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Title: Hero-Myths & Legends of the British Race

Author: M. I. Ebbutt

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Language: English

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Transcriber's Note
The Glossary and Index includes a pronunciation of the Anglo-Saxon
names in the text. These include some characters with a macron

(straight line) above, and some with a breve (u-shaped symbol) above.
Also used is the accute accent (´). If these do not display properly, you
may need to adjust your font settings.

HERO-MYTHS & LEGENDS
OF THE BRITISH RACE

BY

M. I. EBBUTT M. A.

WITH FIFTY-ONE FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS BY

J. H. F. BACON A.R.A. BYAM SHAW
W. H. MARGETSON R.I. GERTRUDE
DEMAIN HAMMOND AND OTHERS

GEORGE G. HARRAP & COMPANY LTD.
LONDON CALCUTTA SYDNEY

Robin Hood and the Black Monk
William Sewell
[Page 331]

First published August 1910
by George G. Harrap & Co.

39-41 Parker Street, Kingsway, London, W.C.2
Reprinted: October 1910
September 1911
December 1914
May 1916
December 1917
February 1920
June 1924

Printed in Great Britain at The Ballantyne Press by
Spottiswoode, Ballantyne & Co. Ltd.
Colchester, London & Eton

TO

MISS JULIA KENNEDY
IN TOKEN OF THE ADMIRATION
AND AFFECTION OF AN

OLD PUPIL
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED

PREFACE

I N refashioning, for the pleasure of readers of the twentieth century, these
versions of ancient tales which have given pleasure to story-lovers of all
centuries from the eighth onward, I feel that some explanation of my
choice is necessary. Men’s conceptions of the heroic change with changing
years, and vary with each individual mind; hence it often happens that one
person sees in a legend only the central heroism, while another sees only
the inartistic details of mediæval life which tend to disguise and warp the
heroic quality.
It may be that to some people the heroes I have chosen do not seem heroic,
but there is no doubt that to the age and generation which wrote or sang of
them they appeared real heroes, worthy of remembrance and celebration,
and it has been my object to come as close as possible to the mediæval
mind, with its elementary conceptions of honour, loyalty, devotion, and
duty. I have therefore altered the tales as little as I could, and have tried to
put them as fairly as possible before modern readers, bearing in mind the
altered conditions of things and of intellects to-day.
In the work of selecting and retelling these stories I have to acknowledge
with most hearty thanks the help and advice of Mr. F. E. Bumby, B.A., of
the University College, Nottingham, who has been throughout a most kind
and candid censor or critic. His help has been in every way invaluable. I
have also to acknowledge the generous permission given me by Mr. W. B.
Yeats to write in prose the story of his beautiful play, “The Countess
Cathleen,” and to adorn it with quotations from that play.
The poetical quotations are attributed to the authors from whose works they
are taken wherever it is possible. When mediæval passages occur which are
not thus attributed they are my own versions from the original mediæval
poems.
M. I. EBBUTT

Tanglewood
Barnt Green
July 1910

CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
Introduction xvii
I. Beowulf 1
II. The Dream of Maxen Wledig 42
III. The Story of Constantine and
Elene 50
IV. The Compassion of Constantine 63
V. Havelok the Dane 73
VI. Howard the Halt 95
VII. Roland, the Hero of Early
France 119
VIII. The Countess Cathleen 156
IX. Cuchulain, the Champion of
Ireland 184
X. The Tale of Gamelyn 204
XI. William of Cloudeslee 225
XII. Black Colin of Loch Awe 248
XIII. The Marriage of Sir Gawayne 265
XIV.King Horn 286
XV. Robin Hood 314
XVI. Hereward the Wake 334
GLOSSARY AND INDEX 353

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Robin Hood and the Black
Monk (William Sewell) Frontispiece
To face
page
“The demon of evil, with his
fierce ravening, greedily
grasped them” (J. H. F. Bacon,
A.R.A.) 4
Beowulf replies haughtily to
Hunferth (J. H. F. Bacon,
A.R.A.) 12
Beowulf finds the head of
Aschere (J. H. F. Bacon,
A.R.A.) 22
Beowulf shears off the head of
Grendel (J. H. F. Bacon,
A.R.A.) 26
The death of Beowulf (J. H. F.
Bacon, A.R.A.) 40
The dream of the Emperor
(Byam Shaw) 46
The Queen’s dilemma (Byam
Shaw) 60
They filled the great vessel of
silver with pure water (Byam
Shaw) 70
“Havelok sat up surprised” (J.
H. F. Bacon, A.R.A.) 78
“Havelok again overthrew the 82
porters” (J. H. F. Bacon,

A.R.A.)
“With great joy they fell on
their knees” (J. H. F. Bacon,
A.R.A.) 88
Olaf and Sigrid (J. H. F. Bacon,
A.R.A.) 98
Howard leaves the house of
Thorbiorn (J. H. F. Bacon,
A.R.A.) 106
“The silver rolled in all
directions from his cloak” (J.
H. F. Bacon, A.R.A.) 110
“Thorbiorn lifted the huge
stone” (J. H. F. Bacon, A.R.A.) 116
Charlemagne (Stella Langdale) 120
“Here sits Charles the King”
(Byam Shaw) 124
“Ganelon rode away” (Byam
Shaw) 130
“Charlemagne heard it again”
(Byam Shaw) 144
Aude the Fair (Evelyn Paul) 154
“Day by day Cathleen went
among them” (W. H.
Margetson, R.I.) 162
The peasant’s story (W. H.
Margetson, R.I.) 172
“Thieves have broken into the
treasure-chamber” (W. H.
Margetson, R.I.) 176
“Cathleen signed the bond” (W.
H. Margetson, R.I.) 180
“All three drove furiously
towards Cruachan” (W. H.
Margetson, R.I.) 190

“Three monstrous cats were let
into the room” (W. H.
Margetson, R.I.) 192
“The dragon sank towards him,
opening its terrible jaws” (W. H.
Margetson, R.I.) 196
“The body of Uath arose” (W.
H. Margetson, R.I.) 200
“Go and do your own baking!”
(W. H. Margetson, R.I.) 206
“Lords, for Christ’s sake help
poor Gamelyn out of prison!”
(W. H. Margetson, R.I.) 214
“Then cheer thee, Adam” (W.
H. Margetson, R.I.) 218
“Come from the seat of
justice!” (W. H. Margetson,
R.I.) 222
“William continued his
wonderful archery” (Patten
Wilson) 232
Adam Bell writes the letter
(Patten Wilson) 234
The fight at the gate (Patten
Wilson) 238
William of Cloudeslee and his
son (Patten Wilson) 244
“Wait for me seven years, dear
wife” (Byam Shaw) 252
“The King blew a loud note on
his bugle” (W. H. Margetson,
R.I.) 268
“Now you have released me
from the spell completely” (W.
H. Margetson, R.I.) 282

Queen Godhild prays ever for
her son Horn (Patten Wilson) 288
Horn kills the Saracen Leader
(Patten Wilson) 298
Horn and his followers
disguised as minstrels (Patten
Wilson) 312
“Little John caught the horse by
the bridle” (Patten Wilson) 316
“I have no money worth
offering” (Patten Wilson) 320
“Sir Richard knelt in courteous
salutation” (Patten Wilson) 324
“Much shot the monk to the
heart” (Patten Wilson) 330
“Her pleading won relief for
them” (Gertrude Demain
Hammond, R.I.) 334
Alftruda (Gertrude Demain
Hammond, R.I.) 340
Hereward and the Princess
(Gertrude Demain Hammond,
R.I.) 344
Hereward and Sigtryg
(Gertrude Demain Hammond,
R.I.) 348

INTRODUCTION

T HE writer who would tell again for people of the twentieth century the
legends and stories that delighted the folk of the thirteenth and
fourteenth centuries finds himself confronted with a vast mass of
material ready to his hand. Unless he exercises a wise discrimination and
has some system of selection, he becomes lost in the mazes of as enchanted
a land,

“Where Truth and Dream walk hand in hand,”[1]

as ever bewildered knights of old in days of romance. Down all the dimly
lighted pathways of mediæval literature mystical figures beckon him in
every direction; fairies, goblins, witches, knights and ladies and giants
entice him, and unless, like Theseus of old, he follows closely his guiding
clue, he will find that he reaches no goal, attains to no clear vision, achieves
no quest. He will remain spell-bound, captivated by the Middle Ages—

“The life, the delight, and the sorrow
Of troublous and chivalrous years
That knew not of night nor of morrow,
Of hopes or of fears.
The wars and the woes and the glories
That quicken, and lighten, and rain
From the clouds of its chronicled stories
The passion, the pride, and the pain.”[2]

Such a golden clue to guide the modern seeker through the labyrinths of the
mediæval mind is that which I have tried to suggest in the title “Hero-
Myths and Legends of the British Race”—the pursuit and representation of
the ideal hero as the mind of Britain and of early and mediæval England
imagined him, together with the study of the characteristics which made
this or that particular person, mythical or legendary, a hero to the century
which sang or wrote about him. The interest goes deeper when we study,
not merely

