rideth until he
cometh to the foot of the mountain and findeth a hermitage beside a
spring, and bethinketh him, since it behoveth him to go to so high a
hostel and so rich, where the Holy Graal appeareth, he will confess him
to the good man.  He alighteth and confesseth to the good man, and
rehearseth all his sins, and saith that of all thereof doth he repent
him save only one, and the hermit asketh him what it is whereof he is
unwilling to repent.

"Sir," saith Lancelot, "it seemeth to me the fairest sin and the
sweetest that ever I committed."

"Fair Sir," saith the hermit, "Sin is sweet to do, but right bitter be
the wages thereof; neither is there any sin that is fair nor seemly,
albeit there be some sins more dreadfuller than other."

"Sir," saith Lancelot, "this sin will I reveal to you of my lips, but
of my heart may I never repent me thereof.  I love my Lady, which is
the Queen, more than aught else that liveth, and albeit one of the best
Kings on live hath her to wife.  The affection seemeth me so good and
so high that I cannot let go thereof, for, so rooted is it in my heart
that thence may it nevermore depart, and the best knighthood that is in
me cometh to me only of her affection."

"Alas!" saith the hermit, "Sinner of mortal sin, what is this that you
have spoken?  Never may no knighthood come of such wantonness that
shall not cost you right dear!  A traitor are you toward our earthly
lord, and a murderer toward Our Saviour.  Of the seven deadly sins, you
are labouring under the one whereof the delights are the falsest of
any, wherefore dearly shall you aby thereof, save you repent you
forthwith."

"Sir," saith Lancelot, "never the more do I desire to cast it from me."

"As much," saith the hermit, "is that as to say that you ought long
since to have cast it from you and renounced it.  For so long as you
maintain it, so long are you an enemy of the Saviour!"

"Ha, Sir," saith Lancelot, "She hath in her such beauty and worth and
wisdom and courtesy and nobleness that never ought she to be forgotten
of any that hath loved her!"


X.

"The more of beauty and worth she hath in her," saith the hermit, "so
much the more blame hath she of that she doeth, and you likewise.  For
of that which is of little worth is the loss not so great as of that
which is much worth.  And this is a Queen, blessed and anointed, that
was thus, therefore, in her beginning vowed to God; yet now is she
given over to the Devil of her love for you, and you of your love for
her.  Fair, sweet my friend," saith the hermit, "Let go this folly,
which is so cruel, that you have taken in hand, and be repentant of
these sins!  So every day will I pray to the Saviour for you, that so
truly as He pardoned His death to him that smote Him with a lance in
His side, so may He pardon you of this sin that you have maintained,
and that so you be repentant and truly confessed thereof, I may take
the penance due thereunto upon myself!"

"Sir," saith Lancelot, "I thank you much, but I am not minded to
renounce it, nor have I no wish to speak aught wherewith my heart
accordeth not.  I am willing enough to do penance as great as is
enjoined of this sin, but my lady the Queen will I serve so long as it
may be her pleasure, and I may have her good will.  So dearly do I love
her that I wish not even that any will should come to me to renounce
her love, and God is so sweet and so full of right merciful mildness,
as good men bear witness, that He will have pity upon us, for never no
treason have I done toward her, nor she toward me."

"Ha, fair sweet friend," saith the hermit, "Nought may you avail you of
whatsoever I may say, wherefore God grant her such will and you also,
that you may be able to do the will of Our Saviour. But so much am I
fain to tell you, that and if you shall lie in the hostel of King
Fisherman, yet never may you behold the Graal for the mortal sin that
lieth at your heart."

"May our Lord God," saith Lancelot, "counsel me therein at His pleasure
and at His will!"

"So may He do!" saith the hermit, "For of a truth you may know thereof
am I right fain."


XI.

Lancelot taketh leave of the hermit, and is mounted forthwith and
departeth from the hermitage.  And evening draweth on, and he seeth
that it is time to lodge him.  And he espieth before him the castle of
the rich King Fisherman.  He seeth the bridges, broad and long, but
they seem not to him the same as they had seemed to Messire Gawain.  He
beholdeth the rich entrance of the gateway there where Our Lord God was
figured as He was set upon the rood, and seeth two lions that guard the
entrance of the gate.  Lancelot thinketh that sith Messire Gawain had
passed through amidst the lions, he would do likewise.  He goeth toward
the gateway, and the lions that were unchained prick up their ears and
look at him.  Howbeit Lancelot goeth his way between them without
heeding them, and neither of them was fain to do him any hurt.  He
alighteth before the master-palace, and mounteth upward all armed.  Two
other knights come to meet him and receive him with right great joy,
then they make him be seated on a couch in the midst of the hall and be
disarmed of two servants.  Two damsels bring him a right rich robe and
make him be apparelled therewithal.  Lancelot beholdeth the richness of
the hall and seeth nought figured there save images of saints, men or
women, and he seeth the hall hung about with cloths of silk in many
places.  The knights lead him before King Fisherman in a chamber where
he lay right richly.  He findeth the King, that lieth on a bed so rich
and so fair apparelled as never was seen a better, and one damsel was
at his head and another at his feet.  Lancelot saluteth him right
nobly, and the King answereth him full fairly as one that is a right
worshipful man.  And such a brightness of light was there in the
chamber as that it seemed the sun were beaming on all sides, and albeit
the night was dark, no candles, so far as Lancelot might espy, were
lighted therewithin.

"Sir," saith King Fisherman, "Can you tell me tidings of my sister's
son, that was son of Alain li Gros of the Valleys of Camelot, whom they
call Perceval?"

"Sir," saith Lancelot, "I saw him not long time sithence in the house
of King Hermit, his uncle."

"Sir," saith the King, "They tell me he is a right good knight?"

"Sir," saith Lancelot, "He is the best knight of the world.  I myself
have felt the goodness of his knighthood and his valour, for right
sorely did he wound me or ever I knew him or he me."

"And what is your name?" saith the King.

"Sir, I am called Lancelot of the Lake, King Ban's son of Benoic."

"Ha," saith the King, "you are nigh of our lineage, you ought to be
good knight of right, and so are you as I have heard witness,
Lancelot," saith the King.  "Behold there the chapel where the most
Holy Graal taketh his rest, that appeared to two knights that have been
herewithin.  I know not what was the name of the first, but never saw I
any so gentle and quiet, nor had better likelihood to be good knight.
It was through him that I have fallen into languishment.  The second
was Messire Gawain."

"Sir," saith Lancelot, "the first was Perceval your nephew."

"Ha!" saith King Fisherman, "take heed that you speak true!"

"Sir," saith Lancelot, "I ought to know him well!"

"Ha, God!" saith the King, "Wherefore then did I know him not? Through
him have I fallen into this languishment, and had I only known then
that it was he, should I now be all whole of my limbs and of my body,
and right instantly do I pray you, when you shall see him, that he come
to see me or ever I die, and that he be fain to succour and help his
mother, whose men have been slain, and whose land hath been reaved in
such sort that never may she have it again save by him alone.  And his
sister hath gone in quest of him throughout all kingdoms."

"Sir," saith Lancelot, "This will I tell him gladly, if ever I may find
him in any place, but it is great adventure of finding him, for
oft-times will he change his cognizance in divers fashion and conceal
his name in many places."


XII.

King Fisherman is right joyous of the tidings he hath heard of his
nephew, wherefore he maketh Lancelot be honoured greatly. The knights
seat them in the hall at a table of ivory at meat, and the King
remaineth in his chamber.  When they had washen, the table was dight of
rich sets of vessels of gold and silver, and they were served of rich
meats of venison of hart and wild boar. But the story witnesseth that
the Graal appeared not at this feast.  It held not aloof for that
Lancelot was not one of the three knights of the world of the most
renown and mightiest valour, but for his great sin as touching the
Queen, whom he loved without repenting him thereof, for of nought did
he think so much as of her, nor never might he remove his heart
therefrom. When they had eaten they rose from the tables.  Two damsels
waited on Lancelot at his going to bed, and he lay on a right rich
couch, nor were they willing to depart until such time as he was
asleep.  He rose on the morrow as soon as he saw the day, and went to
hear mass.  Then he took leave of King Fisherman and the knights and
damsels, and issued forth of the castle between the two lions, and
prayeth God that He allow him to see the Queen again betimes, for this
is his most desire.  He rideth until he hath left the castle far behind
and entereth the forest, and is in right great desire to see Perceval,
but the tidings of him were right far away.  He looketh before him in
the forest and seeth come right amidst the launde a knight, and a
damsel clad in the richest robe of gold and silk that ever he had seen
tofore.


XIII.

The damsel came weeping by the side of the knight and prayed him
oftentimes that he would have mercy upon her.  The knight is still and
holdeth his peace, and saith never a word.

"Ha, Sir," saith the damsel to Lancelot, "Be pleased to beseech this
knight on my behalf."

"In what manner?" saith Lancelot.

"Sir," saith she, "I will tell you.  He hath shown me semblance of love
for more than a year, and had me in covenant that he would take me to
wife, and I apparelled myself in the richest garments that I had to
come to him.  But my father is of greater power and riches than is he,
and therefore was not willing to allow the marriage.  Wherefore come I
with him in this manner, for I love him better than ever another knight
beside.  Now will he do nought of that he had me in covenant to do, for
he loveth another, better, methinketh, than me.  And this hath he done,
as I surmise, to do shame to my friends and to me."

Lancelot seeth the damsel of right great beauty and weeping tenderly,
whereof hath he passing great pity.

"Hold, Sir!" saith Lancelot to the knight, "this shall you not do!  You
shall not do such shame to so fair a damsel as that you shall fail to
keep covenant with her.  For not a knight is there in the kingdom of
Logres nor in that of Wales but ought to be right well pleased to have
so fair a damsel to wife, and I pray and require that you do to the
damsel that whereof you held her in covenant.  This will be a right
worshipful deed, and I pray and beseech that you do it, and thereof
shall I be much beholden unto you."

"Sir," saith the knight, "I have no will thereunto, nor for no man will
I do it, for ill would it beseem me."

"By my head, then," saith Lancelot, "the basest knight are you that
ever have I seen, nor ought dame nor damsel ever hereafter put trust in
you, sith that you are minded to put such disgrace upon this lady."

"Sir," saith the knight, "a worthier lover have I than this, and one
that I more value; wherefore as touching this damsel will I do nought
more than I have said."

"And whither, then, mean you to take her?" saith Lancelot.

"I mean to take her to a hold of mine own that is in this forest, and
to give her in charge to a dwarf of mine that looketh after my house,
and I will marry her to some knight or some other man."

"Now never God help me," saith Lancelot, "but this is foul churlishness
you tell me, and, so you do not her will, it shall betide you ill of me
myself, and, had you been armed as I am, you should have felt my first
onset already."

"Ha," saith the damsel to Lancelot, "Be not so ready to do him any
hurt, for nought love I so well as I love his body, whatsoever he do
unto me.  But for God's sake pray him that he do me the honour he hath
promised me."

"Willingly," saith Lancelot.  "Sir Knight, will you do this whereof you
had the damsel in covenant?"

"Sir," saith the knight, "I have told you plainly that I will not."

"By my head," saith Lancelot, "you shall do it, or otherwise sentence
of death hath passed upon you, and this not so much for the sake of the
damsel only, but for the churlishness that hath taken possession of
you, that it be not a reproach to other knights.  For promise that
knight maketh to dame or damsel behoveth him to keep.  And you, as you
tell me, are knight, and no knight ought to do churlishly to his
knowledge, and this churlishness is so far greater than another, that
for no prayer that the damsel may make will I suffer that it shall be
done, but that if you do not that whereof you held her in covenant, I
shall slay you, for that I will not have this churlishness made a
reproach unto other knights."

He draweth his sword and would have come toward him, when the knight
cometh over against him and saith to him: "Slay me not. Tell me rather
what you would have me do?"

"I would," saith he, "that you take the damsel to wife without denial."

"Sir," saith he, "it pleaseth me better to take her than to die. Sir, I
will do your will."

"I thank you much therefor," saith Lancelot. "Damsel, is this your
pleasure also?"

"Yea, Sir, but, so please you, take not your departure from us until
such time as he shall have done that which you tell him."

"I will, well that so it be," saith Lancelot, "for love of you."

They ride together right through the forest, until they came to a
chapel at a hermitage, and the hermit wedded them and made much joy
thereof.  When it cometh to after-mass, Lancelot would fain depart, but
the damsel prayeth him right sweetly that he should come right to her
father's house to witness that the knight had wedded her.


XIV.

"Sir," saith she, "My father's hold is not far away."

"Lady," saith Lancelot, "Willingly will I go sith that you beseech me
thereof."

They ride so long right amidst the forest, that presently they come to
the castle of the Vavasour, that was sitting on the bridge of his
castle, right sorrowful and troubled because of his daughter.  Lancelot
is gone on before and alighteth.  The Vavasour riseth up to meet him,
and Lancelot recounteth unto him how his daughter hath been wedded, and
that he hath been at the wedding.  Thereof the Vavasour maketh right
great joy. Therewithal, behold you, the knight and the Vavasour's
daughter that are straightway alighted, and the Vavasour thanketh
Lancelot much of the honour he hath done his daughter.  Therewith he
departeth from the castle and rideth amidst the forest the day long,
and meeteth a damsel and a dwarf that came a great gallop.

"Sir," saith the damsel to Lancelot, "From whence come you?"

"Damsel," saith he, "I come from the Vavasour's castle that is in this
forest."

"Did you meet," saith she, "a knight and a damsel on your way?"

"Yea," saith Lancelot, "He hath wedded her."

"Say you true?" saith she.

"I tell you true," saith Lancelot, "But had I not been there, he would
not have wedded her."

"Shame and ill adventure may you have thereof, for you have reft me of
the thing in the world that most I loved.  And know you well of a truth
that joy of him shall she never have, and if the knight had been armed
as are you, never would he have done your will, but his own.  And this
is not the first harm you have done me; you and Messire Gawain between
you have slain my uncle and my two cousins-german in the forest, whom
behoved me bury in the chapel where you were, there where my dwarf that
you see here was making the graves in the burial-ground."

"Damsel," saith Lancelot, "true it is that I was there, but I departed
from the grave-yard, honour safe."

"True," saith the dwarf, "For the knights that were there were craven,
and failed."

"Fair friend," saith Lancelot, "Rather would I they should be coward
toward me than hardy."

"Lancelot," saith the damsel, "Much outrage have you done, for you slew
the Knight of the Waste House, there whither the brachet led Messire
Gawain, but had he there been known, he would not have departed so
soon, for he was scarce better loved than you, and God grant you may
find a knight that may abate the outrages that are in your heart and in
his; for great rejoicing would there be thereof, for many a good knight
have you slain, and I myself will bring about trouble for you, so
quickly as I may."


XV.

Thereupon the dwarf smiteth the mule with his whip, and she departeth.
Lancelot would answer none of her reviling, wherefore he departed
forthwith, and rideth so long on his journeys that he is come back to
the house of the good King Hermit, that maketh right great joy of him.
And he telleth him that he hath been unto the house of King Fisherman,
his brother that lieth in languishment, and telleth him also how he
hath been honoured in his hostel, and of the salutations that he sent
him.  King Hermit is right joyous thereof, and asketh him of his
nephew, and he telleth him he hath seen him not since he departed
thence.  King Hermit asketh him whether he hath seen the Graal, and he
telleth him he hath seen it not at all.

"I know well," saith the King, "wherefore this was so.  And you had had
the like desire to see the Graal that you have to see the Queen, the
Graal would you have seen."

"Sir," saith Lancelot, "The Queen do I desire to see for the sake of
her good intent, her wisdom, courtesy and worth, and so ought every
knight to do.  For in herself hath she all honourable conditions that a
lady may have."

"God grant you good issue therein," saith King Hermit, "and that you do
nought whereof He may visit you with His wrath at the Day of Judgment."

Lancelot lay the night in the hermitage, and on the morrow departed
thence and took leave when he had heard mass, and cometh back as
straight as he may to Pannenoisance on the sea of Wales, where were the
King and Queen with great plenty of knights and barons.



BRANCH XI.

TITLE I.

This High History witnesseth whereof this account cometh, and saith
that Perceval is in the kingdom of Logres, and came great pace toward
the land of the Queen of the Tents to release the Damsel of the Car,
that he had left in hostage on account of Clamados, that had put upon
him the treason whereof behoved him to defend himself.  But, or ever he
entered into the land of the Queen of the Tents, he met the Damsel of
the Car that was coming thence.  She made right great joy of him, and
told him that Clamados was dead of the wound that Meliot of Logres had
dealt him, and that Meliot of Logres was heal.

"Sir," saith she, "The tents and the awnings are taken down, and the
Queen hath withdrawn herself to the castle with her maidens, and by my
coming back from thence may you well know that you are altogether quit.
Wherefore I tell you that your sister goeth in quest of you, and that
never had your mother so sore need of help as now she hath, nor never
again shall your sister have joy at heart until such time as she shall
have found you.  She goeth seeking for you by all the kingdoms and
strange countries in sore mis-ease, nor may she find any to tell her
tidings of you."

Therewith Perceval departeth from the Damsel, without saying more, and
rideth until he cometh into the kingdom of Wales to a castle that is
seated above the sea upon a high rock, and it was called the Castle of
Tallages.  He seeth a knight issue from the castle and asketh whose
hold it is, and he telleth him that it belonged to the Queen of the
Maidens.  He entereth into the first baby of the castle, and alighteth
at the mounting-stage and setteth down his shield and his spear, and
looketh toward the steps whereby one goeth up to the higher hall, and
seeth upon them row upon row of knights and damsels.  He cometh
thitherward, but never a knight nor dame was there that gave him
greeting of any kind.  So he saluted them at large.  He went his way
right amidst them toward the door of the great hall, which he findeth
shut, and rattled the ring so loud that it made the whole hall resound
thereof.  A knight cometh to open it and he entereth in.

"Sir Knight, welcome may you be!"

"Good adventure may you have!" saith Perceval.

He lowereth his ventail and taketh off his helm.  The knight leadeth
him to the Queen's chamber, and she riseth to meet him, and maketh
great joy of him, and maketh him sit beside her all armed.


II.

With that, cometh a damsel and kneeleth before the Queen and saith:
"Lady, behold here the knight that was first at the Graal. I saw him in
the court of the Queen of the Tents, there where he was appeached of
treason and murder."

"Now haste," saith the Queen to the knight, "Let sound the ivory horn
upon the castle."

The knights and damsels that were sitting on the steps leapt up, and
make right great joy, and the other knights likewise.  They say that
now they know well that they have done their penance. Thereupon they
enter into the hall, and the Lady issueth from her chamber and taketh
Perceval by the hand and goeth to meet them.

"Behold here," saith she, "the knight through whom you have had the
pain and travail, and by whom you are now released therefrom!"

"Ha!" say the knights and dames, "welcome may he be!"

"By my head," saith the Queen, "so is he, for he is the knight of the
world that I had most desire to see."

She maketh disarm him, and bring the rich robe of cloth of silk to
apparel him. "Sir," saith the Queen, "Four knights and three damsels
have been under the steps at the entrance of the hall ever since such
time as you were at the hostel of King Fisherman, there where you
forgot to ask whereof the Graal might serve, nor never since have they
had none other house nor hold wherein to eat nor to drink nor to lie,
nor never since have they had no heart to make joy, nor would not now
and you had not come hither. Wherefore ought you not to marvel that
they make joy of your coming.  Howbeit, on the other hand, sore need
have we in this castle of your coming, for a knight warreth upon me
that is brother of King Fisherman, and his name is the King of Castle
Mortal."

"Lady," saith he, "He is my uncle, albeit I knew it not of a long time,
nor of the good King Fisherman either, and the good King Hermit is my
uncle also.  But I tell you of a very truth, the King of Castle Mortal
is the most fell and cruel that liveth, wherefore ought none to love
him for the felony that is in him, for he hath begun to war upon King
Fisherman my uncle, and challengeth him his castle, and would fain have
the Lance and the Graal."

"Sir," saith the Queen, "in like sort challengeth he my castle of me
for that I am in aid of King Fisherman, and every week cometh he to an
island that is in this sea, and oft-times cometh plundering before this
castle and hath slain many of my knights and damsels, whereof God grant
us vengeance upon him."

She taketh Perceval by the hand and leadeth him to the windows of the
hall that were nighest the sea.  "Sir," saith she, "Now may you see the
island, there, whereunto your uncle cometh in a galley, and in this
island sojourneth he until he hath seen where to aim his blow and laid
his plans.  And here below, see, are my gallies that defend us thereof."


III.