“Old heroes who could grandly do
As they could greatly dare,”[3]

but

“Heroes of our island breed
And men and women of our British birth.”[4]

“Hero-worship endures for ever while man endures,” wrote Thomas
Carlyle, and this fidelity of men to their admiration for great heroes is one
of the surest tokens by which we can judge of their own character. Such as
the hero is, such will his worshippers be; and the men who idolised Robin
Hood will be found to have been men who were themselves in revolt
against oppressive law, or who, finding law powerless to prevent tyranny,
glorified the lawless punishment of wrongs and the bold denunciation of
perverted justice. The warriors who listened to the saga of Beowulf looked
on physical prowess as the best of all heroic qualities, and the Normans
who admired Roland saw in him the ideal of feudal loyalty. To every age,
and to every nation, there is a peculiar ideal of heroism, and in the popular
legends of each age this ideal may be found.
Again, these legends give not only the hero as he seemed to his age; they
also show the social life, the virtues and vices, the superstitions and beliefs,
of earlier ages embedded in the tradition, as fossils are found in the uplifted
strata of some ancient ocean-bed. They have ceased to live; but they remain,
tokens of a life long past. So in the hero-legends of our nation we may find
traces of the thoughts and religions of our ancestors many centuries ago;
traces which lie close to one another in these romances, telling of the
nations who came to these Islands of the West, settled, were conquered and
driven away to make room for other races whose supremacy has been as
brief, till all these superimposed races have blended into one, to form the
British nation, the most widespread race of modern times. For

“Britain’s might and Britain’s right
And the brunt of British spears”[5]

are not the boast of the English race alone. No man in England now can
boast of unmixed descent, but must perforce trace his family back through

many a marriage of Frank, and Norman, and Saxon, and Dane, and Roman,
and Celt, and even Iberian, back to prehistoric man—

“Scot and Celt and Norman and Dane,
With the Northman’s sinew and heart and brain,
And the Northman’s courage for blessing or bane,
Are England’s heroes too.”[6]

When Tennyson sang his greeting at the coming of Alexandra,

“Saxon or Dane or Norman we,
Teuton or Celt or whatever we be,”

he was only recognising a truth which no boast of pure birth can cover—the
truth that the modern Englishman is a compound of many races, with many
characteristics; and if we would understand him, we must seek the clue to
the riddle in early England and Scotland and Ireland and Wales, while even
France adds her share of enlightenment towards the solution of the riddle.

“The Saxon force, the Celtic fire,
These are thy manhood’s heritage.”[7]

Britain, as far as we can trace men in our island, was first inhabited by
cave-men, who have left no history at all. In the course of ages they passed
away before the Iberians or Ivernians, who came from the east, and bore a
striking resemblance to the Basques. It may be that some Mongolian tribe,
wandering west, drawn by the instinct which has driven most race-
migrations westward, sent offshoots north and south—one to brave the
dangers of the sea and inhabit Britain and Ireland, one to cross the Pyrenees
and remain sheltered in their deep ravines; or it may be that Basques from
the Pyrenees, daring the storms of the Bay of Biscay in their frail coracles,
ventured to the shores of Britain. Short and dark were these sturdy
voyagers, harsh-featured and long-headed, worshipping the powers of
Nature with mysterious and cruel rites of human sacrifice, holding beliefs in
totems and ancestor-worship and in the superiority of high descent claimed
through the mother to that claimed through the father. When the stronger
and more civilised Celt came he drove before him these little dark men, he
enslaved their survivors or wedded their women, and in his turn fell into

slavery to the cruel Druidic religion of his subjects. To these Iberians, and
to the Celtic dread of them, we probably owe all the stories of dwarfs,
goblins, elves, and earth-gnomes which fill our fairy-tale books; and if we
examine carefully the descriptions of the abodes of these beings we shall
find them not inconsistent with the earth-dwellings, caves, circle huts, or
even with the burial mounds, of the Iberian race.
The race that followed the Iberians, and drove them out or subdued them, so
that they served as slaves where they had once ruled as lords, was the proud
Aryan Celtic race. Of different tribes, Gaels, Brythons, and Belgæ, they
were all one in spirit, and one in physical feature.
Tall, blue-eyed, with fair or red hair, they overpowered in every way the
diminutive Iberians, and their tattooing, while it gave them a name which
has often been mistaken for a national designation (Picts, or painted men),
made them dreadful to their enemies in battle, and ferocious-looking even
in time of peace. Their civilisation was of a much higher type than that of
the Iberians; their weapons, their war-chariots, their mode of life and their
treatment of women, are all so closely similar to that of the Greeks of
Homer that a theory has been advanced and ably defended, that the
Homeric Greeks were really invading Celts—Gaelic or Gaulish tribes from
the north of Europe. If it indeed be so, we owe to the Celts a debt of
imperishable culture and civilisation. To them belongs more especially, in
our national amalgam, the passion for the past, the ardent patriotism, the
longing for spiritual beauty, which raises and relieves the Saxon
materialism.

“Though fallen the state of Erin and changed the Scottish
land,
Though small the power of Mona, though unwaked
Llewellyn’s band,
Though Ambrose Merlin’s prophecies are held as idle tales,
Though Iona’s ruined cloisters are swept by northern gales,
One in name and in fame
Are the sea-divided Gaels.

“In Northern Spain and Italy our brethren also dwell,
And brave are the traditions of their fathers that they tell;

The Eagle or the Crescent in the dawn of history pales
Before the advancing banners of the great Rome-conquering
Gaels:
One in name and in fame
Are the sea-divided Gaels.”[8]
It is almost impossible to overestimate the value of the Celtic contribution
to our national literature and character: the race that gave us Ossian, and
Finn, and Cuchulain, that sang of the sorrowful love and doom of Deirdre,
that told of the pursuit of Diarmit and Grania, till every dolmen and
cromlech in Ireland was associated with these lovers; the race that
preserved for us

“That grey king whose name, a ghost,
Streams like a cloud, man-shaped, from mountain-peak
And cleaves to cairn and cromlech still,”[9]

the King Arthur whose Arthur’s Seat overhangs Edinburgh, whose presence
haunts the Lakes, and Wales, and Cornwall, and the forests of Brittany; the
race that held up for us the image of the Holy Grail—that race can claim no
small share in the moulding of the modern Briton.
The Celt, however, had his day of supremacy and passed: the Roman
crushed his power of initiative and made him helpless and dependent, and
the Teuton, whether as Saxon, Angle, Frisian, or Jute, dwelt in his homes
and ruled as slaves the former owners of the land. These new-comers were
not physically unlike the Celts whom they dispossessed. Tall and fair, grey-
eyed and sinewy, the Teuton was a hardier, more sturdy warrior than the
Celt: he had not spent centuries of quiet settlement and imitative civilisation
under the ægis of Imperial Rome: he had not learnt to love the arts of peace
and he cultivated none but those of war; he was by choice a warrior and a
sailor, a wanderer to other lands, a plougher of the desolate places of the
“vasty deep,” yet withal a lover of home, who trod at times, with bitter
longing for his native land, the thorny paths of exile. To him physical
cowardice was the unforgivable sin, next to treachery to his lord; for the
loyalty of thane to his chieftain was a very deep and abiding reality to the
Anglo-Saxon warrior, and in the early poems of our English race, love for
“his dear lord, his chieftain-friend,” takes the place of that love of woman

which other races felt and expressed. A quiet death bed was the worst end to
a man’s life, in the Anglo-Saxon’s creed; it was “a cow’s death,” to be
shunned by every means in a man’s power; while a death in fight, victor or
vanquished, was a worthy finish to a warrior’s life. There was no fear of
death itself in the English hero’s mind, nor of Fate; the former was the
inevitable,

“Seeing that Death, a necessary end,
Will come when it will come,”[10]

and the latter a goddess whose decrees must needs be obeyed with proud
submission, but not with meek acceptance. Perhaps there was little of
spiritual insight in the minds of these Angles and Saxons, little love of
beauty, little care for the amenities of life; but they had a sturdy loyalty, an
uprightness, a brave disregard of death in the cause of duty, which we can
still recognise in modern Englishmen. To the Saxon belong the tales where

“The warrior kings,
In height and prowess more than human, strive
Again for glory, while the golden lyre
Is ever sounding in heroic ears
Heroic hymns.”[11]

When the English (Anglo-Saxons, as we generally call them) had settled
down in England, had united their warring tribes, and developed a
somewhat centralised government, their whole national existence was
imperilled by the incursions of the Danes. Kindred folk to the Anglo-
Saxons were these Danes, these Vikings from Christiania Wik, these
Northmen from Norway or Iceland, whose fame went before them, and the
dread of whom inspired the petition in the old Litany of the Church, “From
the fury of the Northmen, good Lord, deliver us!” Their fair hair and blue or
grey eyes, their tall and muscular frames, bore testimony to their kinship
with the races they harried and plundered, but their spirit was different from
that of the conquered Teutonic tribes. The Viking loved the sea; it was his
summer home, his field of war and profit. To go “a-summer-harrying” was
the usual employment of the true Viking, and in the winter only could he
enjoy domestic life and the pleasures of the family circle. The rapturous
fight with the elements, in which the Northman lived and moved and had

his being, gave him a strain of ruthless cruelty unlike anything in the more
peaceful Anglo-Saxon character: his disregard of death for himself led to a
certain callousness with regard to human life, and to a certain enjoyment in
inflicting physical anguish. There was an element of Red Indian
ruthlessness in the Viking, which looms large in the story of the years of
Norse ascendancy over Western Europe. Yet there was also a power of bold
and daring action, of reckless valour, of rapid conception and execution,
which contrasted strongly with the slower and more placid temperament of
the Anglo-Saxon, and to this Danish strain modern Englishmen probably
owe the power of initiative, the love of adventure, and the daring action
which have made England the greatest colonising nation on the earth. The
Danish, Norse, or Viking element spread far and wide in mediæval Europe
—Iceland, Normandy (Northman’s Land), the Isle of Man, the Hebrides,
the east of Ireland, the Danelagh of East Anglia, and the Cumberland dales
all show traces of the conquering Danish race; and raider after raider came
to England and stayed, until half of our island was Danish, and even our
royal family became for a time one with the royal line of Denmark. The
acceptance of Christianity by the Danes in England when Guthrum was
baptized rendered much more easy their amalgamation with the English;
but it was not so in Ireland, where the Round Towers still stand to show (as
some authorities hold) how the terrified native Irish sheltered from the
Danish fury which nearly destroyed the whole fabric of Irish Christianity.
The legends of Ireland, too, are full of the terror of the men of “Lochlann,”
which is generally taken to mean Norway; and the great coast cities of
Ireland—Dublin, Cork, Waterford, Wexford, and others—were so entirely
Danish that only the decisive battle of Clontarf, in which the saintly and
victorious Brian Boru was slain, saved Ireland to Christendom and curbed
the power of the heathen invaders.
A second wave of Norse invasion swept over England at the Norman
Conquest, and for a time submerged the native English population. The
chivalrous Norman knights who followed William of Normandy’s sacred
banner, whether from religious zeal or desire of plunder, were as truly
Vikings by race as were the Danes who settled in the Danelagh. The days
when Rolf (Rollo, or Rou), the Viking chief, won Normandy were not yet
so long gone by that the fierce piratical instincts of his followers had ceased
to influence their descendants: piety and learning, feudal law and custom,

had made some impression upon the character of the Norman, but at heart
he was still a Northman. The Norman barons fought for their independence
against Duke William with all the determination of those Norse chiefs who
would not acknowledge the overlordship of Harold Fairhair, but fled to
colonise Iceland when he made himself King of Norway. The seafaring
instincts which drove the Vikings to harry other lands in like manner drove
the Normans to piratical plundering up and down the English Channel, and,
when they had settled in England, led to continual sea-fights in the Channel
between English and French, hardy Kentish and Norman, or Cornish and
Breton, sailors, with a common strain of fighting blood, and a common love
of the sea.
The Norman Conquest of England was but one instance of Norman activity:
Sicily, Italy, Constantinople, even Antioch, and the Holy Land itself,
showed in time Norman states, Norman laws, Norman civilisation, and all
alike felt the impulse of Norman energy and inspiration. England lay ready
to hand for Norman invasion—the hope of peaceable succession to the
saintly Edward the Confessor had to be abandoned by William; the gradual
permeation of sluggish England with Norman earls, churchmen, courtiers,
had been comprehended and checked by Earl Godwin and his sons
(themselves of Danish race); but there still remained the way of open war
and an appeal to religious zeal; and this way William took. There was
genius as well as statesmanship in the idea of combining a personal claim to
the throne held by Harold the usurper with a crusading summons against the
schismatic and heretical English, who refused obedience to the true
successor of St. Peter. The success of the idea was its justification: the
success of the expedition proved the need that England had of some new
leaven to energise the sluggish temperament of her sons. The Norman
Conquest not only revived and quickened, but unified and solidified the
English nation. The tyranny of the Norman nobles, held in check at first
only by the tyranny of the Norman king, was the factor in mediæval English
life that made for a national consciousness; it also helped the appreciation
of the heroism of revolt against tyranny which is seen in Hereward the
Wake, in Robin Hood, in William of Cloudeslee, and in many other English
hero-rebels; but it gradually led men to a realization of their own rights as
Englishmen. When all men alike felt themselves sons of England, the days
were past when Norman and Saxon were aliens to each other, and Norman

robber soon became as truly English as Danish viking, Anglo-Saxon
seafarer, or Celtic settler. Then the full value of the Norman infusion was
seen in quicker intellectual apprehension, nimbler wit, a keener sense of
reverence, a more spiritual piety, a more refined courtesy, and a more
enlightened perception of the value of law. The materialism of the original
Saxon race was successively modified by many influences, and not least of
these was the Norman Conquest.
From the Norman Conquest onward England has welcomed men of many
nations—French, Flemings, Germans, Dutch: men brought by war, by trade,
by love of adventure, by religion; traders, refugees, exiles, all have found in
her a hospitable shelter and a second home, and all have come to love the
“grey old mother” that counted them among her sons and grew to think
them her own in very truth.
Geographically, also, we must recognise the admixture of races in our
islands. The farthest western borders show most strongly the type of man
whom we can imagine the Iberian to have been: Western Ireland, the
Hebrides, Central and South Wales, and Cornwall are still inhabited by folk
of Iberian descent. The blue-eyed Celt yet dwells in the Highlands and the
greater part of Wales and the Marches—Hereford and Shropshire, and as far
as Worcestershire and Cheshire; still the Dales of Cumberland, the Fen
Country, East Anglia, and the Isle of Man show traces of Danish blood,
speech, manners, and customs; still the slow, stolid Saxon inhabits the lands
south of the Thames from Sussex to Hampshire and Dorset. The Angle has
settled permanently over the Lowlands of Scotland, with the Celt along the
western fringe, and Flemish blood shows its traces in Pembroke on the one
side (“Little England beyond Wales”) and in Norfolk on the other.
With all these nations, all these natures, amalgamated in our own, it is no
wonder that the literature of our isles contains many different ideals of
heroism, changing according to nationality and epoch. Thus the physical
valour of Beowulf is not the same quality as the valour of Havelok the
Dane, though both are heroes of the strong arm; and the chivalry of Diarmit
is not the same as the chivalry of Roland. Again, religion has its share in
changing the ideals of a nation, and Constantine, the warrior of the Early
English poem of “Elene,” is far from being the same in character as the
tender-hearted Constantine of “moral Gower’s” apocryphal tale. The law-

abiding nature of the earliest heroes, whose obedience to their king and
their priest was absolute, differs almost entirely from the lawlessness of
Gamelyn and Robin Hood, both of whom set church and king at defiance,
and even account it a merit to revolt from the rule of both. It follows from
this that we shall find our chosen heroes of very different types and
characters; but we shall recognise that each represented to his own age an
ideal of heroism, which that age loved sufficiently to put into literature, and
perpetuate by the best means in its power. Of many another hero besides
Arthur—of Barbarossa, of Hiawatha, even of Napoleon—has the tradition
grown that he is not dead, but has passed away into the deathless land,
whence he shall come again in his own time. As Tennyson has sung,

“Great bards of him will sing
Hereafter; and dark sayings from of old
Ranging and ringing through the minds of men,
And echoed by old folk beside their fires
For comfort after their wage-work is done,
Speak of the King.”

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Lightfoot.
[2] Swinburne.
[3] Gerald Massey.
[4] J. R. Denning.
[5] W. W. Campbell.
[6] Ibid.
[7] C. Roberts.
[8] T. Darcy McGee.
[9] Tennyson.
[10] Shakespeare, Julius Cæsar.
[11] Tennyson.