Perceval, as the history telleth, was much honoured at the castle of
the Queen of the Maidens, that was right passing fair.  The Queen loved
him of a passing great love, but well she knew that she should never
have her desire, nor any dame nor damsel that might set her intent
thereon, for chaste was he and in chastity was fain to die.  So long
was he at the castle as that he heard tell his uncle was arrived at the
island whither he wont to come. Perceval maketh arm him forthwith and
entereth into a galley below the hall, and maketh him be rowed toward
his uncle, that much marvelleth when he seeth him coming, for never
aforetime durst no knight issue out alone from this castle to meet him,
nor to come there where he was, body to body.  But had he known that it
was Perceval, he would not have marvelled.  Thereupon the galley taketh
the ground and Perceval is issued forth.  The Queen and the knights and
her maidens are come to the windows of the castle to behold the bearing
of the nephew and the uncle.  The Queen would have sent over some of
her knights with him, but Perceval would not.  The King of Castle
Mortal was tall and strong and hardy.  He seeth his nephew come all
armed, but knoweth him not.  But Perceval knew him well, and kept his
sword drawn and his shield on his arm, and sought out his uncle with
right passing wrathfulness, and dealeth him a heavy buffet above upon
his helm that he maketh him stoop withal.  Howbeit, the King spareth
him not, but smiteth him so passing stoutly that he had his helm all
dinted in thereby.  But Perceval attacketh him again, thinking to
strike him above on the head, but the King swerveth aside and the blow
falleth on the shield and cleaveth it right down as far as the boss.
The King of Castle Mortal draweth him backward and hath great shame
within himself for that Perceval should thus fettle him, for he
searcheth him with his sword in every part, and dealeth him great
buffets in such sort that, and his habergeon had not been so strong and
tough, he would have wounded him in many places.


IV.

The King himself giveth him blows so heavy that the Queen and all they
that were at the windows marvelled how Perceval might abide such
buffets.  The King took witting of the shield that Perceval bare, and
looketh on it of a long space.

"Knight," saith he, "who gave you this shield, and on behalf of whom do
you bear such an one?"

"I bear it on behalf of my father," saith he.

"Did your father, then, bear a red shield with a white hart?"

"Yea," saith Perceval, "Many a day."

"Was your father, then, King Alain of the Valleys of Camelot?"

"My father was he without fail.  No blame ought I to have of him, for a
good knight was he and a loyal."

"Are you the son of Yglais my sister, that was his wife?"

"Yea!" saith Perceval.

"Then are you my nephew," saith the King of Castle Mortal, "For she was
my sister."

"That misliketh me," saith Perceval, "For thereof have I neither
worship nor honour, for the most disloyal are you of all my kindred,
and I knew well when I came hither that it was you, and, for the great
disloyalty that is in you, you war upon the best King that liveth and
the most worshipful man, and upon the Lady of this castle for that she
aideth him in all that she may.  But, please God, henceforward she
shall have no need to guard her to the best of her power against so
evil a man as are you, nor shall her castle never be obedient to you,
nor the sacred hallows that the good King hath in his keeping.  For God
loveth not you so much as He doth him, and so long as you war upon him,
you do I defy and hold you as mine enemy."

The King wotteth well that his nephew holdeth him not over dear, and
that he is eager to do him a hurt, and that he holdeth his sword in his
fist and that he is well roofed-in of his helmet, and that he is raging
like a lion.  He misdoubteth him sore of his strength and his great
hardiment.  He hath well proven and essayed that he is the Best Knight
of the world.  He durst no longer abide his blows, but rather he
turneth him full speed toward his galley, and leapeth thereinto
forthwith.  He pusheth out from the shore incontinent, and Perceval
followeth him right to the beach, full heavy that he hath gotten him
away.  Then he crieth after him: "Evil King, tell me not that I am of
your kindred!  Never yet did knight of my mother's lineage flee from
other knight, save you alone!  Now have I conquered this island, and
never on no day hereafter be you so over-hardy as be seen therein
again!"

The King goeth his way as he that hath no mind to return, and Perceval
cometh back again in his galley to the Queen's castle, and all they of
the palace come forth to meet him with great joy. The Queen asketh him
how it is with him and whether he is wounded?

"Lady," saith he, "Not at all, thank God."

She maketh disarm him, and honoureth him at her pleasure, and
commandeth that all be obedient to him, and do his commandment so long
as he shall please to be there.  Now feel they safer in the castle for
that the king hath so meanly departed thence, and it well seemeth them
that never will he dare come back for dread of his nephew more than of
any other, whereof make they much joy in common.



BRANCH XII.

TITLE I.

Now is the story silent about Perceval, and saith that King Arthur is
at Pannenoisance in Wales with great plenty of knights. Lancelot and
Messire Gawain are repaired thither, whereof all the folk make great
joy.  The King asketh of Messire Gawain and Lancelot whether they have
seen Lohot his son in none of these islands nor in none of these
forests, and they answer him that they have seen him nowhere.

"I marvel much," saith the King, "what hath become of him, for no
tidings have I heard of him beyond these, that Kay the Seneschal slew
Logrin the giant, whose head he brought me, whereof I made great joy,
and right willingly did I make Kay's lands the broader thereof, and
well ought I to do him such favour, for he avenged me of him that did
my land more hurt than any other, wherefore I love him greatly."

But, and the King had only known how Kay had wrought against him, he
would not have so highly honoured his chivalry and his hardiment.  The
King sate one day at meat and Queen Guenievre at his side.  Thereupon
behold you, a damsel that alighteth before the palace, then mounteth
the steps of the hall and is come before the King and the Queen.

"Sir, I salute you as the sorest dismayed and most discounselled damsel
that ever you have seen!  Wherefore am I come to demand a boon of you
for the nobleness and valour of your heart."

"Damsel," saith the King, "God counsel you of His will and pleasure,
and I myself am full fain to partake therein."

The damsel looketh at the shield that hangeth in the midst of the hall.

"Sir," saith she, "I beseech you that you deign grant me the aid of the
knight that shall bear this shield from hence.  For sorer need have I
thereof than ever another of them that are discounselled."

"Damsel," saith the King, "Full well shall I be pleased, so the knight
be also fain to do as you say."

"Sir," saith she, "And he be so good knight as he is reported, never
will he refuse your prayer, nor would he mine, if only I were here at
such time as he shall come.  For, had I been able to find my brother
that I have been seeking this long time, then well should I have been
succoured long agone!  But I have sought him in many lands, nor never
could I learn where he is. Therefore to my sorrow, behoveth me to ride
all lonely by the strange islands and put my body in jeopardy of death,
whereof ought these knights to have great pity."


II.

"Damsel," saith the King, "For this reason do I refuse you nought of
that you wish, and right willingly will I put myself to trouble herein."

"Sir," saith she, "much thanks to God thereof!"

He maketh her be set at meat, and much honour be done her.  When the
cloths were drawn, the Queen leadeth her into her chamber with the
maidens, and maketh much joy of her.  The brachet that was brought
thither with the shield was lying on a couch of straw.  He would not
know the Queen nor her damsels nor the knights that were in the court,
but so soon as ever he heard the damsel he cometh to her and maketh
greater joy of her than ever was brachet seen to make before.  The
Queen and her damsels marvelled much thereof, as did the damsel herself
to whom the brachet made such joy, for never since that he was brought
into the hall had they seen him rejoice of any.  The Queen asked her
whether she knew him.

"Certes, Lady, no, for never, so far as I know, have I seen him before."

The brachet will not leave her, but will be always on her lap, nor can
she move anywhither but he followeth her.  The damsel is long time in
the court in this manner, albeit as she that had sore need of succour
she remained in the chapel every day after that the Queen was come
forth, and wept right tenderly before the image of the Saviour, and
prayed right sweetly that His Mother would counsel her, for that she
had been left in sore peril of losing her castle.  The Queen asked her
one day who her brother was.

"Lady," saith she, "one of the best knights of the world, whereof have
I heard witness.  But he departed from my father's and mother's hostel
a right young squire.  My father is since dead, and my Lady mother is
left without help and without counsel, wherefore hath a certain man
reaved her of her land and her castles and slain her men.  The very
castle wherein she hath her hold would he have seized long agone had it
not been for Messire Gawain that made it be safe-guarded against her
enemies for a year.  The term is now ended and my Lady mother is in
dread lest she shall lose her castle, for none other hold hath she.
Wherefore is it that she hath sent me to seek for my brother, for she
hath been told that he is a good knight, and for that I may not find
him am I come to this court to beseech of King Arthur succour of the
knight that shall bear away the shield, for I have heard tell that he
is the Best knight of the world; and, for the bounty that is in him
will he therefore have pity on me."

"Damsel," saith the Queen, "Would that you had found him, for great joy
would it be unto me that your mother were succoured, and God grant that
he that ought to bear the shield come quickly, and grant him courage
that he be fain to succour your mother."

"So shall he be, please God, for never was good knight that was without
pity."


III.

The Queen hath much pity of the damsel, for she was of right great
beauty, and well might it be seen by her cheer and her semblant that no
joy had she.  She had told the Queen her name and the name of her
father and mother, and the Queen told her that many a time had she
heard tell of Alain li Gros, and that he was said to be a worshipful
man and good knight.  The King lay one night beside the Queen, and was
awoke from his first sleep so that he might not go to sleep again.  He
rose and did on a great grey cape and issueth forth of the chamber and
cometh to the windows of the hall that opened toward the sea, calm and
untroubled, so that much pleasure had he of looking thereat and leaning
at the windows.  When he had been there of a long space, he looked out
to sea and saw coming afar off as it were the shining of a candle in
the midst of the sea.  Much he marvelled what it might be.  He looked
at it until he espied what seemed him to be a ship wherein was the
light, and he was minded not to move until such time as he should know
whether a ship it were or something other.  The longer he looketh at
it, the better perceiveth he that it is a ship, and that it was coming
with great rushing toward the castle as fast as it might.  The King
espieth it nigh at hand, but none seeth he within nor without save one
old man, ancient and bald, of right passing seemliness that held the
rudder of the ship.  The ship was covered of a right rich cloth in the
midst and the sail was lowered, for the sea was calm and quiet.  The
ship was arrived under the palace and was quite still.  When the ship
had taken ground, the King looketh thereat with much marvelling, and
knoweth not who is there within, for not a soul heareth he speak.  Him
thinketh that he will go see what is within the ship, and he issueth
forth of the hall, and cometh thither where the ship was arrived, but
he might not come anigh for the flowing of the sea.

"Sir," saith he that held the rudder, "Allow me a little!"

He launcheth forth of the ship a little boat, and the King entereth
thereinto, and so cometh into the great ship, and findeth a knight that
lay all armed upon a table of ivory, and had set his shield at his
head.  At the head of his bed had he two tall twisted links of wax in
two candlesticks of gold, and the like at his feet, and his hands were
crossed upon his breast. The King draweth nigh toward him and so
looketh at him, and seemed him that never had he seen so comely a
knight.


IV.

"Sir," saith the master of the ship, "For God's sake draw you back and
let the knight rest, for thereof hath he sore need."

"Sir," saith the King, "who is the knight?"

"Sir, this would he well tell you were he willing, but of me may you
know it not."

"Will he depart forthwith from hence?" saith the King.

"Sir," saith the master, "Not before he hath been in this hall, but he
hath had sore travail and therefore he taketh rest."

When the King heard say that he would come into his palace, thereof had
he great joy.  He cometh to the Queen's chamber and telleth her how the
ship is arrived.  The Queen riseth and two of her damsels with her, and
apparelleth her of a kirtle of cloth of silk, furred of ermine, and
cometh into the midst of the hall. Thereupon behold you, the knight
that cometh all armed and the master of the ship before him bearing the
twisted link of wax in the candlestick of gold in front of him, and the
knight held his sword all naked.

"Sir," saith the Queen, "Well may you be welcome!"

"Lady," saith he, "God grant you joy and good adventure."

"Sir," saith she, "Please God we have nought to fear of you?"

"Lady," saith he, "No fear ought you to have!"

The King seeth that he beareth the red shield with the white hart
whereof he had heard tell.  The brachet that was in the hall heareth
the knight.  He cometh racing toward him and leapeth about his legs and
maketh great joy of him.  And the knight playeth with him, then taketh
the shield that hung at the column, and hangeth the other there, and
cometh back thereafter toward the door of the hall.

"Lady," saith the King, "Pray the knight that he go not so hastily."

"Sir," saith the knight, "No leisure have I to abide, but at some time
shall you see me again."

The knights also say as much, and the King and Queen are right heavy of
his departure, but they durst not press him beyond his will.  He is
entered into the ship, and the brachet with him. The master draweth the
boat within, and so they depart and leave the castle behind.  King
Arthur abideth at Pannenoisance, and is right sorrowful of the knight,
that he hath gone his way so soon. The knights arose throughout the
castle when the day waxed light, and learnt the tidings of the knight
that had borne the shield thence, and were right grieved for that they
had not seen him. The damsel that had asked the boon cometh to the King.

"Sir," saith she, "Did you speak of my business to the knight?"

"Damsel," saith the King, "Never a whit!  to my sorrow, for he hath
departed sooner than I would!"

"Sir," saith she, "You have done a wrong and a sin, but, please God, so
good a King as are you shall not fail of his covenants to damsel so
forlorn as am I."

The King was right sorrowful for that he had remembered not the damsel.
She departeth from the court, and taketh leave of the King and Queen,
and saith that she herself will go seek the knight, and that, so she
may find him, she will hold the King quit of his covenant.  Messire
Gawain and Lancelot are returned to the court, and have heard the
tidings of the knight that hath carried away the shield, and are right
grieved that they have not seen him, and Messire Gawain more than
enough, for that he had lien in his mother's house.  Lancelot seeth the
shield that he had left on the column, and knoweth it well, and saith,
"Now know I well that Perceval hath been here, for this shield was he
wont to bear, and the like also his father bore."

"Ha," saith Messire Gawain, "What ill-chance have I that I may not see
the Good Knight!"

"Messire Gawain," saith Lancelot, "So nigh did I see him that methought
he would have killed me, for never before did I essay onset so stout
nor so cruel of force of arms, and I myself wounded him, and when he
knew me he made right great joy of me. And I was with him at the house
of King Hermit a long space until that I was healed."

"Lancelot," saith Messire Gawain, "I would that he had wounded me, so I
were not too sore harmed thereof, so that I might have been with him so
long time as were you."

"Lords," saith the King, "Behoveth you go on quest of him or I will go,
for I am bound to beseech his aid on behalf of a damsel that asked me
thereof, but she told me that, so she might find him first, I should be
quit of her request."

"Sir," saith the Queen, "You will do a right great service and you may
counsel her herein, for sore discounselled is she.  She hath told me
that she was daughter of Alain li Gros of the Valleys of Camelot, and
that her mother's name is Yglais, and her own Dindrane."

"Ha, Lady," saith Messire Gawain, "She is sister to the knight that
hath borne away the shield, for I lay at her mother's house wherein I
was right well lodged."

"By my head," saith the Queen, "it may well be, for so soon as she came
in hither, the brachet that would have acquaintance with none, made her
great joy, and when the knight came to seek the shield, the brachet,
that had remained in the hall, played gladly with him and went."

"By my faith," saith Messire Gawain, "I will go in quest of the knight,
for right great desire have I to see him."

"And I," saith Lancelot, "Never so glad have I been to see him
aforetime as I should be now."

"Howsoever it be," saith the King, "I pray you so speed my business
that the damsel shall not be able to plain her of me."


V.

"Sir," saith Lancelot, "We will tell him and we may find him, that his
sister is gone in quest of him, and that she hath been at your court."

The two knights depart from the court to enter on the quest of the Good
Knight, and leave the castle far behind them and ride in the midst of a
high forest until they find a cross in the midst of a launde, there
where all the roads of the forest join together.

"Lancelot," saith Messire Gawain, "Choose which road soever you will,
and so let each go by himself, so that we may the sooner hear tidings
of the Good Knight, and let us meet together again at this cross at the
end of a year and let either tell other how he hath sped, for please
God in one place or another we shall hear tidings of him."

Lancelot taketh the way to the right, and Messire Gawain to the left.
Therewithal they depart and commend them one another to God.



BRANCH XIII.

TITLE I.

Here the story is silent of Lancelot, and saith that Messire Gawain
goeth a great pace riding, and prayeth God that He will so counsel him
that he may find the knight.  He rideth until the day cometh to
decline, and he lay in the house of a hermit in the forest, that lodged
him well.

"Sir," saith the hermit to Messire Gawain, "Whom do you go seek?"

"Sir," saith he, "I am in quest of a knight that I would see right
gladly."

"Sir," saith the hermit, "In this neighbourhood will you find no
knight."

"Wherefore not?" saith Messire Gawain, "Be there no knights in this
country?"

"There was wont to be plenty," saith the hermit, "But now no longer are
there any, save one all alone in a castle and one all alone on the sea
that have chased away and slain all the others."

"And who is the one of the sea?" saith Messire Gawain.

"Sir," saith the hermit, "I know not who he is, save only that the sea
is hard by here, where the ship runneth oftentimes wherein the knight
is, and he repaireth to an island that is under the castle of the Queen
of the Maidens, from whence he chased an uncle of his that warred upon
the castle, and the other knights that he had chased thence and slain
were helping his uncle, so that now the castle is made sure.  And the
knights that might flee from this forest and this kingdom durst not
repair thither for the knight, for they dread his hardiment and his
great might, sith that they know well they might not long endure
against him."

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "Is it so long a space sithence that he
hath haunted the sea?"

"Sir," saith the hermit, "It is scarce more than a twelvemonth."

"And how nigh is this to the sea?" saith Messire Gawain.

"Sir," saith the hermit, "It is not more than two leagues Welsh. When I
have gone forth to my toil, many a time have I seen the ship run close
by me, and the knight, all armed, within, and meseemed he was of right
great comeliness, and had as passing proud a look as any lion.  But I
can well tell you never was knight so dreaded in this kingdom as is he.
The Queen of the Maidens would have lost her castle ere now but for
him.  Nor never sithence that he hath chased his uncle from the island,
hath he entered the Queen's castle even once, but from that time forth
hath rather rowed about the sea and searched all the islands and
stricken down all the proud in such sort that he is dreaded and warily
avoided throughout all the kingdoms.  The Queen of the Maidens is right
sorrowful for that he cometh not to her castle, for so dear she holdeth
him of very love, that and he should come and she might keep him so
that he should never issue forth again, she would sooner lock him up
with her there safe within."

"Know you." saith Messire Gawain, "what shield the knight beareth?"

"Sir," saith the hermit, "I know not now to blazon it, for nought know
I of arms.  Three score years and more have I been in this hermitage,
yet never saw I this kingdom before so dismayed as is it now."

Messire Gawain lay the night therewithin, and departed when he had
heard mass.  He draweth him as nigh the sea as he may, and rideth along
beside the shore and many a time draweth rein to look forth if he might
see the knight's ship.  But nowhere might he espy it.  He hath ridden
until he cometh to the castle of the Queen of the Maidens.  When she
knew that it was Messire Gawain, she made thereof great joy, and
pointed him out the island whither Perceval had repaired, and from
whence he had driven his uncle.

"Sir," saith she to Messire Gawain, "I plain me much of him, for never
hath he been fain to enter herewithin, save the one time that he did
battle with his uncle, but ever sithence hath he made repair to this
island and rowed about this sea."

"Lady," saith Messire Gawain, "and whereabout may he be now?"

"Sir, God help me," saith she, "I know not, for I have not seen him now
of a long space, and no earthly man may know his intent nor his desire,
nor whitherward he may turn."

Messire Gawain is right sorrowful for that he knoweth not where to seek
him albeit he hath so late tidings of him.  He lay at the castle and
was greatly honoured, and on the morrow he heard mass and took leave of
the Queen, and rideth all armed beside the seashore, for that the
hermit had told him, and the Queen herself, that he goeth oftener by
sea than by land.  He entereth into a forest that was nigh the sea, and
seeth a knight coming a great gallop as if one were chasing him to slay
him.

"Sir knight," saith Messire Gawain, "Whither away so fast?"

"Sir, I am fleeing from the knight that hath slain all the others."

"And who is the knight?" saith Messire Gawain.

"I know not who he is," saith the knight, "But and you go forward you
are sure to find him."

"Meseemeth," saith Messire Gawain, "that I have seen you aforetime."

"Sir," saith he, "So have you!  I am the Knight Coward that you met in
the forest there where you conquered the knight of the shield party
black and white, and I am man of the Damsel of the Car.  Wherefore I
pray you for God's sake that you do me no hurt, for the knight that I
found down yonder hath a look so fierce that I thought I was dead when
I saw it."

"Need you fear nought of me," saith Messire Gawain, "For I love your
damsel well."

"Sir," saith the knight, "I would that all the other knights would say
as much in respect of me, for no fear have I save for myself alone."


II.

Messire Gawain departeth from the knight, and goeth his way amidst the
forest that overshadowed the land as far as the seashore, and looketh
forth from the top of a sand-hill, and seeth a knight armed on a tall
destrier, and he had a shield of gold with a green cross.

"Ha, God," saith Messire Gawain, "Grant that this knight may be able to
tell me tidings of him I seek!"

Thitherward goeth he a great gallop, and saluteth him worshipfully and
he him again.

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "Can you tell me tidings of a knight that
beareth a shield banded of argent and azure with a red cross?"

"Yea, Sir," saith the knight, "That can I well.  At the assembly of the
knights may you find him within forty days."

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "Where will the assembly be?"

"In the Red Launde, where will be many a good knight.  There shall you
find him without fail."

Thereof hath Messire Gawain right great joy, and so departeth from the
knight and the knight from him, and goeth back toward the sea a great
gallop.  But Messire Gawain saw not the ship whereinto he entered, for
that it was anchored underneath the cliff.  The knight entered
thereinto and put out to sea as he had wont to do.  Howbeit Messire
Gawain goeth his way toward the Red Launde where the assembly was to
be, and desireth much the day that it shall be.  He rideth until he
cometh one eventide nigh to a castle that was of right fair seeming.
He met a damsel that was following after a dead knight that two other
knights bare upon a horse-bier, and she rode a great pace right amidst
the forest.  And Messire Gawain cometh to meet her and saluteth her,
and she returned the salute as fairly as she might.

"Damsel," saith Messire Gawain, "Who lieth in this bier?"

"Sir, a knight that a certain man hath slain by great outrage."

"And whither shall you ride this day?"

"Sir, I would fain be in the Red Launde, and thither will I take this
knight, that was a right worshipful man for his age."

"And wherefore will you take him there?" saith Messire Gawain.

"For that he that shall do best at the assembly of knights shall avenge
this knight's death."


III.

The damsel goeth her way thereupon.  And Messire Gawain goeth to the
castle that he had seen, and found none within save only one solitary
knight, old and feeble, and a squire that waited upon him.  Howbeit,
Messire Gawain alighteth at the castle.  The Vavasour lodged him well
and willingly, and made his door be well shut fast and Messire Gawain
be disarmed, and that night he showed him honour as well as he might.
And when it came to the morrow and Messire Gawain was minded to depart
thence, the Vavasour saith to him, "Sir you may not depart thus, for
this door hath not been opened this long while save only yesterday,
when I made it be opened before you, to the intent that you should meet
on my behalf a certain knight that is fain to slay me, for that the
King of Castle Mortal hath had his hold herewithin, he that warreth on
the Queen of the Maidens. Wherefore I pray you that you help me to
defend it against the knight."

"What shield beareth he?" saith Messire Gawain.

"He beareth a golden shield with a green cross."

"And what sort of knight is he?" saith Messire Gawain.

"Sir," saith the Vavasour, "A good knight and a hardy and a sure."

"By my faith," saith Messire Gawain, "And you can tell me tidings of
another knight whereof I am in quest, I will protect you against this
one to the best I may, and if he will do nought for my prayer, I will
safeguard you of my force."

"What knight, then, do you seek?" saith the Vavasour.

"Sir, a knight that is called Perceval, and he hath carried away from
the court of King Arthur a shield banded argent and azure with a red
cross on a band of gold.  He will be at the assembly in the Red Launde.
These tidings had I of the knight you dread so much."


IV.

Thereupon, whilst Messire Gawain was thus speaking to the Vavasour,
behold you the Knight of the Golden Shield, that draweth rein in the
midst of a launde that was betwixt the castle and the forest.  The
Vavasour seeth him from the windows of the hall, and pointeth him out
to Messire Gawain.  Messire Gawain goeth and mounteth on his destrier,
his shield at his neck and his spear in his fist, all armed, and
issueth forth of the door when it had been unfastened, and cometh
toward the knight, that awaited him on his horse.  He seeth Messire
Gawain coming, but moveth not, and Messire Gawain marvelleth much that
the knight cometh not toward him, for him thinketh well that the
Vavasour had told him true.  But he had not, for never had the knight
come thither to do the Vavasour any hurt, but on account of the knights
that passed by that way that went to seek adventure, for right glad was
he to see them albeit he was not minded to make himself known unto any.
Messire Gawain looketh before him and behind him and seeth that the
door was made fast and the bridge drawn up so soon as he was departed
thence, whereof he marvelled much and saith to the knight, "Sir, is
your intent nought but good only?"

"By my head," saith he, "Nought at all, and readily will I tell it you."

Thereupon, behold you a damsel that cometh a great pace, and held a
whip wherewith she hurrieth her mule onward, and she draweth rein there
where the two knights were.

"Ha, God!" saith she, "shall I ever find one to wreak me vengeance of
the traitor Vavasour that dwelleth in this castle?"

"Is he then traitor?" saith Messire Gawain.

"Yea, Sir, the most traitor you saw ever!  He lodged my brother the day
before yesterday, and bore him on hand at night that a certain knight
was warring upon him for that the way whereby the knights pass is here
in front of this place, and lied to him so much as that my brother held
him in covenant that he would assault a certain knight that he should
point out to him, for love of him.  This knight came passing hereby,
that had no thought to do hurt neither to the Vavasour nor to my
brother. The knight was right strong and hardy, and was born at the
castle of Escavalon.  My brother issued forth of the castle filled with
fool-hardiness for the leasing of the Vavasour, and ran upon the knight
without a word.  The knight could do no less than avenge himself.  They
hurtled together so sore that their horses fell under them and their
spears passed either through other's heart. Thus were both twain killed
on this very piece of ground."


V.

"The Vavasour took the arms and the horses and put them in safe keeping
in his castle, and the bodies of the knights he left to the wild
beasts, that would have devoured them had I not chanced to come thither
with two knights that helped me bury them by yonder cross at the
entrance of the forest."

"By my head," saith Messire Gawain, "In like manner would he have
wrought me mischief had I been minded to trust him; for he bore me in
hand that this knight was warring upon him, and besought me that I
should safeguard him against him.  But our Lord God so helped me that I
intermeddled not therein, for lightly might I have wrought folly."

"By the name of God," saith the other, "Meseemeth it clear that the
Vavasour would fain that knights should kill each other."

"Sir," saith the damsel, "You say true; it is of his covetise of
harness and horses that he entreateth the knights on this-wise."

"Damsel," saith Messire Gawain, "Whither go you?"

"Sir," saith she, "After a knight that I have made be carried in a
litter for the dead."

"I saw him," saith he, "pass by here last night, full late last night."

The knight taketh leave of Messire Gawain, and Messire Gawain saith
that he holdeth himself a churl in that he hath not asked him of his
name.  But the knight said, "Fair Sir, I pray you of love that you ask
not my name until such time as I shall ask you of yours."


VI.

Messire Gawain would ask nought further of the knight, and the knight
entered into the Lonely Forest and Messire Gawain goeth on his way.  He
meeteth neither knight nor damsel to whom he telleth not whom he goeth
to seek, and they all say that he will be in the Red Launde.  He lodged
the night with a hermit.  At night, the hermit asked Messire Gawain
whence he came?

"Sir, from the land of the Queen of the Maidens."

"Have you seen Perceval, the Good Knight that took the shield in King
Arthur's court and left another there?"

"No, certes," saith Messire Gawain, "Whereof am I right sorrowful.  But
a knight with a shield of gold and a green cross thereon told me that
he would be at the Red Launde."

"Sir," saith the hermit, "you say true, for it was he himself to whom
you spake.  Tonight is the third night since he lay within yonder, and
see here the bracket he brought from King Arthur's court, which he hath
commanded me to convey to his uncle, King Hermit."

"Alas!" saith Messire Gawain, "What ill chance is mine if this be true!"

"Sir," saith the hermit, "I ought not to lie, neither to you nor other.
By the brachet may you well know that this is true."

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "Of custom beareth he no such shield."

"I know well," saith the hermit, "what shield he ought to bear, and
what shield he will bear hereafter.  But this doth he that he may not
be known, and this shield took he in the hermitage of Joseus, the son
of King Hermit, there where Lancelot was lodged, where he hanged the
four thieves that would have broken into the hermitage by night.  And
within there hath remained the shield he brought from King Arthur's
court, with Joseus the son of my sister, and they are as brother and
sister between the twain, and you may know of very truth that albeit
Joseus be hermit, no knight is there in Great Britain of his heart and
hardiment."


VII.

"Certes," saith Messire Gawain, "It was sore mischance for me that I
should see him yesterday before the castle where the knights pass by,
and speak to him and ask him his name, but he besought me that I should
not ask him his name until such time as he should ask me mine; and with
that he departed from me and entered into the forest, and I came
hitherward.  Now am I so sorrowful that I know not what I may do for
the best, for King Arthur sendeth me in quest of him, and Lancelot hath
also gone to seek him in another part of the kingdom of Logres.  But
now hath too great mischance befallen me of this quest, for twice have
I seen him and found him and spoken to him, and now have I lost him
again."

"Sir," saith the hermit, "He is so close and wary a knight, that he is
fain never to waste a word, neither will he make false semblant to any
nor speak word that he would not should be heard, nor do shame of his
body to his knowledge, nor carnal sin, for virgin and chaste is he and
doth never outrage to any."

"I know well," saith Messire Gawain, "that all the valours and all the
cleannesses that ought to be in a knight are in him, and therefore am I
the more sorrowful that I am not of them that he knoweth, for a man is
worth the more that hath acquaintance with a good knight."


VIII.

Messire Gawain lay the night in the hermit's house, right sorrowful,
and in the morning departed when he had heard mass. Josephus the good
clerk witnesseth us in this high history that this hermit had to name
Josuias, and was a knight of great worship and valour, but he renounced
all for the love of God, and was fain to set his body in banishment for
Him.  And all these adventures that you hear in this high record came
to pass, Josephus telleth us, for the setting forward the law of the
Saviour.  All of them could he not record, but only these whereof he
best remembered him, and whereof he knew for certain all the adventures
by virtue of the Holy Spirit.  This high record saith that Messire
Gawain hath wandered so far that he is come into the Red Launde whereas
the assembly of knights should be held.  He looketh and seeth the tents
pitched and the knights coming from all quarters.  The most part were
already armed within and before their tents.  Messire Gawain looketh
everywhere, thinking to see the knight he seeketh, but seemeth him he
seeth him not, for no such shield seeth he as he beareth.  All abashed
is he thereof, for he hath seen all the tents and looked at all the
arms.  But the knight is not easy to recognise, for he hath changed his
arms, and nigh enough is he to Messire Gawain, albeit you may well
understand that he knoweth it not.  And the tournament assembleth from
all parts, and the divers fellowships come the one against other, and
the melly of either upon other as they come together waxeth sore and
marvellous.  And Messire Gawain searcheth the ranks to find the knight,
albeit when he meeteth knight in his way he cannot choose but do
whatsoever a knight may do of arms, and yet more would he have done but
for his fainness to seek out the knight.  The damsel is at the head of
the tournament, for that she would fain know the one that shall have
the mastery and the prize therein.

The knight that Messire Gawain seeketh is not at the head of the
fellowships, but in the thickest of the press, and such feats of arms
doth he that more may no knight do, and smiteth down the knights about
him, that flee from him even as the deer-hound fleeth from the lion.

"By my faith," saith Messire Gawain, "sith that they have lied to me
about the knight, I will seek him no more this day, but forget my
discontent as best I may until evening."

He seeth the knight, but knoweth him not, for he had a white shield and
cognisances of the same.  And Messire Gawain cometh to him as fast as
his horse may carry him, and the knight toward Messire Gawain.  So
passing stoutly they come together that they pierce their shields below
the boss.  Their spears were so tough that they break not, and they
draw them forth and come together again so strongly that the spears
wherewith they smote each other amidst the breast were bended so that
they unriveted the holdfasts of their shields, and they lost their
stirrups, and the reins fly from their fists, and they stagger against
the back saddlebows, and the horses stumbled so as that they all but
fell. They straighten them in saddle and stirrup, and catch hold upon
their reins, and then come together again, burning with wrath and fury
like lions, and either smiteth on other with their spears that may
endure no longer, for the shafts are all to-frushed as far as the fists
in such sort that they that look on marvel them much how it came to
pass that the points had not pierced their bodies.  But God would not
that the good knights should slay each other, rather would He that the
one should know the true worth of the other.  The habergeons
safeguarded not their bodies, but the might of God in whom they
believed, for in them had they all the valour that knight should have;
and never did Messire Gawain depart from hostel wherein he had lien,
but he first heard mass before he went if so he might, nor never found
he dame nor damsel discounselled whereof he had not pity, nor did he
ever churlishness to other knight, nor said nor thought it, and he
came, as you have heard, of the most holy lineage of Josephus and the
good King Fisherman.


IX.

The good knights were in the midst of the assembly, and right wrathful
was the one against the other, and they held their swords naked and
their shields on their arms and dealt each other huge buffets right in
the midst of the helms.  The most part of the knights come to them and
tell them that the assembly waiteth for them to come thereunto.  They
have much pains to part them asunder, and then the melly beginneth
again on all sides, and the evening cometh on that parteth them at
last.  And on this wise the assembly lasted for two days.  The damsel
that brought the knight on a bier in a coffin, dead, prayed the
assembly of all the knights to declare which one of all the knights had
done the best, for the knight that she made be carried might not be
buried until such time as he were avenged.  And they say that the
knight of the white shield and the other with the shield sinople and
the golden eagle had done better than all the other, but, for that the
knight of the white shield had joined in the melly before the other,
they therefore would give him the prize; but they judged that for the
time that Messire Gawain had joined therein he had not done worse than
the other knight.  The damsel seeketh the knight of the white shield
among the knights and throughout all the tents, but cannot find him,
for already hath he departed. She cometh to Messire Gawain and saith:
"Sir, sith that I find not the knight of the white shield, you are he
that behoveth avenge the knight that lieth dead in the litter."

"Damsel," saith Messire Gawain, "Do me not this shame, for it hath been
declared that the other knight hath better done herein than I."


X.

"Damsel, well you know that no honour should I have thereof, were I to
emprise to do that whereof you beseech me, for you have said that
behoveth none to avenge him, save only that hath borne him best at this
assembly, and that is he of the white shield, and, so God help me, this
have I well felt and proven."


XI.

The damsel well understandeth that Messire Gawain speaketh reason.

"Ha, Sir," saith she, "He hath already departed hence and gone into the
forest, and the most divers-seeming knight is he and the best that
liveth, and great pains shall I have or ever I find him again."

"The best?" saith Messire Gawain; "How know you that?"

"I know it well," saith she, "for that in the house of King Fisherman
did the Graal appear unto him for the goodness of his knighthood and
the goodness of his heart and for the chastity of his body.  But he
forgat to ask that one should serve thereof, whence hath sore harm
befallen the land.  He came to the court of King Arthur, where he took
a shield that none ought to bear save he alone.  Up to this time have I
well known his coming and going, but nought shall I know thereof
hereafter for that he hath changed the cognisance of his shield and
arms.  And now am I entered into sore pain and travail to seek him, for
I shall not have found him of a long space, and I came not to this
assembly save for him alone."

"Damsel," saith Messire Gawain, "You have told me tidings such as no
gladness have I thereof, for I also am seeking him, but I know not how
I may ever recognise him, for he willeth not to tell me his name, and
too often changeth he his shield, and well I know that so I shall ever
come in place where he hath changed his cognisance, and he shall come
against me and I against him, I shall only know him by the buffets that
he knoweth how to deal, for never in arms have I made acquaintance with
so cruel a knight.  But again would I suffer sorer blows than I have
suffered yet, so only I might be where he is."

"Sir," saith the damsel, "What is your name?"

"Damsel," saith he, "I am called Gawain."

With that he commendeth the damsel to God, and goeth his way in one
direction and the damsel in another, and saith to herself that Perceval
is the most marvellous knight of the world, that so often he
discogniseth himself.  For when one seeth him one may recognise him
not.  Messire Gawain rideth amidst the forest, and prayeth the Saviour
lead him into such place as that he may find Perceval openly, in such
sort that he may have his acquaintance and his love that so greatly he
desireth.



BRANCH XIV.

TITLE I.

Herewithal the story is silent of Messire Gawain, and saith that
Lancelot seeketh Perceval in like manner as did Messire Gawain, and
rideth until that he cometh to the hermitage where he hanged the
thieves.  Joseus made right great joy of him.  He asked him whether he
knew any tidings of the son of the Widow Lady.

"I have seen him sithence that he came from King Arthur's court but
once only, and whither he is gone I know not."

"Sir," saith Lancelot, "I would see him right fain.  King Arthur
sendeth for him by me."

"Sir," saith the hermit, "I know not when I may see him again, for when
once he departeth hence he is not easy to find."

Lancelot entereth the chapel with the hermit, and seeth the shield that
Perceval brought from King Arthur's court beside the altar.

"Sir," saith Lancelot, "I see his shield yonder.  Hide him not from me."

"I will not do so," saith the hermit.  "This shield, truly, is his, but
he took with him another from hence, of gold with a green cross."

"And know you no tidings of Messire Gawain?"

"I have not seen Messire Gawain sithence tofore I entered into this
hermitage.  But you have fallen into sore hatred on account of the four
robbers that were knights whom you hanged.  For their kinsmen are
searching for you in this forest and in other, and are thieves like as
were the others, and they have their hold in this forest, wherein they
bestow their robberies and plunder. Wherefore I pray you greatly be on
your guard against them."

"So will I," saith Lancelot, "please God."

He lay the night in the hermitage, and departeth on the morrow after
that he hath heard mass and prayeth God grant he may find Perceval or
Messire Gawain.  He goeth his way amidst the strange forests until that
he cometh to a strong castle that was builded right seemly.  He Looketh
before him and seeth a knight that was issued thereout, and was riding
a great pace on a strong destrier, and carded a bird on his fist toward
the forest.


II.

When he saw Lancelot coming he drew up. "Sir," saith he, "Be welcome."

"Good adventure to you," saith Lancelot.  "What castle is this?"

"Sir, it is the Castle of the Golden Circlet.  And I go to meet the
knights and dames that come to the castle, for this day is the day
ordained for the adoration of the Golden Circlet."

"What is the Golden Circlet?" saith Lancelot.

"Sir, it is the Crown of Thorns," saith the knight, "that the Saviour
of the world had on His head when He was set upon the Rood.  Wherefore
the Queen of this castle hath set it in gold and precious stones in
such sort that the knights and dames of this kingdom come to behold it
once in the year.  But it is said that the knight that was first at the
Graal shall conquer it, and therefore is no strange knight allowed to
enter.  But, so please you, I will lead you to mine own hold that is in
this forest."

"Right great thanks," saith Lancelot, "But as yet it is not time to
take lodging."

He taketh leave of the knight, and so departeth and looketh at the
castle, and saith that in right great worship should the knight be held
that by the valour of his chivalry shall conquer so noble a hallow as
is the Golden Circlet when it is kept safe in a place so strong.  He
goeth his way right amidst the forest, and looketh forth before him and
seeth coming the damsel that hath the knight carried in the litter for
the dead.

"Damsel," saith Lancelot, "Be welcome."

"Sir, God give you good adventure!  Sir," saith the damsel, "Greatly
ought I to hate the knight that slew this knight, for that he hath
forced me thus to lead him in this wise by fell and forest.  So also
ought I to mislike me much of the knight that it standeth upon to
avenge him, whom I may not find."

"Damsel," saith Lancelot, "Who slew this knight?"

"Sir," saith she, "The Lord of the Burning Dragon."

"And who ought of right to avenge him?"

"Sir," saith she, "The knight that was in the Red Launde at the
assembly, that jousted with Messire Gawain, and had the prize of the
tournament."

"Did he better than Messire Gawain?" saith Lancelot.

"Sir, so did they adjudge him; for that he was a longer time in the
assembly."

"A good knight was he, then," saith Lancelot, "sith that he did better
than Messire Gawain!"

"By my head," saith the damsel, "You say true, for he is the Best
Knight of the World."

"And what shield beareth he?" saith Lancelot.

"Sir," saith the damsel, "At the assembly he bore white arms, but
before that, he had arms of another semblance, and one shield that he
had was green, and one gold with a green cross."

"Damsel," saith he, "Did Messire Gawain know him?"

"Sir, not at all, whereof is he right sorrowful."

"Is he, then," saith he, "Perceval, the son of the Widow Lady?"

"By my head, you say true!"

"Ha, God!" saith Lancelot, "the more am I mazed how Messire Gawain knew
him not.  Damsel," saith he, "And know you whitherward they are gone?"

"Sir," saith she, "I know not whither, nor have I any tidings, neither
or the one nor the other."