CHAPTER I: BEOWULF

Introduction

T HE figure which meets us as we enter on the study of Heroes of the
British Race is one which appeals to us in a very special way, since he
is the one hero in whose legend we may see the ideals of our English
forefathers before they left their Continental home to settle in this island.
Opinions may differ as to the date at which the poem of “Beowulf” was
written, the place in which it was localised, and the religion of the poet who
combined the floating legends into one epic whole, but all must accept the
poem as embodying the life and feelings of our Forefathers who dwelt in
North Germany on the shores of the North Sea and of the Baltic. The life
depicted, the characters portrayed, the events described, are such as a
simple warrior race would cherish in tradition and legend as relics of the
life lived by their ancestors in what doubtless seemed to them the Golden
Age. Perhaps stories of a divine Beowa, hero and ancestor of the English,
became merged in other myths of sun-hero and marsh-demon, but in any
case the stories are now crystallized around one central human figure, who
may even be considered an historical hero, Beowulf, the thane of Hygelac,
King of the Geats. It is this grand primitive hero who embodies the ideal of
English heroism. Bold to rashness for himself, prudent for his comrades,
daring, resourceful, knowing no fear, loyal to his king and his kinsmen,
generous in war and in peace, self-sacrificing, Beowulf stands for all that is
best in manhood in an age of strife. It is fitting that our first British hero
should be physically and mentally strong, brave to seek danger and brave to
look on death and Fate undaunted, one whose life is a struggle against evil
forces, and whose death comes in a glorious victory over the powers of evil,
a victory gained for the sake of others to whom Beowulf feels that he owes
protection and devotion.

The Story. The Coming and Passing of Scyld

Once, long ago, the Danish land owned the sway of a mighty monarch,
Scyld Scefing, the founder of a great dynasty, the Scyldings. This great king
Scyld had come to Denmark in a mysterious manner, since no man knew
whence he sprang. As a babe he drifted to the Danish shore in a vessel
loaded with treasures; but no man was with him, and there was no token to
show his kindred and race. When Scyld grew up he increased the power of
Denmark and enlarged her borders; his fame spread far and wide among
men, and his glory shone undimmed until the day when, full of years and
honours, he died, leaving the throne securely established in his family. Then
the sorrowing Danes restored him to the mysterious ocean from which he
had come to them. Choosing their goodliest ship, they laid within it the
corpse of their departed king, and heaped around him all their best and
choicest treasures, until the venerable countenance of Scyld looked to
heaven from a bed of gold and jewels; then they set up, high above his
head, his glorious gold-wrought banner, and left him alone in state. The
vessel was loosed from the shore where the mourning Danes bewailed their
departing king, and drifted slowly away to the unknown west from which
Scyld had sailed to his now sorrowing people; they watched until it was lost
in the shadows of night and distance, but no man under heaven knoweth
what shore now holds the vanished Scyld. The descendants of Scyld ruled
and prospered till the days of his great-grandson Hrothgar, one of a family
of four, who can all be identified historically with various Danish kings and
princes.

Hrothgar’s Hall

Hrothgar was a mighty warrior and conqueror, who won glory in battle, and
whose fame spread wide among men, so that nobly born warriors, his
kinsmen, were glad to serve as his bodyguard and to fight for him loyally in
strife. So great was Hrothgar’s power that he longed for some outward sign
of the magnificence of his sway; he determined to build a great hall, in
which he could hold feasts and banquets, and could entertain his warriors
and thanes, and visitors from afar. The hall rose speedily, vast, gloriously
adorned, a great meeting-place for men; for Hrothgar had summoned all his
people to the work, and the walls towered up high and majestic, ending in
pinnacles and gables resembling the antlers of a stag. At the great feast

which Hrothgar gave first in his new home the minstrels chanted the glory
of the hall, “Heorot,” “The Hart,” as the king named it; Hrothgar’s desire
was well fulfilled, that he should build the most magnificent of banquet-
halls. Proud were the mighty warriors who feasted within it, and proud the
heart of the king, who from his high seat on the daïs saw his brave thanes
carousing at the long tables below him, and the lofty rafters of the hall
rising black into the darkness.

Grendel

Day by day the feasting continued, until its noise and the festal joy of its
revellers aroused a mighty enemy, Grendel, the loathsome fen-monster. This
monstrous being, half-man, half-fiend, dwelt in the fens near the hill on
which Heorot stood. Terrible was he, dangerous to men, of extraordinary
strength, human in shape but gigantic of stature, covered with a green horny
skin, on which the sword would not bite. His race, all sea-monsters, giants,
goblins, and evil demons, were offspring of Cain, outcasts from the mercy
of the Most High, hostile to the human race; and Grendel was one of
mankind’s most bitter enemies; hence his hatred of the joyous shouts from
Heorot, and his determination to stop the feasting.

“This the dire mighty fiend, he who in darkness dwelt,
Suffered with hatred fierce, that every day and night
He heard the festal shouts loud in the lofty hall;
Sound of harp echoed there, and gleeman’s sweet song.
Thus they lived joyously, fearing no angry foe
Until the hellish fiend wrought them great woe.
Grendel that ghost was called, grisly and terrible,
Who, hateful wanderer, dwelt in the moorlands,
The fens and wild fastnesses; the wretch for a while
abode
In homes of the giant-race, since God had cast him out.
When night on the earth fell, Grendel departed
To visit the lofty hall, now that the warlike Danes
After the gladsome feast nightly slept in it.
A fair troop of warrior-thanes guarding it found he;

Heedlessly sleeping, they recked not of sorrow.
The demon of evil, the grim wight unholy,
With his fierce ravening, greedily grasped them,
Seized in their slumbering thirty right manly thanes;
Thence he withdrew again, proud of his lifeless prey,
Home to his hiding-place, bearing his booty,
In peace to devour it.”

“The demon of evil, with his fierce ravening, greedily grasped them”

When dawn broke, and the Danes from their dwellings around the hall
entered Heorot, great was the lamentation, and dire the dismay, for thirty
noble champions had vanished, and the blood-stained tracks of the monster
showed but too well the fate that had overtaken them. Hrothgar’s grief was
profound, for he had lost thirty of his dearly loved bodyguard, and he
himself was too old to wage a conflict against the foe—a foe who repeated
night by night his awful deeds, in spite of all that valour could do to save
the Danes from his terrible enmity. At last no champion would face the
monster, and the Danes, in despair, deserted the glorious hall of which they
had been so proud. Useless stood the best of dwellings, for none dared
remain in it, but every evening the Danes left it after their feast, and slept
elsewhere. This affliction endured for twelve years, and all that time the
beautiful hall of Heorot stood empty when darkness was upon it. By night
the dire fiend visited it in search of prey, and in the morning his footsteps
showed that his deadly enmity was not yet appeased, but that any effort to
use the hall at night would bring down his fatal wrath on the careless
sleepers.
Far and wide spread the tidings of this terrible oppression, and many
champions came from afar to offer King Hrothgar their aid, but none was
heroic enough to conquer the monster, and many a mighty warrior lost his
life in a vain struggle against Grendel. At length even these bold
adventurers ceased to come; Grendel remained master of Heorot, and the
Danes settled down in misery under the bondage of a perpetual nightly
terror, while Hrothgar grew old in helpless longing for strength to rescue his
people from their foe.

Beowulf

Meanwhile there had come to manhood and full strength a hero destined to
make his name famous for mighty deeds of valour throughout the whole of
the Teutonic North. In the realm of the Geats (Götaland, in the south of

Sweden) ruled King Hygelac, a mighty ruler who was ambitious enough to
aim at conquering his neighbours on the mainland of Germany. His only
sister, daughter of the dead king Hrethel, had married a great noble,
Ecgtheow, and they had one son, Beowulf, who from the age of seven was
brought up at the Geatish court. The boy was a lad of great stature and
handsome appearance, with fair locks and gallant bearing; but he greatly
disappointed his grandfather, King Hrethel, by his sluggish character.
Beowulf as a youth had been despised by all for his sloth and his unwarlike
disposition; his good-nature and his rarely stirred wrath made others look
upon him with scorn, and the mighty stature to which he grew brought him
nothing but scoffs and sneers and insults in the banquet-hall when the royal
feasts were held. Yet wise men might have seen the promise of great
strength in his powerful sinews and his mighty hands, and the signs of great
force of character in the glance of his clear blue eyes and the fierceness of
his anger when he was once aroused. At least once already Beowulf had
distinguished himself in a great feat—a swimming-match with a famous
champion, Breca, who had been beaten in the contest. For this and other
victories, and for the bodily strength which gave Beowulf’s hand-grip the
force of thirty men, the hero was already famed when the news of Grendel’s
ravages reached Geatland. Beowulf, eager to try his strength against the
monster, and burning to add to his fame, asked and obtained permission
from his uncle, King Hygelac, to seek the stricken Danish king and offer his
help against Grendel; then, choosing fourteen loyal comrades and kinsfolk,
he took a cheerful farewell of the Geatish royal family and sailed for
Denmark.
Thus it happened that one day the Warden of the Coast, riding on his round
along the Danish shores, saw from the white cliffs a strange war-vessel
running in to shore. Her banners were unknown to him, her crew were
strangers and all in war-array, and as the Warden watched them they ran the
ship into a small creek among the mountainous cliffs, made her fast to a
rock with stout cables, and then landed and put themselves in readiness for
a march. Though there were fifteen of the strangers and the Warden was
alone, he showed no hesitation, but, riding boldly down into their midst,
loudly demanded:

“What are ye warlike men wielding bright weapons,
Wearing grey corslets and boar-adorned helmets,

Who o’er the water-paths come with your foaming keel
Ploughing the ocean surge? I was appointed
Warden of Denmark’s shores; watch hold I by the wave
That on this Danish coast no deadly enemy
Leading troops over sea should land to injure.
None have here landed yet more frankly coming
Than this fair company: and yet ye answer not
The password of warriors, and customs of kinsmen.
Ne’er have mine eyes beheld a mightier warrior,
An earl more lordly, than is he, the chief of you;
He is no common man; if looks belie him not,
He is a hero bold, worthily weaponed.
Anon must I know of you kindred and country,
Lest ye as spies should go free on our Danish soil.
Now ye men from afar, sailing the surging sea,
Have heard my earnest thought: best is a quick reply,
That I may swiftly know whence ye have hither come.”
So the aged Warden sat on his horse, gazing attentively on the faces of the
fifteen strangers, but watching most carefully the countenance of the leader;
for the mighty stature, the clear glance of command, the goodly armour, and
the lordly air of Beowulf left no doubt as to who was the chieftain of that
little band. When the questions had been asked the leader of the new-
comers moved forward till his mighty figure stood beside the Warden’s
horse, and as he gazed up into the old man’s eyes he answered: “We are
warriors of the Geats, members of King Hygelac’s bodyguard. My father,
well known among men of wisdom, was named Ecgtheow, a wise
counsellor who died full of years and famous for his wisdom, leaving a
memory dear to all good men.”

“We come to seek thy king Healfdene’s glorious son,
Thy nation’s noble lord, with friendly mind.
Be thou a guardian good to us strangers here!
We have an errand grave to the great Danish king,
Nor will I hidden hold what I intend!
Thou canst tell if it is truth (as we lately heard)
That some dire enemy, deadly in evil deed,
Cometh in dark of night, sateth his secret hate,

Worketh through fearsome awe, slaughter and shame.
I can give Hrothgar bold counsel to conquer him,
How he with valiant mind Grendel may vanquish,
If he would ever lose torment of burning care,
If bliss shall bloom again and woe shall vanish.”
The aged Warden replied: “Every bold warrior of noble mind must
recognise the distinction between words and deeds. I judge by thy speech
that you are all friends to our Danish king; therefore I bid you go forward,
in warlike array, and I myself will guide you to King Hrothgar; I will also
bid my men draw your vessel up the beach, and make her fast with a
barricade of oars against any high tide. Safe she shall be until again she
bears you to your own land. May your expedition prove successful.”
Thus speaking, he turned his horse’s head and led the way up the steep cliff
paths, while the Geats followed him, resplendent in shining armour, with
boar-crests on their helmets, shields and spears in their hands, and mighty
swords hanging in their belts: a goodly band were they, as they strode
boldly after the Warden. Anon there appeared a roughly trodden path, which
soon became a stone-paved road, and the way led on to where the great hall,
Heorot, towered aloft, gleaming white in the sun; very glorious it seemed,
with its pinnacled gables and its carved beams and rafters, and the Geats
gazed at it with admiration as the Warden of the Coast said: “Yonder stands
our monarch’s hall, and your way lies clear before you. May the All-Father
keep you safe in the conflict! Now it is time for me to return; I go to guard
our shores from every foe.”

Hrothgar and Beowulf

The little band of Geats, in their shining war-gear, strode along the stone-
paved street, their ring-mail sounding as they went, until they reached the
door of Heorot; and there, setting down their broad shields and their keen
spears against the wall, they prepared to enter as peaceful guests the great
hall of King Hrothgar. Wulfgar, one of Hrothgar’s nobles, met them at the
door and asked whence such a splendid band of warlike strangers, so well
armed and so worthily equipped, had come. Their heroic bearing betokened
some noble enterprise. Beowulf answered: “We are Hygelac’s chosen

friends and companions, and I am Beowulf. To King Hrothgar, thy master,
will I tell mine errand, if the son of Healfdene will allow us to approach
him.”
Wulfgar, impressed by the words and bearing of the hero, replied: “I will
announce thy coming to my lord, and bring back his answer”; and then
made his way up the hall to the high seat where Hrothgar sat on the daïs
amidst his bodyguard of picked champions. Bowing respectfully, he said:

“Here are come travelling over the sea-expanse,
Journeying from afar, heroes of Geatland.
Beowulf is the name of their chief warrior.
This is their prayer, my lord, that they may speak with
thee;
Do not thou give them a hasty refusal!
Do not deny them the gladness of converse!
They in their war-gear seem worthy of men’s respect.
Noble their chieftain seems, he who the warriors
Hither has guided.”

At these words the aged king aroused himself from the sad reverie into
which he had fallen and answered: “I knew him as a boy. Beowulf is the
son of Ecgtheow, who wedded the daughter of the Geat King Hrethel. His
fame has come hither before him; seafarers have told me that he has the
might of thirty men in his hand-grip. Great joy it is to know of his coming,
for he may save us from the terror of Grendel. If he succeeds in this, great
treasures will I bestow upon him. Hasten; bring in hither Beowulf and his
kindred thanes, and bid them welcome to the Danish folk!”
Wulfgar hurried down the hall to the place where Beowulf stood with his
little band; he led them gladly to the high seat, so that they stood opposite to
Hrothgar, who looked keenly at the well-equipped troop, and kindly at its
leader. A striking figure was Beowulf as he stood there in his gleaming ring-
mail, with the mighty sword by his side. It was, however, but a minute that
Hrothgar looked in silence, for with respectful greeting Beowulf spoke:

“Hail to thee, Hrothgar King! Beowulf am I,
Hygelac’s kinsman and loyal companion.

Great deeds of valour wrought I in my youth.
To me in my native land Grendel’s ill-doing
Came as an oft-heard tale told by our sailors.
They say that this bright hall, noblest of buildings,
Standeth to every man idle and useless
After the evening-light fails in the heavens.
Thus, Hrothgar, ancient king, all my friends urged me,
Warriors and prudent thanes, that I should seek thee,
Since they themselves had known my might in battle.
Now I will beg of thee, lord of the glorious Danes,
Prince of the Scylding race, Folk-lord most friendly,
Warden of warriors, only one boon.
Do not deny it me, since I have come from far;
I with my men alone, this troop of heroes good,
Would without help from thee cleanse thy great hall!
Oft have I also heard that the fierce monster
Through his mad recklessness scorns to use weapons;
Therefore will I forego (so may King Hygelac,
My friendly lord and king, find in me pleasure)
That I should bear my sword and my broad yellow
shield
Into the conflict: with my hand-grip alone
I ’gainst the foe will strive, and struggle for my life—
He shall endure God’s doom whom death shall bear
away.
I know that he thinketh in this hall of conflict
Fearless to eat me, if he can compass it,
As he has oft devoured heroes of Denmark.
Then thou wilt not need my head to hide away,
Grendel will have me all mangled and gory;
Away will he carry, if death then shall take me,
My body with gore stained will he think to feast on,
On his lone track will bear it and joyously eat it,
And mark with my life-blood his lair in the moorland;
Nor more for my welfare wilt thou need to care then.
Send thou to Hygelac, if strife shall take me,
That best of byrnies which my breast guardeth,

Brightest of war-weeds, the work of Smith Weland,
Left me by Hrethel. Ever Wyrd has her way.”
The aged King Hrothgar, who had listened attentively while the hero spoke
of his plans and of his possible fate, now greeted him saying: “Thou hast
sought my court for honour and for friendship’s sake, O Beowulf: thou hast
remembered the ancient alliance between Ecgtheow, thy father, and myself,
when I shielded him, a fugitive, from the wrath of the Wilfings, paid them
the due wergild for his crime, and took his oath of loyalty to myself. Long
ago that time is; Ecgtheow is dead, and I am old and in misery. It were too
long now to tell of all the woe that Grendel has wrought, but this I may say,
that many a hero has boasted of the great valour he would display in strife
with the monster, and has awaited his coming in this hall; in the morning
there has been no trace of each hero but the dark blood-stains on benches
and tables. How many times has that happened! But sit down now to the
banquet and tell thy plans, if such be thy will.”
Thereupon room was made for the Geat warriors on the long benches, and
Beowulf sat in the place of honour opposite to the king: great respect was
shown to him, and all men looked with wonder on this mighty hero, whose
courage led him to hazard this terrible combat. Great carved horns of ale
were borne to Beowulf and his men, savoury meat was placed before them,
and while they ate and drank the minstrels played and sang to the harp the
deeds of men of old. The mirth of the feast was redoubled now men hoped
that a deliverer had come indeed.