He departeth from the damsel and rideth until the sun was set. He found
the rocks darkling and the forest right deep and perilous of seeming.
He rode on, troubled in thought, and weary and full of vexation.  Many
a time Looketh he to right and to left, and he may see any place where
he may lodge.  A dwarf espied him, but Lancelot saw him not.  The dwarf
goeth right along a by-way that is in the forest, and goeth to a little
hold of robber-knights that lay out of the way, where was a damsel that
kept watch over the hold.  The robbers had another hold where was the
damsel where the passing knights are deceived and entrapped.  The dwarf
cometh forthright to the damsel, and saith: "Now shall we see what you
will do, for see, here cometh the knight that hanged your uncle grid
your three cousins german."

"Now shall I have the best of him," saith she, "as for mine own share
in this matter, but take heed that you be garnished ready to boot."

"By my head," saith the dwarf, "that will I, for, please God, he shall
not escape us again, save he be dead."

The damsel was of passing great beauty and was clad right seemingly,
but right treacherous was she of heart, nor no marvel was it thereof,
for she came of the lineage of robbers and was nurtured on theft and
robbery, and she herself had helped to murder many a knight.  She is
come upon the way, so that Lancelot hath to pass her, without her
kerchief.  She meeteth Lancelot and saluteth him and maketh him right
great joy, of semblant.

"Sir," saith she, "Follow this path that goeth into the forest, and you
will find a hold that my forefathers stablished for harbouring of such
knights as might be passing through the forest.  The night is dark
already, and if you pass on further no hold will you find nearer than a
score leagues Welsh."

"Damsel," saith Lancelot, "Gramercy heartily of this that it pleaseth
you to say, for right gladly will I harbour me here, for it is more
than time to take lodging, and with you more willingly than another."


III.

On this wise they go their way talking, as far as the hold. There was
none therewithin save only the dwarf, for the five robber knights were
in their hold at the lower end of the forest. The dwarf took Lancelot's
horse, and stabled him, then went up into the hall above, and gave
himself up wholly to serving him.

"Sir," saith the damsel, "Allow yourself to be disarmed, and have full
assurance of safety."

"Damsel," saith he, "Small trouble is it for me to wear mine arms, and
lightly may I abide it."

"Sir," saith she, "Please God, you shall nor lie armed within yonder.
Never yet did knight so that harboured therein."

But the more the damsel presseth him to disarm, the more it misliketh
him, for the place seemeth him right dark and foul-seeming, wherefore
will he not disarm nor disgarnish himself.

"Sir," saith she, "Meseemeth you are suspicious of something, but no
call have you to misdoubt of aught here within, for the place is quite
safe.  I know not whether you have enemies?"

"Damsel," saith Lancelot, "Never yet knew I knight that was loved of
everybody, yet sometimes might none tell the reason thereof."


IV.

Lancelot, so saith the story, would not disarm him, wherefore he made
the table be set, and sate thereat beside the damsel at meat.  He made
his shield and his helmet and spear be brought into the hall.  He leant
back upon a rich couch that was therewithin, with his sword by his
side, all armed.  He was weary and the bed was soft, so he went to
sleep.  Howbeit, the dwarf mounteth on his horse that he had left still
saddled, and goeth his way to the other hold where the robbers were,
all five, that were Lancelot's mortal enemies.  The damsel remained all
alone with him that she hated of a right deadly hate.  She thought to
herself that gladly would she slay him, and that, so she might compass
it, she would be thereof held in greater worship of all the world, for
well she knew that he was a good knight, and that one so good she had
never slain.  She filched away the sword that was at his side, then
drew it from the scabbard, then looketh to see where she may lightliest
smite him to slay him.  She seeth that his head is so covered of armour
that nought appeareth thereof save only the face, and she bethinketh
her that one stroke nor two on the helmet would scarce hurt him
greatly, but that and she might lift the skirt of his habergeon without
awakening him she might well slay him, for so might she thrust the
sword right through his heart.  Meanwhile, as she was searching thus,
Lancelot, that was sleeping and took no heed thereof, saw, so it seemed
him, a little cur-dog come therewithin, and brought with him sundry
great mongrel ban-dogs that ran upon him on all sides, and the little
cur bit at him likewise among the others.  The ban-dogs held him so
fast that he might not get away from them.  He seeth that a greyhound
bitch had hold of his sword, and she had hands like a woman, and was
fain to slay him.  And it seemed him that he snatched the sword from
her and slew the greyhound bitch and the biggest and most masterful of
the ban-dogs and the little cur.  He was scared of the dream and
started up and awoke, and felt the scabbard of his sword by his side,
that the damsel had left there all empty, the which he perceived not,
and soon thereafter he fell on sleep again.  The dwarf that had stolen
his horse cometh to the robber knights, and crieth to them, "Up, Sirs,
and haste you to come and avenge you of your mortal enemy that sent the
best of your kindred out of the world with such shame!  See, here is
his horse that I bring you for a token!" He alighteth of the horse, and
giveth him up to them.  Right joyous are the robbers of the tidings he
telleth them.  The dwarf bringeth them all armed to the hold.


V.

Lancelot was awake, all scared of the dream he had dreamed.  He seeth
them enter within all armed, and the damsel crieth to them: "Now will
it appear," saith she, "what you will do!"

Lancelot hath leapt up, thinking to take his sword, but findeth the
scabbard all empty.  The damsel that held the sword was the first of
all to run upon him, and the five knights and the dwarf set upon him
from every side.  He perceived that it was his own sword the damsel
held, the one he prized above all other.  He taketh his lance that was
at his bed's head and cometh toward the master of the knights at a
great sweep, and smiteth him so fiercely that he thrusteth him right
through the body so that the lance passeth a fathom beyond, and beareth
him to the ground dead.  His spear broke as he drew it back.  He
runneth to the damsel that held the sword, and wresteth it forth of her
hands and holdeth it fast with his arm right against his flank and
grippeth it to him right strait; albeit she would fain snatch it again
from him by force, whereat Lancelot much marvelled.  He swingeth it
above him, and the four knights come back upon him. He thinketh to
smite one with the sword, when the damsel leapeth in between them,
thinking to hold Lancelot fast, and thereby the blow that should have
fallen on one of the knights caught the damsel right through the head
and slew her, whereof he was right sorrowful, howsoever she might have
wrought against him.


VI.

When the four knights saw the damsel dead, right grieved were they
thereof.  And the dwarf crieth out to them: "Lords, now shall it be
seen how you will avenge the sore mischief done you. So help me God,
great shame may you have and you cannot conquer a single knight."

They run upon him again on all sides, but maugre all their heads he
goeth thither where he thinketh to find his horse; but him findeth he
not.  Thereby well knoweth he that the dwarf hath made away with him,
wherefore he redoubled his hardiment and his wrath waxed more and more.
And the knights were not to be lightly apaid when they saw their lord
dead and the damsel that was their cousin.  Sore buffets they dealt him
of their swords the while he defended himself as best he might.  He
caught the dwarf that was edging them on to do him hurt, and clave him
as far as the shoulders, and wounded two of the knights right badly,
and he himself was hurt in two places; but he might not depart from the
house, nor was his horse there within, nor was there but a single
entrance into the hall.  The knights set themselves without the door
and guard the issue, and Lancelot was within with them that were dead.
He sate himself down at the top of the hall to rest him, for he was
sore spent with the blows he had given and received.  When he had
rested himself awhile, he riseth to his feet and seeth that they have
sate them down in the entrance to the hall.  He mounteth up to the
windows and flingeth them down them that were dead within through the
windows.  Just then the day appeared, fair and clear, and the birds
began to sing amidst the forest, whereof the hall was overshadowed.  He
maketh fast the door of the hall and barreth it and shutteth the
knights without; and they say one to the other and swear it, that they
will not depart thence until they have taken him or famished him to
death.  Little had Lancelot recked of their threats and he might have
had his horse at will, but he was not so sure of his stroke afoot as
a-horseback, as no knight never is.  Him thinketh he may well abide the
siege as long as God shall please, for the hall was well garnished of
meat in right great joints.  He is there within all alone, and the four
knights without that keep watch that he goeth not, but neither wish nor
will hath he to go forth afoot; but, and he had had his horse, the
great hardiment that he hath in him would have made that he should go
forth honourably, howsoever they without might have taken it and what
grievance soever they might have had thereof.



BRANCH XV.

TITLE I.

Here the story is silent of Lancelot, and talketh of Messire Gawain
that goeth to seek Perceval, and is right heavy for that twice hath he
found him when he knew him not.  He cometh back again to the cross
whereas he told Lancelot he would await him so he should come thither
before him.  He went and came to and fro by the forest more than eight
days to wait for him, but could hear no tidings.  He would not return
to King Arthur's court, for had he gone thither in such case, he would
have had blame thereof.  He goeth back upon the quest and saith that he
will never stint therein until he shall have found both Lancelot and
Perceval.  He cometh to the hermitage of Joseus, and alighted of his
horse and found the young hermit Joseus, that received him well and
made full great joy of him.  He harboured the night therewithin.
Messire Gawain asked him tidings of Perceval, and the hermit telleth
him he hath not seen him since before the assembly of the Red Launde.

"And can you tell me where I may find him?" saith Messire Gawain.

"Not I," saith the hermit, "I cannot tell you whereabout he is."

While they were talking on this wise, straightway behold you a knight
coming that hath arms of azure, and alighteth at the hermitage to lodge
there.  The hermit receiveth him right gladly. Messire Gawain asketh
him if he saw a knight with white arms ride amidst the forest.

"By my faith," saith the knight, "I have seen him this day and spoken
with him, and he asked me and I could tell him tidings of a knight that
beareth a shield of sinople with a golden eagle, and I told him, no.
Afterward, I enquired wherefore he asked it, and he made answer that he
had jousted at him in the Red Launde, nor never before had he found so
sturdy assault of any knight, wherefore he was right sorrowful for that
he was not acquainted with him, for the sake of his good knighthood."

"By my faith," saith Gawain, "The knight is more sorrowful than he, for
nought is there in the world he would gladlier see than him."

The knight espieth Messire Gawain's shield and saith, "Ha, Sir,
methinketh you are he."

"Certes," saith Messire Gawain, "you say true.  I am he against whom he
jousted, and right glad am I that so good a knight smote upon my
shield, and right sorrowful for that I knew him not; but tell me where
I may find him?"


II.

"Sir," saith Joseus the Hermit, "He will not have gone forth from this
forest, for this is the place wherein he wonneth most willingly, and
the shield that he brought from King Arthur's court is in this chapel."

So he showeth the shield to Messire Gawain that maketh great joy
thereof.

"Ha, Sir," saith the knight of the white arms, "Is your name Messire
Gawain?"

"Fair Sir," saith he, "Gawain am I called."

"Sir," saith the knight, "I have not ceased to seek you for a long
while past.  Meliot of Logres, that is your man, the son of the lady
that was slain on your account, sendeth you word that Nabigant of the
Rock hath slain his father on your account; wherefore he challengeth
the land that hath fallen to him; and hereof he prayeth you that you
will come to succour him as behoveth lord to do to his liege man."

"By my faith," saith Messire Gawain, "Behoveth me not fail him therein,
wherefore tell him I will succour him so soon as I may; but tell him I
have emprised a business that I cannot leave but with loss of honour
until such time as it be achieved."

They lay the night at the hermitage until after mass was sung on the
morrow.


III.

The knight departed and Messire Gawain remained.  So when he was
apparelled to mount, he looketh before him at the issue of the forest
toward the hermitage, and seeth coming a knight on a tall horse, full
speed and all armed, and he bore a shield like the one he saw Perceval
bearing the first time.

"Sir," saith he, "Know you this knight that cometh there!"

"Truly, Sir, well do I know him.  This is Perceval whom you seek, whom
you so much desire to see!"

"God be praised thereof!" saith Messire Gawain, "Inasmuch as he cometh
hither."

He goeth afoot to meet him, and Perceval alighteth so soon as he seeth
him.

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "Right welcome may you be!"

"Good joy may you have," saith Perceval.

"Sir," saith the hermit, "Make great joy of him!  this is Messire
Gawain, King Arthur's nephew."

"Thereof do I love him the better!" saith he. "Honour and joy ought all
they to do him that know him!"

He throweth his arms on his neck, and so maketh him great joy.

"Sir," saith he, "Can you tell me tidings of a knight that was in the
Red Launde at the assembly of knights?"

"What shield beareth he?" saith Messire Gawain.

"A red shield with a golden eagle," saith Perceval.  "And more by
token, never made I acquaintance with any so sturdy in battle as are he
and Lancelot."

"Fair sir, it pleaseth you to say so," saith Messire Gawain. "In the
Red Launde was I at the assembly, and such arms bore I as these you
blazon, and I jousted against a knight in white arms, of whom I know
this, that all of knighthood that may be lodged in the body of a man is
in him."

"Sir," saith Perceval to Messire Gawain, "You know not how to blame any
man."

So they hold one another by the hands, and go into the hermitage.

"Sir," saith Messire Gawain, "When you were in the court of King Arthur
for the shield that is within yonder, your sister was also there, and
prayed and besought the help of the knight that should bear away the
shield, as being the most discounselled damsel in the world.  The King
granted it her, and you bore away the shield.  She asked your aid of
the King as she that deemed not you were her brother, and said that if
the King failed of his covenant, he would do great sin, whereof would
he have much blame.  The King was fain to do all he might to seek you,
to make good that he had said, and sent us forth in quest of you, so
that the quest lieth between me and Lancelot.  He himself would have
come had we been unwilling to go.  Sir, I have found you three times
without knowing you, albeit great desire had I to see you. This is the
fourth time and I know you now, whereof I make myself right joyous; and
much am I beholden to you of the fair lodging your mother gave me at
Camelot; but right sore pity have I of her, for a right worshipful
woman is she, and a widow lady and ancient, and fallen into much war
without aid nor comfort, through the evil folk that harass her and
reave her of her castles.  She prayed me, weeping the while right
sweetly, that and if I should find you that are her son, I should tell
you of her plight, that your father is dead, and that she hath no
succour nor aid to look for save from you alone, and if you succour her
not shortly, she will lose her own one castle that she holdeth, and
must needs become a beggar, for of the fifteen castles she wont to have
in your father's time, she hath now only that of Camelot, nor of all
her knights hath she but five to guard the castle.  Wherefore I pray
you on her behalf and for your own honour, that you will grant her
herein of your counsel and your valour and your might, for of no
chivalry that you may do may you rise to greater worship.  And so sore
need hath she herein as you hear me tell, nor would I that she should
lose aught by default of message, for thereof should I have sin and she
harm, and you yourself also, that have the power to amend it and ought
of right so to do!"

"Well have you delivered yourself herein," saith Perceval, "And betimes
will I succour her and our Lord God will."

"You will do honour to yourself," saith Messire Gawain.  "Thereof will
you have praise with God and worship with the world."

"Well know I," saith Perceval, "that in me ought she to have aid and
counsel as of right, and that so I do not accordingly, I ought to have
reproach and be blamed as recreant before the world."


IV.

"In God's name," saith the hermit, "you speak according to the
scripture, for he that honoureth not his father and mother neither
believeth in God nor loveth Him."

"All this know I well," saith Perceval, "And well pleased am I to be
reminded thereof, and well know I also mine intent herein, albeit I
tell it to none.  But if any can tell me tidings of Lancelot, right
willingly shall I hear them, and take it kindly of the teller thereof."

"Sir," saith Joseus, "It is but just now since he lay here within, and
asked me tidings of Messire Gawain, and I told him such as I knew.
Another time before that, he lay here when the robbers assailed us that
he hanged in the forest, and so hated is he thereof of their kinsfolk
that and they may meet him, so they have the might, he is like to pay
for it right dear, and in this forest won they rather than in any
other.  I told him as much, but he made light thereof in semblant, even
as he will in deed also if their force be not too great."

"By my head," saith Perceval, "I will not depart forth of this forest
until I know tidings of him, if Messire Gawain will pledge himself
thereto."

And Messire saith he desireth nothing better, sith that he hath found
Perceval, for he may not be at ease until such time as he shall know
tidings of Lancelot, for he hath great misgiving sith that he hath
enemies in the forest.


V.

Perceval and Messire Gawain sojourned that day in the forest in the
hermitage, and the morrow Perceval took his shield that he brought from
King Arthur's court, and left that which he brought with him, and
Messire Gawain along with him that made himself right joyous of his
company.  They ride amidst the forest both twain, all armed, and at the
right hour of noon they meet a knight that was coming a great gallop as
though he were all scared.  Perceval asketh him whence he cometh, that
he seemeth so a-dread.

"Sir, I come from the forest of the robbers that won in this forest
wherethrough you have to pass.  They have chased me a full league Welsh
to slay me, but they would not follow me further for a knight that they
have beset in one of their holds, that hath done them right sore
mischief, for he hath hanged four of their knights and slain one, as
well as the fairest damsel that was in the kingdom.  But right well had
she deserved the death for that she harboured knights with fair
semblant and showed them much honour, and afterward brought about their
death and destruction, between herself and a dwarf that she hath, that
slew the knights."

"And know you who is the knight?" saith Perceval.

"Sir," saith the knight, "Not I, for no leisure had I to ask him, for
sorer need had I to flee than to stay.  But I tell you that on account
of the meat that failed him in the hold wherein they beset him, he
issued forth raging like a lion, nor would he have suffered himself be
shut up so long but for two wounds that he had upon his body; for he
cared not to issue forth of the house until such time as they were
healed, and also for that he had no horse.  And so soon as he felt
himself whole, he ventured himself against the four knights, that were
so a-dread of him that they durst not come a-nigh.  And moreover he
deigneth not to go a-foot, wherefore if they now come a-nigh, it may
not be but he shall have one at least out of their four horses, but
they hold them heedfully aloof."

"Sir," saith Perceval, "Gramercy of these tidings."

They were fain to depart from the knight, but said he: "Ha, Lords,
allow me so much as to see the destruction of this evil folk that have
wrought such mischief in this forest!  Sir" saith he to Messire Gawain,
"I am cousin to the Poor Knight of the Waste Forest that hath the two
poor damsels to sister, there where you and Lancelot jousted between
you, and when the knight that brought you tidings thereof died in the
night."

"By my faith," saith Messire Gawain, "These tidings know I well, for
you say true, and your company hold I right dear for the love of the
Poor Knight, for never yet saw I more courteous knight, nor more
courteous damsels, nor better nurtured, and our Lord God grant them as
much good as I would they should have."

Messire Gawain made the knight go before, for well knew he the robbers'
hold, but loath enough had he been to go thither, had the knights not
followed him behind.  Lancelot was issued forth of the hold sword in
hand, all armed, angry as a lion.  The four knights were upon their
horses all armed, but no mind had they come a-nigh him, for sore
dreaded they the huge buffets he dealt, and his hardiment.  One of them
came forward before the others, and it seemed him shame that they might
not vanquish one single knight.  He goeth to smite Lancelot a great
stroke of his sword above in the midst of his head, nor did Lancelot's
sword fail of its stroke, for before he could draw back, Lancelot dealt
him such a blow as smote oft all of his leg at the thigh, so that he
made him leave the saddlebows empty.  Lancelot leapt up on the
destrier, and now seemed him he was safer than before.  The three
robber-knights that yet remained whole ran upon him on all sides and
began to press him of their swords in right sore wrath. Thereupon
behold you, the knight cometh to the way that goeth to the hold and
saith to Messire Gawain and Perceval, "Now may you hear the dashing of
swords and the melly."

Therewithal the two good knights smite horse with spur and come thither
where the three robber-knights were assailing Lancelot. Each of the
twain smiteth his own so wrathfully that they thrust their spears right
through their bodies and bear them to the ground dead.  Howbeit the
third knight was fain to flee, but the knight that had come to show
Messire Gawain the way took heart and hardiment from the confidence of
the good knights, and smote him as he fled so sore that he pierced him
with his spear to the heart and toppled him to the ground dead.  And
the one whose leg Lancelot had lopped off was so trampled underfoot of
the knights that he had no life in him.


VI.

When Lancelot knew Perceval and Messire Gawain he made great joy of
them and they of him.

"Lancelot," saith Messire Gawain, "This knight that led us hither to
save your life is cousin to the Poor Knight of the Waste Castle, the
brother of the two poor damsels that lodged us so well.  We will send
him these horses, one for the knight that shall be the messenger, and
the two to the lord of the Waste Castle, and this hold that we have
taken shall be for the two damsels, and so shall we make them safe all
the days of their life.  This, methinketh, will be well."

"Certes," saith Perceval, "you speak of great courtesy."

"Sir," saith Lancelot, "Messire Gawain hath said, and right willingly
will I grant him all his wish."

"Lords," saith the knight, "They have in this forest a hold wherein the
knights did bestow their plunder, for the sake whereof they murdered
the passers by.  If the goods remain there they will be lost, for
therein is so great store as might be of much worth to many folk that
are poverty-stricken for want thereof."