The Quarrel

Among all the Danes who were rejoicing over Beowulf’s coming there was
one whose heart was sad and his brow gloomy—one thane whom jealousy
urged to hate any man more distinguished than himself. Hunferth, King
Hrothgar’s orator and speech-maker, from his official post at Hrothgar’s
feet watched Beowulf with scornful and jealous eyes. He waited until a
pause came in the clamour of the feast, and suddenly spoke, coldly and
contemptuously: “Art thou that Beowulf who strove against Breca, the son
of Beanstan, when ye two held a swimming contest in the ocean and risked
your lives in the deep waters? In vain all your friends urged you to forbear

—ye would go on the hazardous journey; ye plunged in, buffeting the
wintry waves through the rising storm. Seven days and nights ye toiled, but
Breca overcame thee: he had greater strength and courage. Him the ocean
bore to shore, and thence he sought his native land, and the fair city where
he ruled as lord and chieftain. Fully he performed his boast against thee. So
I now look for a worse issue for thee, for thou wilt find Grendel fiercer in
battle than was Breca, if thou darest await him this night.”
Beowulf’s brow flushed with anger as he replied haughtily: “Much hast
thou spoken, friend Hunferth, concerning Breca and our swimming contest;
but belike thou art drunken, for wrongly hast thou told the tale. A youthful
folly of ours it was, when we two boasted and challenged each other to risk
our lives in the ocean; that indeed we did. Naked swords we bore in our
hands as we swam, to defend ourselves against the sea-monsters, and we
floated together, neither outdistancing the other, for five days, when a storm
drove us apart. Cold were the surging waves, bitter the north wind, rough
was the swelling flood, under the darkening shades of night. Yet this was
not the worst: the sea-monsters, excited by the raging tempest, rushed at me
with their deadly tusks and bore me to the abyss. Well was it then for me
that I wore my well-woven ring-mail, and had my keen sword in hand; with
point and edge I fought the deadly beasts, and killed them. Many a time the
hosts of monsters bore me to the ocean-bottom, but I slew numbers among
them, and thus we battled all the night, until in the morning came light from
the east, and I could see the windy cliffs along the shore, and the bodies of
the slain sea-beasts floating on the surge. Nine there were of them, for Wyrd
is gracious to the man who is valiant and unafraid. Never have I heard of a
sterner conflict, nor a more unhappy warrior lost in the waters; yet I saved
my life, and landed on the shores of Finland. Breca wrought not so mightily
as I, nor have I heard of such warlike deeds on thy part, even though thou,
O Hunferth, didst murder thy brothers and nearest kinsmen.

“Truly I say to thee, O son of Ecglaf bold,
Grendel the grisly fiend ne’er dared have wrought
So many miseries, such shame and anguish dire,
To thy lord, Hrothgar old, in his bright Heorot,
Hadst thou shown valiant mood, sturdy and battle-
fierce,
As thou now boastest.”

Beowulf replies haughtily to Hunferth

Very wroth was Hunferth over the reminder of his former wrongdoing and
the implied accusation of cowardice, but he had brought it on himself by his
unwise belittling of Beowulf’s feat, and the applause of both Danes and
Geats showed him that he dared no further attack the champion; he had to

endure in silence Beowulf’s boast that he and his Geats would that night
await Grendel in the hall, and surprise him terribly, since the fiend had
ceased to expect any resistance from the warlike Danes. The feast
continued, with laughter and melody, with song and boast, until the door
from the women’s bower, in the upper end of the hall, opened suddenly, and
Hrothgar’s wife, the fair and gracious Queen Wealhtheow, entered. The
tumult lulled for a short space, and the queen, pouring mead into a goblet,
presented it to her husband; joyfully he received and drank it. Then she
poured mead or ale for each man, and in due course came to Beowulf, as to
the guest of honour. Gratefully Wealhtheow greeted the lordly hero, and
thanked him for the friendship which brought him to Denmark to risk his
life against Grendel. Beowulf, rising respectfully and taking the cup from
the queen’s hand, said with dignity:

“This I considered well when I the ocean sought,
Sailed in the sea-vessel with my brave warriors,
That I alone would win thy folk’s deliverance,
Or in the fight would fall fast in the demon’s grip.
Needs must I now perform knightly deeds in this hall,
Or here must meet my doom in darksome night.”

Well pleased, Queen Wealhtheow went to sit beside her lord, where her
gracious smile cheered the assembly. Then the clamour of the feast was
renewed, until Hrothgar at length gave the signal for retiring. Indeed, it was
necessary to leave Heorot when darkness fell, for the fiend came each night
when sunlight faded. So the whole assembly arose, each man bade his
comrades “Good night,” and the Danes dispersed; but Hrothgar addressed
Beowulf half joyfully, half sadly, saying:

“Never before have I since I held spear and shield
Given o’er to any man this mighty Danish hall,
Save now to thee alone. Keep thou and well defend
This best of banquet-halls. Show forth thy hero-
strength,
Call up thy bravery, watch for the enemy!
Thou shalt not lack gifts of worth if thou alive remain
Winner in this dire strife.”

Thus Hrothgar departed, to seek slumber in a less dangerous abode, where,
greatly troubled in mind, he awaited the dawn with almost hopeless
expectation, and Beowulf and his men prepared themselves for the perils of
the night.

Beowulf and Grendel

The fourteen champions of the Geats now made ready for sleep; but while
the others lay down in their armour, with weapons by their sides, Beowulf
took off his mail, unbelted his sword, unhelmed himself, and gave his
sword to a thane to bear away. For, as he said to his men, “I will strive
against this fiend weaponless. With no armour, since he wears none, will I
wrestle with him, and try to overcome him. I will conquer, if I win, by my
hand-grip alone; and the All-Father shall judge between us, and grant the
victory to whom He will.”
The Geats then lay down—brave men who slept calmly, though they knew
they were risking their lives, for none of them expected to see the light of
day again, or to revisit their native land: they had heard, too, much during
the feast of the slaughter which Grendel had wrought. So night came, the
voices of men grew silent, and the darkness shrouded all alike—calm
sleepers, anxious watchers, and the deadly, creeping foe.
When everything was still Grendel came. From the fen-fastnesses, by
marshy tracts, through mists and swamp-born fogs, the hideous monster
made his way to the house he hated so bitterly. Grendel strode fiercely to
the door of Heorot, and would fain have opened it as usual, but it was
locked and bolted. Then the fiend’s wrath was roused; he grasped the door
with his mighty hands and burst it in. As he entered he seemed to fill the
hall with his monstrous shadow, and from his eyes shone a green and
uncanny light, which showed him a troop of warriors lying asleep in their
war-gear; it seemed that all slept, and the fiend did not notice that one man
half rose, leaning on his elbow and peering keenly into the gloom. Grendel
hastily put forth his terrible scaly hand and seized one hapless sleeper.
Tearing him limb from limb, so swiftly that his cry of agony was unheard,
he drank the warm blood and devoured the flesh; then, excited by the
hideous food, he reached forth again. Great was Grendel’s amazement to

find that his hand was seized in a grasp such as he had never felt before, and
to know that he had at last found an antagonist whom even he must fight
warily. Beowulf sprang from his couch as the terrible claws of the monster
fell upon him, and wrestled with Grendel in the darkness and gloom of the
unlighted hall, where the flicker of the fire had died down to a dim glow in
the dull embers. That was a dreadful struggle, as the combatants, in deadly
conflict, swayed up and down the hall, overturning tables and benches,
trampling underfoot dishes and goblets in the darkling wrestle for life. The
men of the Geats felt for their weapons, but they could not see the
combatants distinctly, though they heard the panting and the trampling
movements, and occasionally caught a gleam from the fiend’s eyes as his
face was turned towards them. When they struck their weapons glanced
harmlessly off Grendel’s scaly hide. The struggle continued for some time,
and the hall was an utter wreck within, when Grendel, worsted for once,
tried to break away and rush out into the night; but Beowulf held him fast in
the grip which no man on earth could equal or endure, and the monster
writhed in anguish as he vainly strove to free himself—vainly, for Beowulf
would not loose his grip. Suddenly, with one great cry, Grendel wrenched
himself free, and staggered to the door, leaving behind a terrible blood-trail,
for his arm and shoulder were torn off and left in the victor’s grasp. So the
monster fled wailing over the moors to his home in the gloomy mere, and
Beowulf sank panting on a shattered seat, scarce believing in his victory,
until his men gathered round, bringing a lighted torch, by the flaring gleam
of which the green, scaly arm of Grendel looked ghastly and threatening.
But the monster had fled, and after such a wound as the loss of his arm and
shoulder must surely die; therefore the Geats raised a shout of triumph, and
then took the hateful trophy and fastened it high up on the roof of the hall,
that all who entered might see the token of victory and recognise that the
Geat hero had performed his boast, that he would conquer with no weapon,
but by the strength of his hands alone.
In the morning many a warrior came to Heorot to learn the events of the
night, and all saw the grisly trophy, praised Beowulf’s might and courage,
and followed with eager curiosity the blood-stained track of the fleeing
demon till it came to the brink of the gloomy lake, where it disappeared,
though the waters were stained with gore, and boiled and surged with
endless commotion. There on the shore the Danes rejoiced over the death of