They go to the hold and find right great treasure in a cave
underground, and rich sets of vessels and rich ornaments of cloth and
armours for horses, that they had thrown the one over another into a
pit that was right broad.

"Certes," saith he, "Right well hath it been done to this evil folk
that is destroyed!"

"Sir," saith Lancelot, "in like manner would they have dealt with me
and killed me if they might; whereof no sorrow have I save of the
damsel that I slew, that was one of the fairest dames of the world.
But I slew her not knowingly, for I meant rather to strike the knight,
but she leapt between us, like the hardiest dame that saw I ever."

"Sirs," saith the knight, "Perceval and Lancelot, by the counsel of
Messire Gawain, granted the treasure to the two damsels, sisters to the
Poor Knight of the Waste Castle, whereupon let them send for Joseus the
Hermit and bid him guard the treasure until they shall come hither."

And Joseus said that he would do so, and is right glad that the robbers
of the forest are made away withal, that had so often made assault upon
him.  He guarded the treasure and the hold right safely in the forest;
but the dread and the renown of the good knights that had freed the
forest went far and wide.  The knight that led the three destriers was
right joyfully received at the Waste Castle; and when he told the
message wherewith he was charged by Messire Gawain, the Poor Knight and
two damsels made great joy thereof.  Perceval taketh leave of Messire
Gawain and Lancelot, and saith that never will he rest again until he
shall have found his sister and his widow mother.  They durst not
gainsay him, for they know well that he is right, and he prayeth them
right sweetly that they salute the King and Queen and all the good
knights of the court, for, please God, he will go see them at an early
day.  But first he was fain to fulfil the promise King Arthur made to
his sister, for he would not that the King should be blamed in any
place as concerning him, nor by his default; and he himself would have
the greater blame therein and he succoured her not, for the matter
touched him nearer than it did King Arthur.


VII.

With that the Good Knight departeth, and they commend him to God, and
he them in like sort.  Messire Gawain and Lancelot go their way back
toward the court of King Arthur, and Perceval goeth amidst strange
forests until he cometh to a forest far away, wherein, so it seemed
him, he had never been before.  And he passed through a land that
seemed him to have been laid waste, for it was all void of folk.  Wild
beast only seeth he there, that ran through the open country.  He
entered into a forest in this waste country, and found a hermitage in
the combe of a mountain.  He alighted without and heard that the hermit
was singing the service of the dead, and had begun the mass with a
requiem betwixt him and his clerk.  He looketh and seeth a pall spread
upon the ground before the altar as though it were over a corpse.  He
would not enter the chapel armed, wherefore he hearkened to the mass
from without right reverently, and showed great devotion as he that
loved God much and was a-dread.  When the mass was sung, and the hermit
was disarmed of the armour of Our Lord, he cometh to Perceval and
saluteth him and Perceval him again.

"Sir," saith Perceval, "For whom have you done such service? meseemed
that the corpse lay therewithin for whom the service was ordained."

"You say truth," saith the hermit. "I have done it for Lohot, King
Arthur's son, that lieth buried under this pall."

"Who, then, hath slain him?" saith Perceval.

"That will I tell you plainly," saith the hermit.


VIII.

"This wasted land about this forest wherethrough you have come is the
beginning of the kingdom of Logres.  There wont to be therein a Giant
so big and horrible and cruel that none durst won within half a league
round about, and he destroyed the land and wasted it in such sort as
you see. Lohot was departed from the land and the court of King Arthur
his father in quest of adventure, and by the will of God arrived at
this forest, and fought against Logrin, right cruel as he was, and
Logrin against him.  As it pleased God, Lohot vanquished him; but Lohot
had a marvellous custom: when he had slain a man, he slept upon him.  A
knight of King Arthur's court, that is called Kay the Seneschal, was
come peradventure into this forest of Logres.  He heard the Giant roar
when Lohot dealt him the mortal blow.  Thither came he as fist as he
might, and found the King's son sleeping upon Logrin.  He drew his
sword and therewith cut off Lohot's head, and took the head and the
body and set them in a coffin of stone.  After that he hacked his
shield to pieces with his sword, that he should not be recognised; then
came he to the Giant that lay dead, and so cut oft his head, that was
right huge and hideous, and hung it at his fore saddle-bow.  Then went
he to the court of King Arthur and presented it to him.  The King made
great joy thereof and all they of the court, and the King made broad
his lands right freely for that he believed Kay had spoken true.  I
went," saith the hermit, "on the morrow to the piece of land where the
Giant lay dead, as a damsel came within here to tell me with right
great joy.  I found the corpse of the Giant so big that I durst not
come a-nigh it.  The damsel led me to the coffin where the King's son
was lying.  She asked the head of me as her guerdon, and I granted it
to her willingly.  She set it forthwith in a coffer laden with precious
stones that was all garnished within of balsams.  After that, she
helped me carry the body into this chapel and enshroud and bury it.


IX.

"Afterwards the damsel departed, nor have I never heard talk of her
since, nor do I make remembrance hereof for that I would King Arthur
should know it, nor for aught that I say thereof that he should do evil
to the knight; for right sore sin should I have thereof, but deadly
treason and disloyalty hath he wrought."

"Sir," saith Perceval, "This is sore pity of the King's son, that he is
dead in such manner, for I have heard witness that he ever waxed more
and more in great chivalry, and, so the King knew thereof, Kay the
Seneschal, that is not well-loved of all folk, would lose the court for
ever more, or his life, so he might be taken, and this would be only
right and just."

Perceval lay the night in the hermitage, and departed on the morrow
when he had heard mass.  He rideth through the forest as he that right
gladly would hear tidings of his mother, nor never before hath he been
so desirous thereof as is he now.  He heard, at right hour of noon, a
damsel under a tree that made greater dole than ever heard he damsel
make before.  She held her mule by the reins and was alighted a-foot
and set herself on her knees toward the East.  She stretched her hands
up toward heaven and prayed right sweetly the Saviour of the World and
His sweet Mother that they would send her succour betimes, for that the
most discounselled damsel of the world was she, and never was alms
given to damsel to counsel her so well bestowed as it would be upon
her, for that needs must she go to the most perilous place that is in
the world, and that, save she might bring some one with her, never
would that she had to do be done.


X.

Perceval drew himself up when he heard the damsel bemoaning thus. He
was in the shadow of the forest so that she saw him not.  The damsel
cried out all weeping, "Ha, King Arthur, great sin did you in
forgetting to speak of my business to the knight that bare away the
shield from your court, by whom would my mother have been succoured,
that now must lose her castle presently save God grant counsel herein;
and so unhappy am I, that I have gone through all the lands of Great
Britain, yet may I hear no tidings of my brother, albeit they say that
he is the Best Knight of the world.  But what availeth us his
knighthood, when we have neither aid nor succour thereof?  So much the
greater shame ought he to have of himself, if he love his mother, as
she, that is the most gentle lady that liveth and the most loyal, hath
hope that, and he knew, he would come thither.  Either he is dead or he
is in lands so far away that none may hear tidings of him.  Ha, sweet
Lady, Mother of Our Saviour, aid us when we may have no aid of any
other!  for if my lady mother loseth her castle, needs must we be
forlorn wanderers in strange lands, for so have her brothers been long
time; he that had the most power and valour lieth in languishment, the
good King Fisherman that the King of Castle Mortal warreth on, albeit
he also is my uncle, my mother's brother, and would fain reave my
uncle, that is his brother, of his castle by his felony.  Of a man so
evil my lady mother looketh for neither aid nor succour.  And the good
King Pelles hath renounced his kingdom for the love of his Saviour, and
hath entered into a hermitage.  He likewise is brother of my mother,
and behoveth him make war upon none, for the most worshipful hermit is
he of the world.  And all they on my father's side have died in arms.
Eleven were there of them, and my father was the twelfth.  Had they
remained on live, well able would they have been to succour us, but the
knight that was first at the Graal hath undone us, for through him our
uncle fell in languishment, in whom should have been our surest
succour."


XI.

At this word Perceval rode forward, and the damsel heareth him. She
riseth up, and looketh backward and seeth the knight come, the shield
at his neck banded argent and azure, with a red cross. She clasped her
two hands toward heaven, and saith, "Ha, sweet Lady that didst bear the
Saviour of the World, you have not forgotten me, nor never may be
discounselled he nor she that calleth upon you with the heart.  Here
see I the knight come of whom we shall have aid and succour, and our
Lord God grant him will to do His pleasure, and lend him courage and
strength to protect us!"

She goeth to meet him, and holdeth his stirrup and would have kissed
his foot, but he avoideth it and crieth to her: "Ill do you herein,
damsel!"  And therewith she melteth in tears of weeping and prayeth him
right sweetly.

"Sir," saith she, "Of such pity as God had of His most sweet Mother on
that day He took His death, when He beheld Her at the foot of the
cross, have pity and mercy of my lady mother and of me.  For, and your
aid fail us, we know not to whom to fly for rescue, for I have been
told that you are the Best Knight of the world.  And for obtaining of
your help went I to King Arthur's court.  Wherefore succour us for
pity's sake and God's and for nought beside, for, so please you, it is
your duty so to do, albeit, had you been my brother that is also such a
knight as you, whom I cannot find, I might have called upon you of a
greater right.  Sir," saith she, "Do you remember you of the brachet
you had at the court waiting for you until such time as you should come
for the shield, and that went away with you, how he would never make
joy nor know any save me alone?  By this know I well that if you knew
the soreness of our need you would succour us.  But King Arthur, that
should have prayed you thereof, forgat it."

"Damsel," saith he, "so much hath he done that he hath not failed of
his covenant with you, for he sent for me by the two best knights of
his court, and, so I may speed, so much will I do herein as that God
and he shall be well pleased thereof."


XII.

The damsel had right great joy of the knight that he should grant her
his aid, but she knew not he was her brother, or otherwise she would
have doubled her joy.  Perceval knoweth well that she is his sister,
but he would not yet discover himself and manifest his pity outwardly.
He helpeth the damsel to mount again and they rode on together.

"Sir," saith the damsel, "Needs must I go to-night by myself to the
Grave-yard Perilous."

"Wherefore go you thither?" saith Perceval.

"Sir," saith she, "I have made vow thereof, and moreover a holy hermit
hath told me that the knight that warreth upon us may not be overcome
of no knight, save I bring him not some of the cloth wherewith the
altar in the chapel of the Grave-yard Perilous is covered.  The cloth
is of the most holiest, for our Lord God was covered therewith in the
Holy Sepulchre, on the third day when He came back from death to life.
Nor none may enter the holy grave-yard that bringeth another with him,
wherefore behoveth me go by myself, and may God save my life this
night, for the place is sore perilous, and so ought I greatly to hate
him that hath procured me this dolour and travail.  Sir," saith she,
"You will go your way toward the castle of Camelot: there is the Widow
Lady my mother, that awaiteth the return and the succour of the Good
Knight, and may you remember to succour and aid us when you shall see
how sore is our need of succour.


XIII.

"Damsel," saith Perceval, "So God allow me I will aid you to the utmost
of my power."

"Sir," saith she, "See, this is my way, that is but little frequented,
for I tell you that no knight durst tread therein without great peril
and great dread.  And our Lord God have your body in keeping, for mine
own this night shall be in sore jeopardy and hazard."

Perceval departeth from the damsel, his sister, and hath right great
pity for that she goeth in so perilous place all alone. Natheless would
he nor forbid her, for he knew well that she might not go thither with
him nor with other, sith that such was the custom of the grave-yard
that twain might not pass the entrance, wherefore needs must one remain
without.  Perceval was not willing that his sister should break her
vow, for never none of his lineage did at any time disloyalty nor base
deed knowingly, nor failed of nought that they had in covenant, save
only the King of Castle Mortal, from whom he had as much evil as he had
good of the others.


XIV.

The damsel goeth her way all alone and all forlorn toward the
grave-yard and the deep of the forest, all dark and shadowy.  She hath
ridden until the sun was set and the night draweth nigh. She looketh
before her and seeth a cross, high and wide and thick.  And on this
cross was the figure of Our Lord graven, whereof is she greatly
comforted.  She draweth nigh the cross, and so kisseth and adoreth it,
and prayeth the Saviour of the world that was nailed on Holy Rood that
He would bring her forth of the burial-ground with honour.  The cross
was at the entrance of the grave-yard, that was right spacious, for,
from such time as the land was first peopled of folk, and that knights
began to seek adventure by the forest, not a knight had died in the
forest, that was full great of breadth and length, but his body was
borne thither, nor might never knight there be buried that had not
received baptism and had repented him not of his sins at his death.


XV.

Thereinto entered the damsel all alone, and found great multitude of
tombs and coffins.  Nor none need wonder whether she had shuddering and
fear, for such place must needs be dreadful to a lonely damsel, there
where lay so many knights that had been slain in arms.  Josephus the
good clerk witnesseth us that within the grave-yard might no evil
spirit meddle, for that Saint Andrew the apostle had blessed it with
his hand.  But never might no hermit remain within for the evil things
that appeared each night all round about, that took the shapes of the
knights that were dead in the forest, wherof the bodies lay not in the
blessed burial-ground.


XVI.

The damsel beholdeth their sepulchres all round about the graveyard
whereinto she was come.  She seeth them surrounded of knights, all
black, and spears had they withal, and came one against another, and
made such uproar and alarm as it seemed all the forest resounded
thereof.  The most part held swords all red as of fire, and ran either
upon other, and gashed one another's hands and feet and nose and face.
And great was the clashing they made, but they could not come a-nigh
the grave-yard.  The damsel seeth them, and hath such affright thereof
that she nigh fell to the ground in a swoon.  The mule whereon she sate
draweth wide his nostrils and goeth in much fear.  The damsel signeth
her of the cross and commendeth her to the Saviour and to His sweet
Mother.  She looketh before her to the head of the grave-yard, and
seeth the chapel, small and ancient.  She smiteth her mule with her
whip, and cometh thitherward and alighteth.  She entered therewithin
and found a great brightness of light.  Within was an image of Our
Lady, to whom she prayeth right sweetly that She will preserve her
senses and her life and enable her to depart in safety from this
perilous place.  She seeth above the altar the most holy cloth for the
which she was come thither, that was right ancient, and a smell came
thereof so sweet and glorious that no sweetness of the world might
equal it.  The damsel cometh toward the altar thinking to take the
cloth, but it goeth up into the air as if the wind had lifted it, and
was so high that she might not reach it above an ancient crucifix that
was there within.

"Ha, God!" saith the damsel, "It is for my sin and my disloyalty that
this most holy cloth thus draweth itself away from me!"


XVII.

"Fair Father God, never did I evil to none, nor never did I shame nor
sinned deadly in myself, nor never wrought against your will, so far as
in me lay, but rather do I serve you and love and fear you and your
sweet Mother; and all the tribulation I receive, accept I in patience
for your love, for well I know that such is your pleasure, nor have I
no will to set myself against nought that pleaseth you.


XVIII.

"When it shall please you, you will release me and my mother of the
grief and tribulation wherein we are.  For well you know that they have
reaved her of her castles by wrong, and of her land, for that she is a
Widow Lady without help.  Lord, you who have all the world at your
mercy and do your commandment in all things, grant me betimes to hear
tidings of my brother and he be on live, for sore need have we of him.
And so lend force to the knight and power against all our enemies, that
for your love and for pity is fain to succour and aid my mother that is
sore discounselled.  Lord, well might it beseem you to remember of your
pity and the sweetness that is in you, and of compassion that she hath
been unrighteously disherited, and that no succour nor aid nor counsel
hath she, save of you alone.  You are her affiance and her succour, and
therefore ought you to remember that the good knight Joseph of
Abarimacie, that took down your Body when it hung upon the rood, was
her own uncle.  Better loved he to take down your Body than all the
gold and all the fee that Pilate might give him.  Lord, good right of
very truth had he so to do, for he took you in his arms beside the
rood, and laid your Body in the holy sepulchre, wherein were you
covered of the sovran cloth for the which have I come in hither.  Lord,
grant it be your pleasure that I may have it, for love of the knight by
whom it was set in this chapel; sith that I am of his lineage it ought
well to manifest itself in this sore need, so it come according to your
pleasure."

Forthwith the cloth came down above the altar, and she straightway
found taken away therefrom as much as it pleased Our Lord she should
have.  Josephus telleth us of a truth, that never did none enter into
the chapel that might touch the cloth save only this one damsel.  She
set her face to it and her mouth or ever the cloth removed.


XIX.

Thereafter, she took the piece that God would and set it near herself
full worshipfully, but still the stout went on of the evil spirits
round about the church-yard, and they dealt one another blows so sore
that all the forest resounded thereof, and it seemed that it was all
set on fire of the flame that issued from them.  Great fear would the
damsel have had of them, had she not comforted herself in God and in
His dear, sweet Mother, and the most holy cloth that was within there.
A Voice appeared upon the stroke of midnight from above the chapel, and
speaketh to the souls whereof the bodies lie within the grave-yard:
"How sore loss hath befallen you of late, and all other whose bodies
lie in other hallowed church-yards by the forests of this kingdom!  For
the good King Fisherman is dead that made every day our service be done
in the most holy chapel there where the most Holy Graal every day
appeared, and where the Mother of God abode from the Saturday until the
Monday that the service was finished.  And now hath the King of Castle
Mortal seized the castle in such sort that never sithence hath the Holy
Graal appeared, and all the other hallows are hidden, so that none
knoweth what hath become of the priests that served in the chapel, nor
the twelve ancient knights, nor the damsels that were therein.  And
you, damsel, that are within, have no affiance in the aid of strange
knight in this need, for succoured may you never be save of your
brother only!"


XX.

With that the Voice is still, and a wailing and a lamentation goeth up
from the bodies that lay in the church-yard, so dolorous that no man is
there in the world but should have pity thereof, and all the evil
spirits that were without departed groaning and making so mighty uproar
at their going away that it seemed the earth trembled.  The damsel
heard the tidings of her uncle that was dead, and fell on the ground in
a swoon, and when she raised herself, took on to lament and cried: "Ha,
God!  Now have we lost the most comfort and the best friend that we
had, and hereof am I again discomforted that I may not be succoured in
this my next need by the Good Knight of whom I thought to have succour
and aid, and that was so fain to render it.  Now shall I know not what
to ask of him, for he would grant it right willingly, and may God be as
pleased with him thereof as if he had done it."

The damsel was in sore misdoubting and dismay, for she knew not who the
knight was, and great misgiving had she of her uncle's death and right
sore sorrow.  She was in the chapel until it was day, and then
commended herself to God and departed and mounted on her mule and
issued forth of the church-yard full speed, all alone.


XXI.

The story saith that the damsel went her way toward her mother's castle
as straight as she might, but sore dismayed was she of the Voice that
had told her she might not be succoured save of her brother alone.  She
hath ridden so far of her journeys that she is come to the Valley of
Camelot, and seeth her mother's castle that was surrounded of great
rivers, and seeth Perceval, that was alighted under the shadow of a
tree at the top of the forest in order that he might behold his
mother's castle, whence he went forth squire what time he slew the
Knight of the Red Shield. When he had looked well at the castle and the
country round about, much pleasure had he thereof, and mounted again
forthwith. Thereupon, behold you, the damsel cometh.

"Sir," saith she, "In sore travail and jeopardy have I been sithence
that last I saw you, and tidings have I heard as bad as may be, and
right grievous for my mother and myself.  For King Fisherman mine uncle
is dead, and another of my uncles, the King of Castle Mortal, hath
seized his castle, albeit my lady mother ought rather to have it, or I,
or my brother."

"Is it true," saith Perceval, "that he is dead?"

"Yea, certes, Sir, I know it of a truth."

"So help me God!" saith he, "This misliketh me right sore.  I thought
not that he would die so soon, for I have not been to see him of a long
time."


XXII.

"Sir," saith she, "I am much discomforted as concerning you, for I have
likewise been told that no force nor aid of any knight may avail to
succour nor aid me from this day forward save my brother's help alone.
Wherefore, and it be so, we have lost all, for my lady mother hath
respite to be in her castle only until the fifteenth day from to-day,
and I know not where to seek my brother, and the day is so nigh as you
hear.  Now behoveth us do the best we may and abandon this castle
betimes, nor know I any refuge that we now may have save only King
Pelles in the hermitage.  I would fain that my lady mother were there,
for he would not fail us."

Perceval is silent, and hath great pity in his heart of this that the
damsel saith.  She followeth him weeping, and pointeth out to him the
Valleys of Camelot and the castles that were shut in by combes and
mountains, and the broad meadow-lands and the forest that girded them
about.

"Sir," saith she, "All this hath the Lord of the Moors reaved of my
lady mother, and nought coveteth he so much as to have this castle, and
have it he will, betimes."


XXIII.

When they had ridden until that they drew nigh the castle, the Lady was
at the windows of the hall and knew her daughter.

"Ha, God!" saith the Lady, "I see there my daughter coming, and a
knight with her.  Fair Father God, grant of your pleasure that it be my
son, for and it be not he, I have lost my castle and mine heirs are
disherited."

Perceval cometh nigh the castle in company with his sister, and knoweth
again the chapel that stood upon four columns of marble between the
forest and the castle, there where his father told him how much ought
he to love good knights, and that none earthly thing might be of
greater worth, and how none might know yet who lay in the coffin until
such time as the Best Knight of the world should come thither, but that
then should it be known.  Perceval would fain have passed by the
chapel, but the damsel saith to him: "Sir, no knight passeth hereby
save he go first to see the coffin within the chapel."

He alighteth and setteth the damsel to the ground, and layeth down his
spear and shield and cometh toward the tomb, that was right fair and
rich.  He set his hand above it.  So soon as he came nigh, the
sepulchre openeth on one side, so that one saw him that was within the
coffin.  The damsel falleth at his feet for joy.  The Lady had a custom
such that every time a knight stopped at the coffin she made the five
ancient knights that she had with her in the castle accompany her,
wherein they would never fail her, and bring her as far as the chapel.
So soon as she saw the coffin open and the joy her daughter made, she
knew that it was her son, and ran to him and embraced him and kissed
him and began to make the greatest joy that ever lady made.


XXIV.

"Now know I well," saith she, "that our Lord God hath not forgotten me.
Sith that I have my son again, the tribulations and the wrongs that
have been done me grieve me not any more. Sir," saith she to her son,
"Now is it well known and proven that you are the Best Knight of the
world!  For otherwise never would the coffin have opened, nor would any
have known who he is that you now see openly."

She maketh her chaplain take certain letters that were sealed with gold
in the coffin.  He looketh thereat and readeth, and then saith that
these letters witness of him that lieth in the coffin that he was one
of them that helped to un-nail Our Lord from the cross.  They looked
beside him and found the pincers all bloody wherewith the nails were
drawn, but they might not take them away, nor the body, nor the coffin,
according as Josephus telleth us, for as soon as Perceval was forth of
the chapel, the coffin closed again and joined together even as it was
before. The Widow Lady led her son with right great joy into her
castle, and recounted to him all the shame that had been done her, and
also how Messire Gawain had made safe the castle for a year by his good
knighthood.


XXV.

"Fair son," saith she, "Now is the term drawn nigh when I should have
lost my castle and you had not come.  But now know I well that it shall
be safe-guarded of you.  He that coveteth this castle is one of the
most outrageous knights on live.  And he hath reaved me of my land and
the Valleys of Camelot without reasonable occasion.  But, please God,
you shall well repair the harm he hath done you, for nought claim I any
longer of the land since you are come.  But so avenge your shame as to
increase your honour, for none ought to allow his right to be minished
of an evil man, and the mischiefs that have been done me for that I had
no aid, let them not wax cold in you, for a shame done to one valiant
and strong ought not to wax cold in him, but rankle and prick in him,
so ought he to have his enemies in remembrance without making semblant,
but so much as he shall show in his cheer and making semblant and his
menaces, so much ought he to make good in deed when he shall come in
place.  For one cannot do too much hurt to an enemy, save only one is
willing to let him be for God's sake.  But truth it is that the
scripture saith, that one ought not to do evil to one's enemies, but
pray God that He amend them.  I would fain that our enemies were such
that they might amend toward us, and that they would do as much good to
us without harming themselves as they have done evil, on condition that
mine anger and yours were foregone against them.  Mine own anger I
freely forbear against them so far forth as concerneth myself, for no
need have I to wish evil to none, and Solomon telleth how the sinner
that curseth other sinner curseth himself likewise.


XXVI.

"Fair son, this castle is yours, and this land round about whereof I
have been reft ought to be yours of right, for it falleth to you on
behalf of your father and me.  Wherefore send to the Lord of the Moors
that hath reft it from me, that he render it to you.  I make no further
claim, for I pass it on to you; for nought have I now to do with any
land save only so much as will be enough wherein to bury my body when I
die, nor shall I now live much longer since King Fisherman my brother
is dead, whereof right sorrowful am I at heart, and still more
sorrowful should I be were it not for your coming.  And, son, I tell
you plainly that you have great blame of his death, for you are the
knight through whom he fell first into languishment, for now at last I
know well that and if you had afterwards gone back and so made the
demand that you made not at the first, he would have come back to
health.  But our Lord God willed it so to be, wherefore well beseemeth
us to yield to His will and pleasure."


XXVII.

Perceval hath heard his mother, but right little hath he answered her,
albeit greatly is he pleased with whatsoever she hath said. His face is
to-flushed of hardiment, and courage hath taken hold on him.  His
mother looketh at him right fainly, and hath him disarmed and
apparelled in a right rich robe.  So comely a knight was he that in all
the world might not be found one of better seeming nor better shapen of
body.  The Lord of the Moors, that made full certain of having his
mother's castle, knew of Perceval's coming.  He was not at all dismayed
in semblant, nor would he stint to ride by fell nor forest, and every
day he weened in his pride that the castle should be his own at the
hour and the term he had set thereof.  One of the five knights of the
Widow Lady was one day gone into the Lonely Forest after hart and hind,
and had taken thereof at his will.  He was returning back to the castle
and the huntsmen with him, when the Lord of the Moors met him and told
him he had done great hardiment in shooting with the bow in the forest,
and the knight made answer that the forest was not his of right, but
the Lady's of Camelot and her son's that had repaired thither.


XXVIII.

The Lord of the Moors waxed wroth.  He held a sword in his hand and
thrust him therewith through the body and slew him.  The knight was
borne dead to the castle of Camelot before the Widow Lady and her son.

"Fair son," saith the Widow Lady, "More presents of such-like kind the
Lord of the Moors sendeth me than I would.  Never may he be satisfied
of harming my land and shedding the blood of the bodies of my knights.
Now may you well know how many a hurt he hath done me sithence that
your father hath been dead and you were no longer at the castle, sith
that this hath he done me even now that you are here.  You have the
name of Perceval on this account, that tofore you were born, he had
begun to reave your father of the Valleys of Camelot, for your father
was an old knight and all his brethren were dead, and therefore he gave
you this name in baptism, for that he would remind you of the mischief
done to him and to you, and that you might help to retrieve it and you
should have the power."

The Dame maketh shroud the knight, for whom she is full sorrowful, and
on the morrow hath mass sung and burieth him. Perceval made arm two of
the old knights with him, then issued forth of the castle and entered
the great dark forest.  He rode until he came before a castle, and met
five knights that issued forth all armed.  He asked whose men they
were.  They answer, the Lord's of the Moors, and that he goeth seek the
son of the Widow Lady that is in the forest.

"If we may deliver him up to our lord, good guerdon shal we have
thereof."

"By my faith," saith Perceval, "You have not far to seek.  I am here!"


XXIX.

Perceval smiteth his horse of his spurs and cometh to the first in such
sort that he passeth his spear right through his body and beareth him
to the ground dead.  The other two knights each smote his man so that
they wounded them in the body right sore.  The other two would fain
have fled, but Perceval preventeth them, and they gave themselves up
prisoners for fear of death.  He bringeth all four to the castle of
Camelot and presenteth them to his lady mother.

"Lady," saith he, "see here the quittance for your knight that was
slain, and the fifth also remaineth lying on the piece of ground shent
in like manner as was your own."

"Fair son," saith she, "I should have better loved peace after another
sort, and so it might be."

"Lady," saith he, "Thus is it now.  One ought to make war against the
warrior, and be at peace with the peaceable."

The knights are put in prison.  The tidings are come to the Lord of the
Moors that the son of the Widow Lady hath slain one of his knights and
carried off four to prison.  Thereof hath he right great wrath at
heart, and sweareth and standeth to it that never will he be at rest
until he shall have either taken or slain him, and that, so there were
any knight in his land that would deliver him up, he would give him one
of the best castles in his country. The more part are keen to take
Perceval.  Eight came for that intent before him all armed in the
forest of Camelot, and hunted and drove wild deer in the purlieus of
the forest so that they of the castle saw them.


XXX.

Perceval was in his mother's chapel, where he heard mass; and when the
mass was sung, his sister said: "Fair brother, see here the most holy
cloth that I brought from the chapel of the Grave-yard Perilous.  Kiss
it and touch it with your face, for a holy hermit told me that never
should our land be conquered back until such time as you should have
hereof."

Perceval kisseth it, then toucheth his eyes and face therewith.
Afterward he goeth to arm him, and the four knights with him; then he
issueth forth of the chamber and mounteth on his horse, then goeth out
of the gateway like a lion unchained.  He sitteth on a tall horse all
covered.  He cometh nigh the eight knights that were all armed, man and
horse, and asketh them what folk they be and what they seek, and they
say that they are enemies of the Widow Lady and her son.

"Then you do I defy!" saith Perceval.

He cometh to them a great run, and the four knights with him, and each
one overthroweth his own man so roughly that either he is wounded in
his body or maimed of arm or leg.  The rest held the melly to the
utmost they might endure.  Perceval made take them and bring to the
castle, and the other five that they had overthrown.  The Lord of the
Moors was come to shoot with a bow, and he heard the noise of the
knights, and cometh thitherward a great gallop all armed.

"Sir," saith one of the old knights to Perceval, "Look!  here is the
Lord of the Moors coming, that hath reft your mother of her land and
slain her men.  Of him will it be good to take vengeance.  See, how
boldly he cometh."

Perceval looketh on him as he that loveth him not, and cometh toward
him as hard as his horse may carry him, and smiteth him right through
the breast so strongly that he beareth to the ground him and his horse
together all in a heap.  He alighteth to the ground and draweth his
sword.

"How?" saith the Lord of the Moors, "Would you then slay me and put me
in worse plight than I am?"

"By my head," saith Perceval, "No, nor so swiftly, but I will slay you
enough, betimes!"

"So it seemeth you," saith the Lord of the Moors, "But it shall not be
yet!"

He leapeth up on his feet and runneth on Perceval, sword drawn, as one
that fain would harm him if he might.  But Perceval defendeth himself
as good knight should, and giveth such a buffet at the outset as
smiteth off his arm together with his sword. The knights that came
after fled back all discomfited when they saw their lord wounded.  And
Perceval made lift him on a horse and carry him to the castle and
presenteth him to his mother.

"Lady," saith he, "See here the Lord of the Moors!  Well might you
expect him eftsoons, sith that you were to have yielded him up your
castle the day after to-morrow!"


XXXI.

"Lady," saith the Lord of the Moors, "Your son hath wounded me and
taken my knights and myself likewise.  I will yield you up your castle
albeit I hold it mine as of right, on condition you cry me quit."

"And who shall repay her," saith Perceval, "for the shame that you have
done her, for her knights that you have slain, whereof never had you
pity?  Now, so help me God, if she have mercy or pity upon you, never
hereafter will I trouble to come to her aid how sore soever may be her
need.  Such pity and none other as you have had for her and my sister
will I have for you.  Our Lord God commanded in both the Old Law and
the New, that justice should be done upon man-slayers and traitors, and
justice will I do upon you that His commandment be not transgressed."

He hath a great vat made ready in the midst of the court, and maketh
the eleven knights be brought. H e maketh their heads be stricken off
into the vat and bleed therein as much blood as might come from them,
and then made the heads and the bodies be drawn forth so that nought
was there but blood in the vat.  After that, he made disarm the Lord of
the Moors and be brought before the vat wherein was great abundance of
blood.  He made bind his feet and his hands right strait, and after
that saith: "Never might you be satisfied of the blood of the knights
of my lady mother, now will I satisfy you of the blood of your own
knights!"

He maketh hang him by the feet in the vat, so that his head were in the
blood as far as the shoulders, and so maketh him be held there until
that he was drowned and quenched.  After that, he made carry his body
and the bodies of the other knights and their heads, and made them be
cast into an ancient charnel that was beside an old chapel in the
forest, and the vat together with the blood made he be cast into the
river, so that the water thereof was all bloody.  The tidings came to
the castles that the son of the Widow Lady had slain the Lord of the
Moors and the best of his knights.  Thereof were they in sore
misgiving, and the most part said that the like also would he do to
them save they held themselves at his commandment.  They brought him
the keys of all the castles that had been reft of his mother, and all
the knights that had before renounced their allegiance returned
thereunto and pledged themselves to be at his will for dread of death.
All the land was assured in safety, nor was there nought to trouble the
Lady's joy save only that King Fisherman her brother was dead, whereof
she was right sorrowful and sore afflicted.


XXXII.

One day the Widow Lady sate at meat, and there was great plenty of
knights in the hall.  Perceval sate him beside his sister. Thereupon,
behold you the Damsel of the Car that came with the other two damsels
before the Widow Lady and her son, and saluted them right nobly.

"Damsel," saith Perceval, "Good adventure may you have!"

"Sir," saith she, "You have speeded right well of your business here,
now go speed it elsewhere, for thereof is the need right sore.  King
Hermit, that is your mother's brother, sendeth you word that, and you
come not with haste into the land that was King Fisherman's your uncle,
the New Law that God hath stablished will be sore brought low.  For the
King of Castle Mortal, that hath seized the land and castle, hath made
be cried throughout all the country how all they that would fain
maintain the Old Law and abandon the New shall have protection of him
and counsel and aid, and they that will not shall be destroyed and
outlawed."

"Ha, fair son," saith the Widow Lady, "Now have you heard the great
disloyalty of the evil man that is my brother, whereof am I right
sorrowful, for that he is of my kindred."

"Lady," saith Perceval, "Your brother nor my uncle is he no longer,
sith that he denieth God!  Rather is he our mortal enemy that we ought
of right to hate more than any stranger!"


XXXIII.

"Fair son," saith the Widow Lady, "I pray and beseech you that the Law
of the Saviour be not set aside in forgetfulness and neglect there
where you may exalt it, for better Lord in no wise may you serve, nor
one that better knoweth how to bestow fair guerdon.  Fair son, none may
be good knight that serveth Him not and loveth Him.  Take heed that you
be swift in His service nor delay not for no intent, but be ever at His
commandment alike at eventide as in the morning, so shall you not bely
your lineage. And the Lord God grant you good intent therein and good
will to go on even as you have begun."

The Widow Lady, that much loved her son, riseth up from the tables, and
all the other knights, and seemeth it that she is Lady of her land in
such sort as that never was she better.  But full often doth she give
thanks to the Saviour of the World with her whole heart, and prayeth
Him of His pleasure grant her son length of life for the amendment both
of soul and body.  Perceval was with his mother of a long space, and
with his sister, and was much feared and honoured of all the knights of
the land, alike for his great wisdom and great pains-taking, as well as
for the valour of his knighthood.



BRANCH XVI.

TITLE I.

This High History saith that Messire Gawain and Lancelot were repaired
to the court of King Arthur from the quest they had achieved.  The King
made great joy thereof and the Queen.  King Arthur sate one day at meat
by the side of the Queen, and they had been served of the first meats.
Thereupon come two knights all armed, and each bore a dead knight
before him, and the knights were still armed as they had been when
their bodies were alive.

"Sir," say the knights, "This shame and this mischief is yours. In like
manner will you lose all your knights betimes and God love you not well
enough to give counsel herein forthwith of his mercy."

"Lords," saith the King, "How came these knights to be in so evil case?"

"Sir," say they, "It is of good right you ought to know.  The Knight of
the Fiery Dragon is entered into the head of your land, and is
destroying knights and castles and whatsoever he may lay hands on, in
such sort that none durst contend against him, for he is taller by a
foot than any knight ever you had, and of grisly cheer, and so is his
sword three times bigger than the sword of ever another knight, and his
spear is well as heavy as a man may carry.  Two knights might lightly
cover them of his shield, and it hath on the outer side the head of a
dragon that casteth forth fire and flame whensoever he will, so eager
and biting that none may long endure his encounter."


II.

"None other, how strong soever he be, may stand against him, and, even
as you see, hath he burnt and evil-entreated all other knights that
have withstood him."

"From what land hath come such manner of man?"

"Sir," say the knights, "He is come from the Giant's castle, and he
warreth upon you for the love of Logrin the Giant, whose head Messire
Kay brought you into your court, nor never, saith he, will he have joy
until such time as he shall have avenged him on your body or upon the
knight that you love best."

"Our Lord God," saith the King, "Will defend us from so evil a man."

He is risen from the table, all scared, and maketh carry the two dead
knights to be buried, and the others turn back again when they have
told their message.  The King calleth Messire Gawain and Lancelot and
asketh them what he shall do of this knight that is entered into his
land?

"By my head, I know not what to say, save you give counsel herein."

"Sir," saith Lancelot, "We will go against him, so please you, I and
Messire Gawain between us."

"By my head," saith the King, "I would not let you go for a kingdom,
for such man as is this is no knight but a devil and a fiend that hath
issued from the borders of Hell.  I say not but that it were great
worship and prize to slay and conquer him, but he that should go
against him should set his own life in right sore jeopardy and run
great hazard of being in as bad plight as these two knights I have
seen."

The King was in such dismay that he knew not neither what to say nor to
do, and so was all the court likewise in such sort as no knight neither
one nor another was minded to go to battle with him, and so remained
the court in great dismay.



BRANCH XVII.

INCIPIT.

Here beginneth one of the master branches of the Graal in the name of
the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.


TITLE I.

Perceval had been with his mother as long as it pleased him.  He hath
departed with her good will and the good will of his sister, and
telleth them he will return into the land as speedily as he may.  He
entereth into the great Lonely Forest, and rideth so far on his
journeys that he cometh one day at the right hour of noon into a
passing fair launde, and seeth a forest.  He looketh amidst the launde
and seeth a red cross.  He looketh to the head of the launde and seeth
a right comely knight sitting in the shadow of the forest, and he was
clad in white garments and held a vessel of gold in his hand.  At the
other end of the launde he seeth a damsel likewise sitting, young and
gentle and of passing great beauty, and she was clad in a white samite
dropped of gold. Josephus telleth us by the divine scripture that out
of the forest issued a beast, white as driven snow, and it was bigger
than a fox and less than a hare.  The beast came into the launde all
scared, for she had twelve hounds in her belly, that quested within
like as it were hounds in a wood, and she fled adown the launde for
fear of the hounds, the questing whereof she had within her.  Perceval
rested on the shaft of his spear to look at the marvel of this beast,
whereof he had right great pity, so gentle was she of semblance, and of
so passing beauty, and by her eyes it might seem that they were two
emeralds.  She runneth to the knight, all affrighted, and when she hath
been there awhile and the hounds rend her again, she runneth to the
damsel, but neither there may she stay long time, for the hounds that
are within her cease not of their questing, whereof is she sore adread.


II.

She durst not venture herself in the forest.  She seeth Perceval and so
cometh toward him for protection.  She maketh as though she would lie
down on his horse's neck, and he holdeth forth his hands to receive her
there so as that she might not hurt herself, and evermore the hounds
quested.  Howbeit the knight crieth out to him, "Sir Knight, let the
beast go and hold her not, for this belongeth neither to you nor to
other, but let her dree her weird."

The beast seeth that no protection hath she.  She goeth to the cross,
and forthwith might the hounds no longer be in her, but issued forth
all as it were live hounds, but nought had they of her gentleness nor
her beauty.  She humbled herself much among them and crouched on the
ground and made semblant as though she would have cried them mercy, and
gat herself as nigh the cross as she might.  The hounds had compassed
her round about and ran in upon her upon all sides and tore her all to
pieces with their teeth, but no power had they to devour her flesh, nor
to remove it away from the cross.


III.

When the hounds had all to-mangled the beast, they fled away into the
wood as had they been raging mad.  The knight and the damsel came there
where the beast lay in pieces at the cross, and so taketh each his part
and setteth the same on their golden vessels, and took the blood that
lay upon the earth in like manner as the flesh, and kiss the place, and
adore the cross, and then betake them into the forest.  Perceval
alighteth and setteth him on his knees before the cross and so hisseth
and adoreth it, and the place where the beast was slain, in like manner
as he had seen the knight and damsel do; and there came to him a smell
so sweet of the cross and of the place, such as no sweetness may be
compared therewith.  He looketh and seeth coming from the forest two
priests all afoot; and the first shouteth to him: "Sir Knight, withdraw
yourself away from the cross, for no right have you to come nigh it.":
Perceval draweth him back, and the priest kneeleth before the cross and
adoreth it and boweth down and kisseth it more than a score times, and
manifesteth the most joy in the world.  And the other priest cometh
after, and bringeth a great rod, and setteth the first priest aside by
force, and beateth the cross with the rod in every part, and weepeth
right passing sore.


IV.

Perceval beholdeth him with right great wonderment, and saith unto him,
"Sir, herein seem you to be no priest!  wherefore do you so great
shame?"