their enemy, and returned to Heorot care-free and glad at heart. Meanwhile
Beowulf and his Geats stayed in Heorot, for Hrothgar had not yet come to
receive an account of their night-watch. Throughout the day there was
feasting and rejoicing, with horse-races, and wrestling, and manly contests
of skill and endurance; or the Danes collected around the bard as he chanted
the glory of Sigmund and his son Fitela. Then came King Hrothgar himself,
with his queen and her maiden train, and they paused to gaze with horror on
the dreadful trophy, and to turn with gratitude to the hero who had delivered
them from this evil spirit. Hrothgar said: “Thanks be to the All-Father for
this happy sight! Much sorrow have I endured at the hands of Grendel,
many warriors have I lost, many uncounted years of misery have I lived, but
now my woe has an end! Now a youth has performed, with his unaided
strength, what all we could not compass with our craft! Well might thy
father, O Beowulf, rejoice in thy fame! Well may thy mother, if she yet
lives, praise the All-Father for the noble son she bore! A son indeed shalt
thou be to me in love, and nothing thou desirest shalt thou lack, that I can
give thee. Often have I rewarded less heroic deeds with great gifts, and to
thee I can deny nothing.”
Beowulf answered: “We have performed our boast, O King, and have
driven away the enemy. I intended to force him down on one of the beds,
and to deprive him of his life by mere strength of my hand-grip, but in this I
did not succeed, for Grendel escaped from the hall. Yet he left here with me
his hand, his arm, and shoulder as a token of his presence, and as the
ransom with which he bought off the rest of his loathsome body; yet none
the longer will he live thereby, since he bears with him so deadly a wound.”
Then the hall was cleared of the traces of the conflict and hasty preparation
was made for a splendid banquet. There was joy in Heorot. The Danes
assembled once again free from fear in their splendid hall, the walls were
hung with gold-wrought embroideries and hangings of costly stuffs, while
richly chased goblets shone on the long tables, and men’s tongues waxed
loud as they discussed and described the heroic struggle of the night before.
Beowulf and King Hrothgar sat on the high seats opposite to each other, and
their men, Danes and Geats, sitting side by side, shouted and cheered and
drank deeply to the fame of Beowulf. The minstrels sang of the Fight in
Finnsburg and the deeds of Finn and Hnæf, of Hengest and Queen
Hildeburh. Long was the chant, and it roused the national pride of the

Danes to hear of the victory of their Danish forefathers over Finn of the
Frisians; and merrily the banquet went forward, gladdened still more by the
presence of Queen Wealhtheow. Now Hrothgar showed his lavish
generosity and his thankfulness by the gifts with which he loaded the Geat
chief; and not only Beowulf, but every man of the little troop. Beowulf
received a gold-embroidered banner, a magnificent sword, helmet, and
corslet, a goblet of gold, and eight fleet steeds. On the back of the best was
strapped a cunningly wrought saddle, Hrothgar’s own, with gold ornaments.
When the Geat hero had thanked the king fittingly, Queen Wealhtheow
arose from her seat, and, lifting the great drinking-cup, offered it to her lord,
saying:

“Take thou this goblet, my lord and my ruler,
O giver of treasure, O gold-friend of heroes,
And speak to the Geats fair speeches of kindness,
Be mirthful and joyous, for so should a man be!
To the Geats be gracious, mindful of presents
Now that from far and near thou hast firm peace!
Tidings have come to me that thou for son wilt take
This mighty warrior who has cleansed Heorot,
Brightest of banquet-halls! Enjoy while thou mayest
These manifold pleasures, and leave to thy kinsmen
Thy lands and thy lordships when thou must journey
forth
To meet thy death.”

Turning to Beowulf, the queen said: “Enjoy thy reward, O dear Beowulf,
while thou canst, and live noble and blessed! Keep well thy widespread
fame, and be a friend to my sons in time to come, should they ever need a
protector.” Then she gave him two golden armlets, set with jewels, costly
rings, a corslet of chain-mail and a wonderful jewelled collar of exquisite
ancient workmanship, and, bidding them continue their feasting, with her
maidens she left the hall. The feast went on till Hrothgar also departed to
his dwelling, and left the Danes, now secure and careless, to prepare their
beds, place each warrior’s shield at the head, and go to sleep in their armour
ready for an alarm. Meanwhile Beowulf and the Geats were joyfully
escorted to another lodging, where they slept soundly without disturbance.

Grendel’s Mother

In the darkness of the night an avenger came to Heorot, came in silence and
mystery as Grendel had done, with thoughts of murder and hatred raging in
her heart. Grendel had gone home to die, but his mother, a fiend scarcely
less terrible than her son, yet lived to avenge his death. She arose from her
dwelling in the gloomy lake, followed the fen paths and moorland ways to
Heorot, and opened the door. There was a horrible panic when her presence
became known, and men ran hither and thither vainly seeking to attack her;
yet there was less terror among them than before when they saw the figure
of a horrible woman. In spite of all, the monster seized Aschere, one of
King Hrothgar’s thanes, and bore him away to the fens, leaving a house of
lamentation where men had feasted so joyously a few hours before. The
news was brought to King Hrothgar, who bitterly lamented the loss of his
wisest and dearest counsellor, and bade them call Beowulf to him, since he
alone could help in this extremity. When Beowulf stood before the king he
courteously inquired if his rest had been peaceful. Hrothgar answered
mournfully: “Ask me not of peace, for care is renewed in Heorot. Dead is
Aschere, my best counsellor and friend, the truest of comrades in fight and
in council. Such as Aschere was should a true vassal be! A deadly fiend has
slain him in Heorot, and I know not whither she has carried his lifeless
body. This is doubtless her vengeance for thy slaying of Grendel; he is
dead, and his kinswoman has come to avenge him.”

“I have heard it reported by some of my people
That they have looked on two such unearthly ones,
Huge-bodied march-striders holding the moor wastes;
One of them seemed to be shaped like a woman,
Her fellow in exile bore semblance of manhood,
Though huger his stature than man ever grew to:
In years that are long gone by Grendel they named him,
But know not his father nor aught of his kindred.
Thus these dire monsters dwell in the secret lands,
Haunt the hills loved by wolves, the windy nesses,
Dangerous marshy paths, where the dark moorland
stream
’Neath the o’erhanging cliffs downwards departeth,

Sinks in the sombre earth. Not far remote from us
Standeth the gloomy mere, round whose shores cluster
Groves with their branches mossed, hoary with lichens
grey
A wood firmly rooted o’ershadows the water.
There is a wonder seen nightly by wanderers,
Flame in the waterflood: liveth there none of men
Ancient or wise enough to know its bottom.
Though the poor stag may be hard by the hounds
pursued,
Though he may seek the wood, chased by his cruel
foes,
Yet will he yield his life to hunters on the brink
Ere he will hide his head in the dark waters.
’Tis an uncanny place. Thence the surge swelleth up
Dark to the heavens above, when the wind stirreth oft
Terrible driving storms, till the air darkens,
The skies fall to weeping.”
Then Hrothgar burst forth in uncontrollable emotion: “O Beowulf, help us
if thou canst! Help is only to be found in thee. But yet thou knowest not the
dangerous place thou must needs explore if thou seek the fiend in her den. I
will richly reward thy valour if thou returnest alive from this hazardous
journey.”
Beowulf was touched by the sorrow of the grey-haired king, and replied:

“Grieve not, O prudent King! Better it is for each
That he avenge his friend, than that he mourn him
much.
Each man must undergo death at the end of life.
Let him win while he may warlike fame in the world!
That is best after death for the slain warrior.”

“Arise, my lord; let us scan the track left by the monster, for I promise thee
I will never lose it, wheresoever it may lead me. Only have patience yet for
this one day of misery, as I am sure thou wilt.”

Hrothgar sprang up joyously, almost youthfully, and ordered his horse to be
saddled; then, with Beowulf beside him, and a mixed throng of Geats and
Danes following, he rode away towards the home of the monsters, the dread
lake which all men shunned. The blood-stained tracks were easy to see, and
the avengers moved on swiftly till they came to the edge of the mere, and
there, with grief and horror, saw the head of Aschere lying on the bank.

Beowulf finds the head of Aschere

“The lake boiled with blood, with hot welling gore;
The warriors gazed awe-struck, and the dread horn sang
From time to time fiercely eager defiance.
The warriors sat down there, and saw on the water
The sea-dragons swimming to search the abysses.
They saw on the steep nesses sea-monsters lying,
Snakes and weird creatures: these madly shot away
Wrathful and venomous when the sound smote their
ears,
The blast of the war-horn.”

As Beowulf stood on the shore and watched the uncouth sea-creatures,
serpents, nicors, monstrous beasts of all kinds, he suddenly drew his bow
and shot one of them to the heart. The rest darted furiously away, and the
thanes were able to drag the carcase of the slain beast on shore, where they
surveyed it with wonder.