"Sir," saith the priest, "It nought concerneth you of whatsoever we may
do, nor nought shall you know thereof for us!"

Had he not been a priest, Perceval would have been right wroth with
him, but he had no will to do him any hurt.  Therewithal he departeth
and mounteth his horse and entereth the forest again, all armed, but
scarce had he ridden away in such sort or ever he met the Knight
Coward, that cried out to him as far as he could see him, "Sir, for
God's sake, take heed to yourself!"

"What manner man are you?" saith Perceval.

"Sir," saith he, "My name is the Knight Coward, and I am man of the
Damsel of the Car.  Wherefore I pray you for God's sake and for your
own valour that you touch me not."

Perceval looketh on him and seeth him tall and comely and well-shapen
and adroit and all armed upon his horse, so he saith to him, "Sith that
you are so coward, wherefore are you armed thus?"

"Sir," saith he, "Against the evil intent of any knight of whom I am
adread, for such an one might haply meet me as would slay me forthwith."


V.

"Are you so coward as you say?" saith Perceval.

"Yea," saith he, "And much more."

"By my head," saith he, "I will make you hardy.  Come now along with
me, for sore pity is it that cowardize should harbour in so comely a
knight.  I am fain that your name be changed speedily, for such name
beseemeth no knight."

"Ha, Sir, for God's sake, mercy!  Now know I well that you desire to
slay me!  No will have I to change neither my courage nor my name!"

"By my head," saith Perceval, "Then will you die therefor, betimes!"

He maketh him go before him, will he or nill he; and the knight goeth
accordingly with right sore grudging.  They had scarce ridden away,
when he heard in the forest off the way, two damsels that bewailed them
right sore, and prayed our Lord God send them succour betimes.


VI.

Perceval cometh towards them, he and the knight he driveth before him
perforce, and seeth a tall knight all armed that leadeth the damsels
all dishevelled, and smiteth them from time to time with a great rod,
so that the blood ran down their faces.

"Ha, Sir Knight," saith Perceval, "What ask you of these two damsels
that you entreat so churlishly?"

"Sir," saith he, "They have disherited me of mine own hold in this
forest that Messire Gawain gave them."

"Sir," say they to Perceval, "This knight is a robber, and none other
but he now wonneth in this forest, for the other robber-knights were
slain by Messire Gawain and Lancelot and another knight that came with
them, and, for the sore suffering and poverty that Messire Gawain and
Lancelot saw in us aforetime, and in the house of my brother in whose
castle they lay, were they fain to give us this hold and the treasure
they conquered from the robber-knights, and for this doth he now lead
us away to slay and destroy us, and as much would he do for you and all
other knights, so only he had the power."

"Sir Knight," saith Perceval, "Let be these damsels, for well I know
that they say true, for that I was there when the hold was given them."

"Then you helped to slay my kindred," saith the knight, "And therefore
you do I defy!"

"Ha," saith the Knight Coward to Perceval, "Take no heed of that he
saith, and wax not wroth, but go your way!"

"Certes," saith Perceval, "This will I not do: Rather will I help to
challenge the honour of the damsels."


VII.

"Ha, Sir," saith the Knight Coward, "Never shall it be challenged of
me!"

Perceval draweth him back.  "Sir," saith he, "See here my champion that
I set in my place."

The robber knight moveth toward him, and smiteth him so sore on the
shield that he breaketh his spear, but he might not unseat the Coward
Knight, that sate still upright as aforehand in the saddle-bows.  He
looketh at the other knight that hath drawn his sword.  The Knight
Coward looketh on the one side and the other, and would fain have fled
and he durst.  But Perceval crieth to him: "Knight, do your endeavour
to save my honour and your own life and the honour of these two
damsels!"

And the robber-knight dealeth him a great buffet of his sword so as
that it went nigh to stun him altogether.  Howbeit the Coward Knight
moveth not.  Perceval looketh at him in wonderment and thinketh him
that he hath set too craven a knight in his place, and now at last
knoweth well that he spake truth.  The robber-knight smiteth him all
over his body and giveth him so many buffets that the knight seeth his
own blood.

"By my head," saith he, "You have wounded me, but you shall pay
therefor, for I supposed not that you were minded to slay me!"

He draweth his sword, that was sharp and strong, and smiteth his horse
right sore hard of his spurs, and catcheth the knight with his sword
right in the midst of his breast with a sweep so strong that he beareth
him to the ground beside his horse.  He alighteth over him, unlaceth
his ventail and smiteth down his coif, then striketh off his head and
presenteth it to Perceval.

"Sir," saith he, "Here give I you of my first joust."

"By my head," said Perceval, "Right dearly love I this present! Now
take heed that you never again fall back into the cowardize wherein you
have been.  For it is too sore shame to a knight!"

"Sir," saith he, "I will not, but never should I have believed that one
could become hardy so speedily, or otherwise long ago would I have
become so, and so should I have had worship and honour thereof, for
many a knight hath held me in contempt herein, that elsewise would have
honoured me."

Perceval answereth that right and reason it is that worshipful men
should be more honoured than the other.

"I commend these two damsels to your protection, and lead them to their
hold in safety, and be at their pleasure and their will, and so say
everywhere that you have for name the Knight Hardy, for more of
courtesy hath this name than the other."

"Sir," saith he, "You say true, and you have I to thank for the name."

The damsels give great thanks to Perceval, and take leave of him, and
so go their way with right good will toward the knight that goeth with
them on account of the knight he had slain, so that thereof called they
him the Knight Hardy.


VIII.

Perceval departeth from the place where the knight lieth dead, and
rideth until that he draweth nigh to Cardoil where King Arthur was, and
findeth the country round in sore terror and dismay.  Much he
marvelleth wherefore it may be, and demandeth of some of the meaner
sort wherefore they are in so sore affright.

"Doth the King, then, live no longer?"

"Sir," say the most part, "Yea, he is there within in this castle, but
never was he so destroyed nor so scared as he is at this present.  For
a knight warreth upon him against whom no knight in the world may
endure."

Perceval rideth on until he cometh before the master hall, and is
alighted on the mounting-stage.  Lancelot and Messire Gawain come to
meet him and make much joy of him, as do the King and Queen and all
they of the court; and they made disarm him and do upon him a right
rich robe.  They that had never seen him before looked upon him right
fainly for the worship and valour of his knighthood.  The court also
was rejoiced because of him, for sore troubled had it been.  So as the
King sate one day at meat, there came four knights into the hall, and
each one of them bore before him a dead knight.  And their feet and
arms had been stricken off, but their bodies were still all armed, and
the habergeons thereon were all black as though they had been blasted
of lightning.  They laid the knights in the midst of the hall.

"Sir," say they to the King, "Once more is made manifest this shame
that is done you that is not yet amended.  The Knight of the Dragon
destroyeth you your land and slayeth your men and cometh as nigh us as
he may, and saith that in your court shall never be found knight so
hardy as that he durst abide him or assault him."

Right sore shame hath the King of these tidings, and Messire Gawain and
Lancelot likewise.  Right sorrowful are they of heart for that the King
would not allow them to go thither.  The four knights turn back again
and leave the dead knights in the hall, but the King maketh them be
buried with the others.


IX.

A great murmuring ariseth amongst the knights in the hall, and the most
part say plainly that they never heard tell of none that slew knights
in such cruel sort, nor so many as did he; and that neither Messire
Gawain nor Lancelot ought to be blamed for that they went not thither,
for no knight in the world might conquer such a man and our Lord God
did not, for he casteth forth fire and flame from his shield whensoever
him listeth.  And while this murmur was going on between the knights
all round about the hall, behold you therewithal the Damsel that made
bear the knight in the horse-bier and cometh before the King.

"Sir," saith she, "I pray and beseech you that you do me right in your
court.  See, here is Messire Gawain that was at the assembly in the Red
Launde where were many knights, and among them was the son of the Widow
Lady, that I see sitting beside you.  He and Messire Gawain were they
that won the most prize of the assembly. This knight had white arms,
and they of the assembly said that he had better done than Messire
Gawain, for that he had been first in the assembly.  It had been
granted me, before the assembly began, that he that should do best
thereat, should avenge the knight.  Sir, I have sought for him until I
have now found him at your court.  Wherefore I pray and beseech you
that you bid him do so much herein as that he be not blamed, for
Messire Gawain well knoweth that I have spoken true.  But the knight
departed so soon from the assembly, that I knew not what had become of
him, and Messire Gawain was right heavy for that he had departed, for
he was in quest of him, but knew him not."


X.

"Damsel," saith Messire Gawain, "Truth it is that he it was that did
best at the assembly in the Red Launde, and moreover, please God, well
will he fulfil his covenant towards you."

"Messire Gawain," saith Perceval, "Meseemeth you did best above all
other."

"By my faith," saith Messire Gawain, "You speak of your courtesy, but
howsoever I or other may have done, you had the prize therein by the
judgment of the knights.  Of so much may I well call upon the damsel to
bear witness."

"Sir," saith she, "Gramercy!  He ought not to deny me that I require of
him.  For the knight that I have so long followed about and borne on a
bier was son of his uncle Elinant of Escavalon."


XI.

"Damsel," saith Perceval, "Take heed that you speak truth.  I know well
that Elinant of Escavalon was mine uncle on my father's side, but of
his son know I nought."

"Sir," saith she, "Of his deeds well deserved he to be known, for by
his great valour and hardiment came he by his death, and he had to name
Alein of Escavalon.  The Damsel of the Circlet of Gold loved him of
passing great love with all her might.  The comeliest knight that was
ever seen of his age was he, and had he lived longer would have been
one of the best knights known, and of the great love she had in him
made she his body be embalmed when the Knight of the Dragon had slain
him, he that is so cruel and maketh desolate all the lands and all the
islands.  The Damsel of the Circlet of Gold hath he defied in such sort
that already hath he slain great part of her knights, and she is held
fast in her castle, so that she durst not issue forth, insomuch that
all the knights that are there say, and the Lady of the castle also,
that he that shall avenge this knight shall have the Circlet of Gold,
that never before was she willing to part withal, and the fairest
guerdon will that be that any knight may have."


XII.

"Sir," saith she, "Well behoveth you therefore, to do your best
endeavour to avenge your uncle's son, and to win the Circlet of Gold,
for, and you slay the knight, you will have saved the land of King
Arthur that he threateneth to make desolate, and all the lands that
march with his own, for no King hateth he so much as King Arthur on
account of the head of the Giant whereof he made such joy at his court."

"Damsel," saith Perceval, "Where is the Knight of the Dragon?"

"Sir," saith she, "He is in the isles of the Elephants that wont to be
the fairest land and the richest in the world.  Now hath he made it all
desolate, they say, in such sort that none durst inhabit there, and the
island wherein he abideth is over against the castle of the Damsel of
the Golden Circlet, so that every day she seeth him carry knights off
bodily from the forest that he slayeth and smiteth limb from limb,
whereof hath she right sore grief at heart."


XIII.

Perceval heareth this that the damsel telleth him, and marvelleth much
thereat, and taketh thought within himself, sith that the adventure is
thus thrown upon him, that great blame will he have thereof and he
achieveth it not.  He taketh leave of the King and Queen, and so goeth
his way and departeth from the Court. Messire Gawain departeth and
Lancelot with him, and say they will bear him company to the piece of
ground, and they may go thither. Perceval holdeth their fellowship
right dear.  The King and Queen have great pity of Perceval, and say
all that never until now no knight went into jeopardy so sore, and that
sore loss to the world will it be if there he should die.  They send to
all the hermits and worshipful men in the forest of Cardoil and bid
them pray for Perceval that God defend him from this enemy with whom he
goeth forth to do battle.  Lancelot and Messire Gawain go with him by
the strange forests and by the islands, and found the forests all void
and desolate and wasted in place after place. The Damsel followeth them
together with the dead knight.  And so far have they wandered that they
come into the plain country before the forest.  So they looked before
them and saw a castle that was seated in the plain without the forest,
and they saw that it was set in a right fair meadow-land, and was
surrounded of great running waters and girdled of high walls, and had
within great halls with windows.  They draw nigh the castle and see
that it turneth all about faster than the wind may run, and it had at
the top the archers of crossbows of copper that draw their shafts so
strong that no armour in the world might avail against the stroke
thereof.  Together with them were men of copper that turned and sounded
their horns so passing loud that the ground all seemed to quake.  And
under the gateway were lions and bears chained, that roared with so
passing great might and fury that all the ground and the valley
resounded thereof.  The knights draw rein and look at this marvel.

"Lords," saith the damsel, "Now may you see the Castle of Great
Endeavour.  Messire Gawain and Lancelot, draw you back, and come not
nigher the archers, for otherwise ye be but dead men.  And you, sir,"
saith she to Perceval, "And you would enter into this castle, lend me
your spear and shield, and so will I bear them before for warranty, and
you come after me and make such countenance as good knight should, and
so shall you pass through into the castle.  But your fellows may well
draw back, for now is not the hour for them to pass.  None may pass
thither save only he that goeth to vanquish the knight and win the
Golden Circlet and the Graal, and do away the false law with its horns
of copper."


XIV.

Perceval is right sorrowful when he heareth the damsel say that Messire
Gawain and Lancelot may not pass in thither with him albeit they be the
best knights in the world.  He taketh leave of them full sorrowfully,
and they also depart sore grudgingly; but they pray him right sweetly,
so Lord God allow him escape alive from the place whither he goeth,
that he will meet them again at some time and place, and at ease, in
such sort as that they may see him without discognisance.  They wait
awhile to watch the Good Knight, that hath yielded his shield and spear
to the damsel.  She hath set his shield on the bier in front, then
pointeth out to them of the castle all openly the shield that belonged
to the Good Soldier; after that she maketh sign that it belongeth to
the knight that is there waiting behind her. Perceval was without
shield in the saddle-bows, and holdeth his sword drawn and planteth him
stiffly in the stirrups after such sort as maketh them creak again and
his horse's chine swerve awry.  After that, he looketh at Lancelot and
Messire Gawain.

"Lords," saith he, "To the Saviour of the World commend I you."

And they answer, "May He that endured pain of His body on the Holy True
Cross protect him in his body and his soul and his life."

With that he smiteth with his spurs and goeth his way to the castle as
fast as his horse may carry him,--toward the Turning Castle.  He
smiteth with his sword at the gate so passing strongly that he cut a
good three fingers into a shaft of marble. The lions and the beast that
were chained to guard the gate slink away into their dens, and the
castle stoppeth at once.  The archers cease to shoot.  There were three
bridges before the castle that uplifted themselves so soon as he was
beyond.


XV.

Lancelot and Messire Gawain departed thence when they had beholden the
marvel, but they were fain to go toward the castle when they saw it
stop turning.  But a knight cried out to them from the battlements,
"Lords, and you come forward, the archers will shoot and the castle
will turn, and the bridges be lowered again, wherefore you would be
deceived herein."

They draw back, and hear made within the greatest joy that ever was
heard, and they hear how the most part therewithin say that now is he
come of whom they shall be saved in twofold wise, saved as of life, and
saved as of soul, so God grant him to vanquish the knight that beareth
the spirit of the devil.  Lancelot and Messire Gawain turn them back
thoughtful and all heavy for that they may not pass into the castle,
for none other passage might they see than this.  So they ride on,
until that they draw nigh the Waste City where Lancelot slew the knight.

"Ha," saith he to Messire Gawain, "Now is the time at hand that
behoveth me to die in this Waste City, and God grant not counsel
herein."

He told Messire Gawain all the truth of that which had befallen him
therein.  So, even as he would have taken leave of him, behold you, the
Poor Knight of the Waste Castle!


XVI.

"Sir," saith he to Lancelot, "I have taken respite of you in the city
within there, of the knight that you slew, until forty days after that
the Graal shall be achieved, nor have I issued forth of the castle
wherein you harboured you until now, nor should I now have come forth
had I not seen you come for fulfilling of your pledge, nor never shall
I come forth again until such time as you shall return hither on the
day I have named to you.  And so, gramercy to you and Messire Gawain
for the horses you sent me, that were a right great help to us, and for
the treasure and the hold you have given to my sisters that were sore
poverty-stricken. But I may not do otherwise than abide in my present
poverty until such time as you shall be returned, on the day whereunto
I have taken respite for you, sore against the will of your enemies,
for the benefits you have done me.  Wherefore I pray yon forget me not,
for the saving of your loyalty."

"By my head," saith Lancelot, "That will I not, and gramercy for having
put off the day for love of me."

They depart from the knight and come back again toward Cardoil where
King Arthur was.



BRANCH XVIII.

TITLE I.

Here the story is silent of Lancelot and Messire Gawain, and saith that
Perceval is in the Turning Castle, whereof Joseus recounteth the truth,
to wit, that Virgil founded it in the air by his wisdom in such
fashion, when the philosophers went on the Quest of the Earthly
Paradise, and it was prophesied that the castle should not cease
turning until such time as the Knight should come thither that should
have a head of gold, the look of a lion, a heart of steel, the navel of
a virgin maiden, conditions without wickedness, the valour of a man and
faith and belief of God; and that this knight should bear the shield of
the Good Soldier that took down the Saviour of the World from hanging
on the rood.  It was prophesied, moreover, that all they of the castle
and all other castles whereof this one was the guardian should hold the
old law until such time as the Good Knight should come, by whom their
souls should be saved and their death respited.  For, so soon as he
should be come, they should run to be baptized, and should firmly
believe the new law.  Wherefore was the joy great in the castle for
that their death should now be respited, and that they should be
released of all terror of the knight that was their foe, whom they
dreaded even to the death, and of the sin of the false law whereof they
had heretofore been attaint.


II.

Right glad is Perceval when he seeth the people of the castle turn them
to the holy faith of the Saviour, and the damsel saith to him, "Sir,
right well have you speeded thus far on your way; nought is there now
to be done save to finish that which remaineth.  For never may they
that are within issue forth so long as the Knight of the Dragon is on
live.  Here may you not tarry, for the longer you tarry, the more lands
will be desolate and the more folk will he slay.  Perceval taketh leave
of them of the castle, that make much joy of him, but sore misgiving
have they of him on account of the knight with whom he goeth to do
battle, and they say that if he shall conquer him, never yet befell
knight so fair adventure.  They have heard mass before that he
departeth, and made rich offerings for him in honour of the Saviour and
His sweet Mother.  The damsel goeth before, for that she knew the place
where the evil knight had his repair. They ride until they come into
the Island of Elephants.  The Knight was alighted under an olive tree,
and had but now since slain four knights that were of the castle of the
Queen of the Golden Circlet.  She was at the windows of her castle and
saw her Knights dead, whereof made she great dole.

"Ha, God," saith she, "Shall I never see none that may avenge me of
this evildoer that slayeth my men and destroyeth my land on this wise?"

She looketh up and seeth Perceval come and the damsel.

"Sir Knight, and you have not force and help and valour in you more
than is in four knights, come not nigh this devil!  Howbeit, and you
feel that you may so do battle as to overcome and vanquish him, I will
give you the Golden Circlet that is within, and will hold with the New
Law that hath been of late established.  For I see well by your shield
that you are a Christian, and, so you may conquer him, then ought I at
last to be assured that your law availeth more than doth ours, and that
God was born of the Virgin."


III.

Right joyous is Perceval of this that he heareth her say.  He crosseth
and blesseth him, and commendeth him to God and His sweet Mother; and
is pricked of wrath and hardiment like a lion. He seeth the Knight of
the Dragon mounted, and looketh at him in wonderment, for that he was
so big that never had he seen any man so big of his body.  He seeth the
shield at his neck, that was right black and huge and hideous.  He
seeth the Dragon's head in the midst thereof, that casteth out fire and
flame in great plenty, so foul and hideous and horrible that all the
field stank thereof.  The damsel draweth her toward the castle and
leaveth the knight on the horsesaith.


IV.

"Sir," saith she to Perceval, "On this level plot was slain your
uncle's son whom here I leave, for I have brought him far enough. Now
avenge him as best you may, I render and give him over to you, for so
much have I done herein as that none have right to blame me."

With that she departeth.  The Knight of the Dragon removeth and seeth
Perceval coming all alone, wherefore hath he great scorn of him and
deigneth not to take his spear, but rather cometh at him with his drawn
sword, that was right long and red as a burning brand.  Perceval seeth
him coming and goeth against him, spear in rest, as hard as his horse
may carry him, thinking to smite him through the breast.  But the
Knight setteth his shield between, and the flame that issued from the
Dragon burnt the shaft thereof even to his hand.  And the Knight
smiteth him on the top of his helmet, but Perceval covereth him of his
shield, whereof had he great affiance that the sword of the foeman
knight might not harm it.  Josephus witnesseth us that Joseph of
Abarimacie had made be sealed in the boss of the shield some of the
blood of Our Lord and a piece of His garment.


V.

When the Knight seeth that he hath not hurt Perceval's shield, great
marvel hath he thereof, for never aforetime had he smitten knight but
he had dealt him his death-blow.  He turneth the head of the Dragon
towards Perceval's shield, but the flame that issued from the Dragon's
head turned back again as it had been blown of the wind, so that it
might not come nigh him.  The Knight is right wroth thereof, and
passeth beyond and cometh to the bier of the dead knight and turneth
his shield with the dragon's head against him.  He scorcheth and
burneth all to ashes the bodies of the knight and the horses.

Saith he to Perceval, "Are you quit as for this knight's burial?"

"Certes," saith Perceval, "You say true, and much misliketh me thereof,
but please God I shall amend it."


VI.

The damsel that had brought the knight was at the windows of the palace
beside the Queen.  She crieth out. "Perceval, fair sir," saith the
damsel, "Now is the shame the greater and the harm the greater, and you
amend them not."

Right sorrowful is Perceval of his cousin that is all burnt to a
cinder, and he seeth the Knight that beareth the devil with him, but
knoweth not how he may do vengeance upon him.  He cometh to him
sword-drawn, and dealeth him a great blow on the shield in such sort
that he cleaveth it right to the midst thereof where the dragon's head
was, and the flame leapeth forth so burning hot on his sword that it
waxed red-hot like as was the Knight's sword.

And the damsel crieth to him: "Now is your sword of the like power as
his; now shall it be seen what you will do!  I have been told of a
truth that the Knight may not be vanquished save by one only and at one
blow, but how this is I may not tell, whereof irketh me."

Perceval looketh and seeth that his sword is all in a flame of fire,
whereof much he marvelleth.  He smiteth the Knight so passing sore that
he maketh his head stoop down over the fore saddle-bow.  The Knight
righteth him again, sore wrath that he may not put him to the worse.
He smiteth him with his sword a blow so heavy that he cleaveth the
habergeon and his right shoulder so that he cutteth and burneth the
flesh to the bone. As he draweth back his blow, Perceval catcheth him
and striketh him with such passing strength that he smiteth off his
hand, sword and all.  The Knight gave a great roar, and the Queen was
right joyous thereof.  The Knight natheless made no semblant that he
was yet conquered, but turneth back toward Perceval at a right great
gallop and launched his flame against his shield, but it availeth him
nought, for he might not harm it.  Perceval seeth the dragon's head,
that was broad and long and horrible, and aimeth with his sword and
thrusteth it up to the hilt into his gullet as straight as ever he may,
and the head of the dragon hurleth forth a cry so huge that forest and
fell resound thereof as far as two leagues Welsh.


VII.

The dragon's head turneth it toward his lord in great wrath, and
scorcheth him and burneth him to dust, and thereafter departed up into
the sky like lightning.  The Queen cometh to Perceval, and all the
knights, and see that he is sore hurt in his right shoulder.  And the
damsel telleth him that never will he be healed thereof save he setteth
thereon of the dust of the knight that is dead.  And they lead him up
to the castle with right great joy.  Then they make him be disarmed,
and have his wound washed and tended and some of the knight's dust that
was dead set thereon that it might have healing.  She maketh send to
all the knights of her land: "Lords," saith she, "See here the knight
that hath saved my land for me and protected your lives.  You know well
how it hath been prophesied that the knight with head of gold should
come, and through him should you be saved.  And now, behold, hath he
come hither.  The prophecy may not be belied.  I will that you do his
commandment."

And they said that so would they do right willingly.  She bringeth him
there where the Circlet of Gold is, and she herself setteth it on his
head.  After that, she bringeth his sword and delivereth it unto him,
wherewith he had slain the giant devil, both the knight that bare the
devil, and the devil that the knight bare in his shield.


VIII.

"Sir," saith she, "May all they that will not go to be baptized, nor
accept your New Law, be slain of this your sword, and hereof I make you
the gift."

She herself made her be held up and baptized first, and all the other
after.  Josephus maketh record that in right baptism she had for name
Elysa, and a good life she led and right holy, and she died a virgin.
Her body still lieth in the kingdom of Ireland, where she is highly
honoured.  Perceval was within the castle until that he was heal.  The
tidings spread throughout the lands that the Knight of the Golden
Circlet had slain the Knight of the Dragon, and great everywhere was
the joy thereof.  It was known at the court of King Arthur, but much
marvelled they that it was said the Knight of the Golden Circlet had
slain him, for they knew not who was the Knight of the Golden Circlet.


IX.

When Perceval was whole, he departed from the castle of the Queen of
the Golden Circlet, all of whose land was at his commandment. The Queen
told him that she would keep the Golden Circlet until he should will
otherwise, and in such sort he left it there, for he would not carry it
with him, sith that he knew not whitherward he might turn.  The history
telleth us that he rode on until one day he came to the Castle of
Copper.  Within the castle were a number of folk that worshipped the
bull of copper and believed not in any other God.  The bull of copper
was in the midst of the castle upon four columns of copper, and
bellowed so loud at all hours of the day that it was heard for a league
all round about, and there was an evil spirit within that gave answers
concerning whatsoever any should ask of it.


X.

At the entrance to the gateway of the castle were two men made of
copper by art of nicromancy, and they held two great mallets of iron,
and they busied themselves striking the one after the other, and so
strongly they struck that nought mortal is there in the world that
might pass through amongst their blows but should be all to-crushed
thereby.  And on the other side was the castle so fast enclosed about
that nought might enter thereinto.


XI.

Perceval beholdeth the fortress of the castle, and the entrance that
was so perilous, whereof he marvelleth much.  He passeth a bridge that
was within the entry, and cometh nigh them that guard the gate.  A
Voice began to cry aloud above the gate that he might go forward
safely, and that he need have no care for the men of copper that
guarded the gate nor be affrighted of their blows, for no power had
they to harm such a knight as was he.  He comforteth himself much of
that the Voice saith to him.  He cometh anigh the serjeants of copper,
and they cease to strike at once, and hold their iron mallets quite
still.  And he entereth into the castle, where he findeth within great
plenty of folk that all were misbelievers and of feeble belief.  He
seeth the bull of copper in the midst of the castle right big and
horrible, that was surrounded on all sides by folk that all did worship
thereunto together round about.


XII.

The bull bellowed so passing loud that right uneath was it to hear
aught else within the castle besides.  Perceval was therewithin, but
none was there that spake unto him, for, so intent were they upon
adoring the bull that, and any had been minded to slay them what time
they were yet worshipping the same, they would have allowed him so to
do, and would have thought that they were saved thereby; and save this
had they none other believe in the world.  It was not of custom within
there to be armed, for the entrance of the fortress was so strong that
none might enter but by their will and commandment, save it were the
pleasure of our Lord God.  And the devil that had deceived them, and in
whom they believed, gave them such great abundance therewithin of
everything they could desire, that nought in the world was there
whereof they lacked.  When he perceived that they held no discourse
with him, he draweth himself on one side by a great hall, and so called
them around him.  The more part came thither, but some of them came
not.  The Voice warneth him that he make them all pass through the
entrance of the gateway there where the men with the iron mallets are,
for there may he well prove which of them are willing to believe in God
and which not. The Good Knight draweth his sword and surroundeth them
all and maketh them all go in common before him, would they or nould
they.  And they that would not go willingly and kindly might be sure
that they should receive their death.  He made them pass through the
entrance there where the serjeants of copper were striking great blows
with their iron mallets.  Of one thousand five hundred that there were,
scarce but thirteen were not all slain and brained of the iron mallets.
But the thirteen had firmly bound their belief in Our Lord, wherefore
the serjeants took no heed of them.


XIII.

The evil spirit that was in the bull of copper issued forth thereof as
it had been lightning from heaven, and the bull of copper melted all in
a heap so as that nought remained in that place thereof.  Then the
thirteen that remained sent for a hermit of the forest and so made
themselves be held up and baptized. After that, they took the bodies of
the misbelievers and made cast them into a water that is called the
River of Hell.  This water runneth into the sea, so say many that have
seen it, and there where it spendeth itself in the sea is it most foul
and most horrible, so that scarce may ship pass that is not wrecked.


XIV.

Josephus maketh record that the hermit that baptized the thirteen had
the name of Denis, and that the castle was named the Castle of the
Trial.  They lived within there until the New Law was assured and
believed in throughout all the kingdoms, and a right good life led they
and a holy.  Nor never might none enter with them thereinto but was
slain and crushed save he firmly believed in God.  When the thirteen
that were baptized in the castle issued forth thereof they scattered
themselves on every side among strange forests, and made hermitages and
buildings, and put their bodies to penance for the false law they had
maintained and to win the love of the Saviour of the World.


XV.

Perceval, as you may hear, was soldier of Our Lord, and well did God
show him how He loved his knighthood, for the Good Knight had much pain
and sore travail and pleased Him greatly.  He was come one day to the
house of King Hermit that much desired to see him, and made much joy of
him when he saw him, and rejoiced greatly of his courage.  Perceval
relateth to him all the greater adventures that have befallen him at
many times and in many places sithence that he departed from him, and
King Hermit much marvelleth him of many.

"Uncle," saith Perceval, "I marvel me much of an adventure that befell
me at the outlet of a forest; for I saw a little white beast that I
found in the launde of the forest, and twelve hounds had she in her
belly, that bayed aloud and quested within her. At last they issued
forth of her and slew her beside the cross that was at the outlet of
the forest, but they might not eat of her flesh.  A knight and a
damsel, whereof one was at one end of the launde and the other at the
other, came thither and took the flesh and the blood, and set them in
two vessels of gold.  And the hounds that were born of her fled away
into the forest."

"Fair nephew," saith the Hermit, "I know well that God loveth you sith
that such things appear to you, for His valour and yours and for the
chastity that is in your body.  The beast, that was kindly and gentle
and sweet, signifieth Our Lord Jesus Christ, and the twelve dogs that
yelped within her signify the people of the Old Law that God created
and made in His own likeness, and after that He had made and created
them He desired to prove how much they loved Him.  He sent them forty
years into the wilderness, where their garments never wasted, and sent
them manna from heaven that served them whatsoever they would to eat
and to drink, and they were without evil and without trouble and
without sickness, and such joy and pleasance had they as they would.
And they held one day their council, and the master of them said that
and God should wax wroth with them and withhold this manna, they would
have nought to eat, and that it might not last always albeit that God
sent it in so passing great plenty. Wherefore they purposed to set
aside great part thereof in store, so that if the Lord God should wax
wroth they might take of that which was stored and so save themselves
for a long space.  They agreed among themselves and did thereafter as
they had purposed and determined amongst them.


XVI.

"God, that seeth and knoweth all things, knew well their thought. He
withdrew from them the manna from heaven that had come to them in such
abundance, and which they had bestowed in caverns underground, thinking
to find there the manna they had set aside, but it was changed by the
will of God into efts and adders and worms and vermin, and when they
saw that they had done evil, they scattered themselves over strange
lands.  Fair, sweet nephew," saith the Hermit, "These twelve hounds
that bayed in the beast are the Jews that God had fed, and that were
born in the Law that He established, nor never would they believe on
Him, nor love Him, but rather crucified Him and tore His Body after the
shamefullest sort they might, but in no wise might they destroy His
flesh.  The knight and damsel that set the pieces of flesh in vessels
of gold signify the divinity of the Father, which would not that His
flesh should be minished.  The hounds fled to the forest and became
savage what time they had torn the beast to pieces, so in like manner
are the Jews that were and ever shall be savage, subject to them of the
New Law henceforth for ever."


XVII.

"Fair uncle," saith Perceval, "Good right and reason is it that they
should have shame and tribulation and evil reward sith that they slew
and crucified Him that had created and made them and deigned to be born
as a man in their Law.  But two priests came after, whereof the one
kissed the cross and worshipped it right heartily and made great joy
thereof, and the other did violence thereunto and bear it with a great
rod, and wept right sore and made the greatest dole in the world.  With
this last was I right sore wrath, and willingly would I have run upon
him had he not been a priest."

"Fair nephew," saith the Hermit, "He that beat it believed in God
equally as well as he that adored, for that the holy flesh of the
Saviour of the World was set thereon, that abhorred not the pains of
death.  One smiled and made great joy for that He redeemed His souls
from the pains of hell that would otherwise have been therein for
evermore; and for this made he yet greater joy, that he knew He was God
and Man everlastingly in His nature, for he that hath not this in
remembrance shall never believe aright. Fair nephew, the other priest
bear the cross and wept for the passing great anguish and torment and
dolour that our Lord God suffered thereon, for so sore was the anguish
as might have melted the rock, nor no tongue of man may tell the sorrow
He felt upon the cross.  And therefore did he bear it and revile it for
that He was crucified thereon, even as I might hate a spear or sword
wherewith you had been slain.  For nought else did he thus, and ever,
so often as he remembereth the pain that God suffered thereon, cometh
he to the cross in such manner as you saw.  Both twain are hermits and
dwell in the forest, and he is named Jonas that kissed and adored the
cross, and he that beat and reviled it is named Alexis."


XVIII.

Willingly heareth Perceval this that his uncle telleth and recordeth
him.  He relateth how he did battle with the devil-knight that bare in
his shield the head of a dragon that cast forth fire and flame, and how
the dragon burnt up his lord at the last.

"Fair nephew," saith the hermit, "Right glad am I of these tidings that
you tell me, for I have been borne on hand that the Knight of the
Golden Circlet had slain him."

"Sir," saith Perceval, "It may well be, but never at any time saw I
knight so big and horrible."

"Fair nephew," saith the Hermit, "None might overcome him save the Good
Knight only, for all true worshipful men behoveth do battle with the
Devil, nor never may he be worshipful man that fighteth not against
him.  And even as the devil withal that was figured on his shield slew
and burnt up his master, even so doth one devil torment and molest
other in the world to come; and greater evil might not the Knight of
the Devil do you than burn the body of your uncle's son that he had
killed, as I have heard tell.  Power had he over his body, but, please
God, not over his soul to burn it."

"Fair uncle," saith Perceval, "I went thither by a Turning Castle,
where were archers of copper that shot bolts, and bears and lions
chained at the entrance of the gateway.  So soon as I drew nigh and
smote thereon with my sword the castle stopped still."

"Fair nephew," said King Hermit, "Nought had the Devil outwardly
besides this castle.  It was the entrance to his fortress, nor would
they within ever have been converted save you had been there."

"Sir," saith he, "Right sorrowful am I of Messire Gawain and Lancelot,
for well I loved their fellowship, and great aid would they have been
in my need."

"Fair nephew, had they been chaste as are you, well might they have
entered on account of their good knighthood.  For were they not wanton,
the two best knights in the world are they.


XIX.

"Fair nephew, in the time of your knighthood have you much advanced the
Law of the Saviour, for you have destroyed the falsest believe in the
world, and this was of them that believed on the bull of copper and the
devil that was therein.  If this folk had remained, and had failed of
you, never would it have been destroyed until the end of the world.
Wherefore marvel not that you have travail in serving God, but endure
it willingly, for never had worshipful man honour without pains.  But
now behoveth you achieve another matter.  All they of the land of King
Fisherman your uncle have abandoned the New Law, and returned to that
which God hath forbidden.  But the most part do so rather perforce and
for fear of the King that hath seized the land, who is my brother and
your uncle, than on account of aught else.  Wherefore behoveth you set
counsel therein, for this thing may not be achieved by any earthly man
save by you only.  For the castle and land should be yours of right,
and sore mischief is it when one that cometh of lineage so high and so
holy is traitor to God, and disloyal to the world.


XX.

"Fair nephew," saith the good man, "The castle hath been much
strengthened, for there are now nine bridges newly made, and at each
bridge are there three knights tall and strong and hardy, whereof hath
he much defence, and your uncle is there within that keepeth the
castle.  But never sithence, none of the knights of King Fisherman nor
of his priests have there appeared, nor knoweth any what hath befallen
them.  The chapel wherein the most Holy Graal appeared is all emptied
of its sacred hallows; the hermits that are by the forest are fain of
your coming, for never see they there a knight pass by that believeth
in God.  And so you shall have achieved this enterprise, it is a thing
whereof shall God be well pleased."


XXI.

"Fair uncle," saith Perceval, "Thither will I go, sith that you commend
it to me, for no reason is it that he should have the castle that hath
entered thereinto.  Of better right ought my mother to have it, that
was the next-born to King Fisherman, of whose death am I right
sorrowful."

"Fair nephew, you are right!  for on your account fell he into
languishment, and, had you then gone again, so say many, then would he
have been whole, but how this might have been I know not of a
certainty.  But methinketh our Lord God willed his languishment and
death, for had it been His will, you would have made the demand, but He
willed otherwise, wherefore ought we to give thanks and praise Him
whatsoever He doth, for He hath foreseen of every man that which shall
come to him.  I have within here a white mule that is very old.  Fair
nephew, you will take her with you.  She will follow you right
willingly, and a banner shall you bear, for the power of God and His
virtue shall avail more than your own.  Seven-and-twenty knights guard
the nine bridges, all chosen and of approved great valour, and none
ought now to believe that a single knight may vanquish so many, save
the miracle of Our Lord and His virtue shall open a way for him.  So I
pray and beseech you that you have God always in remembrance and His
sweet Mother, and, so at any time you be put to the worse of your
knighthood, mount upon the mule and take the banner, and your enemies
shall forthwith lose their force, for nought confoundeth any enemy so
swiftly as doth the virtue and puissance of God.  It is a thing well
known that you are the Best Knight of the World, but set not affiance
in your strength nor in your knighthood as against so many knights, for
against them may you not endure."


XXII.

Perceval hearkeneth unto his uncle's discourse and his chastening, and
layeth fast hold on all that he saith, wherewith is he pleased full
well, for great affiance hath he in his words.

"Fair nephew," saith the Hermit, "Two lions are there at the entry of
the gateway, whereof the one is red and the other white. Put your trust
in the white, for he is on God's side, and look at him whensoever your
force shall fail you, and he will look at you likewise in such sort as
that straightway you shall know his intent, by the will and pleasure of
Our Saviour.  Wherefore do according as you shall see that he would,
for no intent will he have save good only, and to help you; nor may you
not otherwise succeed in winning past the nine bridges that are warded
of the twenty-seven knights.  And God grant you may win past in such
wise that you may save your body and set forward withal the Law of Our
Lord that your uncle hath hindered all that he might."


XXIII.

Perceval departeth from the hermitage, and carrieth away the banner,
according to his uncle's counsel, and the white mule followeth after.
He goeth his way toward the land that was the land of King Fisherman,
and findeth a hermit that was issued forth of his hermitage and was
going at a great pace through the forest.  He abideth so soon as he
beholdeth the cross on Perceval's shield.

"Sir," saith he, "I well perceive that you are a Christian, of whom not
a single one have I seen this long time past.  For the King of Castle
Mortal is driving us forth of this forest, for he hath renounced God
and His sweet Mother, so that we durst not remain in His defence."

"By my faith," saith Perceval, "But you shall!  for God shall lead you
forward, and I after.  Are there more hermits in this forest?" saith
Perceval.

"Yea, Sir, there be twelve here that are waiting for me at a cross
yonder before us, and we are minded to go to the kingdom of Logres and
put our bodies to penance for God's sake, and to abandon our cells and
chapels in this forest for dread of this felon King that hath seized
the land, for he willeth that none who believeth in God should here
abide."


XXIV.

Perceval is come with the hermit to the cross where the good men had
assembled them together, and findeth Joseus, the young man that was
King Pelles' son, of whom he maketh right great joy, and he maketh the
hermits turn back again with him, saying that he will defend them and
make them safe, by God's help, in the kingdom, and prayeth them right
sweetly that they make prayer for him to our Lord that He grant him to
win back that which of right is his own.  He is come forth of the
forest and the hermits with him.  He draweth nigh to the castle of King
Fisherman, and strong was the defence at the entrance thereof.  Some of
the knights well knew that Perceval would conquer him, for long since
had it been prophesied that he who bare such shield should win the
Graal of him that sold God for money.


XXV.

The knights saw Perceval coming and the company of hermits with him
right seemly to behold, and much marvel had they thereof. About a
couple of bowshots above the bridge was a chapel fashioned like the one
at Camelot, wherein was a sepulchre, and none knew who lay therein.
Perceval abideth thereby and his company.  He leaneth his shield and
spear against the chapel, and maketh fast his horse and mule by the
reins.  He beholdeth the sepulchre, that was right fair, and forthwith
the sepulchre openeth and the joinings fall apart and the stone lifteth
up in such wise that a man might see the knight that lay within, of
whom came forth a smell of so sweet savour that it seemed to the good
men that were looking on that it had been all embalmed. They found a
letter which testified that this knight was named Josephus.  So soon as
the hermits beheld the sepulchre open, they said to Perceval: "Sir, now
at last know we well that you are the Good Knight, the chaste, the
holy."

The knights that warded the bridge heard the tidings