The Fight with Grendel’s Mother

Meanwhile Beowulf had made ready for his task. He trusted to his well-
woven mail, the corslet fitting closely to his body and protecting his breast,
the shining helm guarding his head, bright with the boar-image on the crest,
and the mighty sword Hrunting, which Hunferth, his jealousy forgotten in
admiration, pressed on the adventurous hero.

“That sword was called Hrunting, an ancient heritage.
Steel was the blade itself, tempered with poison-twigs,
Hardened with battle-blood: never in fight it failed
Any who wielded it, when he would wage a strife
In the dire battlefield, folk-moot of enemies.”

When Beowulf stood ready with naked sword in hand, he turned and looked
at his loyal followers, his friendly hosts, the grey old King Hrothgar, the sun
and the green earth, which he might never see again; but it was with no
trace of weakness or fear that he spoke:

“Forget not, O noble kinsman of Healfdene,
Illustrious ruler, gold-friend of warriors,
What we two settled when we spake together,
If I for thy safety should end here my life-days,
That thou wouldst be to me, though dead, as a father.
Be to my kindred thanes, my battle-comrades,
A worthy protector should death o’ertake me.
Do thou, dear Hrothgar, send all these treasures here
Which thou hast given me, to my king, Hygelac.
Then may the Geat king, brave son of Hrethel dead,
See by the gold and gems, know by the treasures there,
That I found a generous lord, whom I loved in my life.
Give thou to Hunferth too my wondrous old weapon,
The sword with its graven blade; let the right valiant
man
Have the keen war-blade: I will win fame with his,
With Hrunting, noble brand, or death shall take me.”

Beowulf dived downward, as it seemed to him, for the space of a day ere he
could perceive the floor of that sinister lake, and all that time he had to fight
the sea-beasts, for they, attacking him with tusk and horn, strove to break
his ring-mail, but in vain. As Beowulf came near the bottom he felt himself
seized in long, scaly arms of gigantic strength. The fierce claws of the
wolfish sea-woman strove eagerly to reach his heart through his mail, but in
vain; so the she-wolf of the waters, a being awful and loathsome, bore him
to her abode, rushing through thick clusters of horrible sea-beasts.

“The hero now noticed he was in some hostile hall,
Where him the water-stream no whit might injure,
Nor for the sheltering roof the rush of the raging flood
Ever could touch him. He saw the strange flickering
flame,

Weird lights in the water, shining with livid sheen:
He saw, too, the ocean-wolf, the hateful sea-woman.”
Terrible and almost superhuman was the contest which now followed: the
awful sea-woman flung Beowulf down on his back and stabbed at him with
point and edge of her broad knife, seeking some vulnerable point; but the
good corslet resisted all her efforts, and Beowulf, exerting his mighty force,
overthrew her and sprang to his feet. Angered beyond measure, he
brandished the flaming sword Hrunting, and flashed one great blow at her
head which would have killed her had her scales and hair been vulnerable;
but alas! the edge of the blade turned on her scaly hide, and the blow failed.
Wrathfully Beowulf cast aside the useless sword, and determined to trust
once again to his hand-grip. Grendel’s mother now felt, in her turn, the
deadly power of Beowulf’s grasp, and was borne to the ground; but the
struggle continued long, for Beowulf was weaponless, since the sword
failed in its work. Yet some weapon he must have.

“So he gazed at the walls, saw there a glorious sword,
An old brand gigantic, trusty in point and edge,
An heirloom of heroes; that was the best of blades,
Splendid and stately, the forging of giants;
But it was huger than any of human race
Could bear to battle-strife, save Beowulf only.”

This mighty sword, a relic of earlier and greater races, brought new hope to
Beowulf. Springing up, he snatched it from the wall and swung it fiercely
round his head. The blow fell with crushing force on the neck of the sea-
woman, the dread wolf of the abyss, and broke the bones. Dead the monster
sank to the ground, and Beowulf, standing erect, saw at his feet the lifeless
carcase of his foe. The hero still grasped his sword and looked warily along
the walls of the water-dwelling, lest some other foe should emerge from its
recesses; but as he gazed Beowulf saw his former foe, Grendel, lying dead
on a bed in some inner hall. He strode thither, and, seizing the corpse by the
hideous coiled locks, shore off the head to carry to earth again. The
poisonous hot blood of the monster melted the blade of the mighty sword,
and nothing remained but the hilt, wrought with curious ornaments and
signs of old time. This hilt and Grendel’s head were all that Beowulf carried

off from the water-fiends’ dwelling; and laden with these the hero sprang up
through the now clear and sparkling water.

Beowulf shears off the head of Grendel

Meanwhile the Danes and Geats had waited long for his reappearance.
When the afternoon was well advanced the Danes departed sadly, lamenting
the hero’s death, for they concluded no man could have survived so long
beneath the waters; but his loyal Geats sat there still gazing sadly at the
waves, and hoping against all hope that Beowulf would reappear. At length
they saw changes in the mere—the blood boiling upwards in the lake, the
quenching of the unholy light, then the flight of the sea-monsters and a
gradual clearing of the waters, through which at last they could see their
lord uprising. How gladly they greeted him! What awe and wonder seized
them as they surveyed his dreadful booty, the ghastly head of Grendel and
the massive hilt of the gigantic sword! How eagerly they listened to his
story, and how they vied with one another for the glory of bearing his
armour, his spoils, and his weapons back over the moorlands and the fens to
Heorot. It was a proud and glad troop that followed Beowulf into the hall,
and up through the startled throng until they laid down before the feet of
King Hrothgar the hideous head of his dead foe, and Beowulf, raising his
voice that all might hear above the buzz and hum of the great banquet-hall,
thus addressed the king:

“Lo! we this sea-booty, O wise son of Healfdene,
Lord of the Scyldings, have brought for thy pleasure,
In token of triumph, as thou here seest.
From harm have I hardly escaped with my life,
The war under water sustained I with trouble,
The conflict was almost decided against me,
If God had not guarded me! Nought could I conquer
With Hrunting in battle, though ’tis a doughty blade.
But the gods granted me that I saw suddenly
Hanging high in the hall a bright brand gigantic:
So seized I and swung it that in the strife I slew
The lords of the dwelling. The mighty blade melted fast
In the hot boiling blood, the poisonous battle-gore;
But the hilt have I here borne from the hostile hall.
I have avenged the crime, the death of the Danish folk,
As it behovèd me. Now can I promise thee
That thou in Heorot care-free mayest slumber
With all thy warrior-troop and all thy kindred thanes,

The young and the aged: thou needst not fear for them
Death from these mortal foes, as thou of yore hast
done.”
King Hrothgar was now more delighted than ever at the return of his friend
and the slaughter of his foes. He gazed in delight and wonder at the gory
head of the monster, and the gigantic hilt of the weapon which struck it off.
Then, taking the glorious hilt, and scanning eagerly the runes which showed
its history, as the tumult stilled in the hall, and all men listened for his
speech, he broke out: “Lo! this may any man say, who maintains truth and
right among his people, that good though he may be this hero is even better!
Thy glory is widespread, Beowulf my friend, among thine own and many
other nations, for thou hast fulfilled all things by patience and prudence. I
will surely perform what I promised thee, as we agreed before; and I
foretell of thee that thou wilt be long a help and protection to thy people.”
King Hrothgar spoke long and eloquently while all men listened, for he
reminded them of mighty warriors of old who had not won such glorious
fame, and warned them against pride and lack of generosity and self-
seeking; and then, ending with thanks and fresh gifts to Beowulf, he bade
the feast continue with increased jubilation. The tumultuous rejoicing lasted
till darkness settled on the land, and when it ended all retired to rest free
from fear, since no more fiendish monsters would break in upon their
slumbers; gladly and peacefully the night passed, and with the morn came
Beowulf’s resolve to return to his king and his native land.
When Beowulf had come to this decision he went to Hrothgar and said:

“Now we sea-voyagers come hither from afar
Must utter our intent to seek King Hygelac.
Here were we well received, well hast thou treated us.
If on this earth I can do more to win thy love,
O prince of warriors, than I have wrought as yet,
Here stand I ready now weapons to wield for thee.
If I shall ever hear o’er the encircling flood
That any neighbouring foes threaten thy nation’s fall,
As Grendel grim before, swift will I bring to thee
Thousands of noble thanes, heroes to help thee.

I know of Hygelac, King of the Geat folk,
That he will strengthen me (though he is young in
years)
In words and warlike deeds to bear my warrior-spear
Over the ocean surge, when arms would serve thy need,
Swift to thine aid. If thy son Hrethric young
Comes to the Geat court, there to gain skill in arms,
Then will he surely find many friends waiting him:
Better in distant lands learneth by journeying
He who is valiant.”
Hrothgar was greatly moved by the words of the Geat hero and his promise
of future help. He wondered to find such wisdom in so young a warrior, and
felt that the Geats could never choose a better king if battle should cut off
the son of Hygelac, and he renewed his assurance of continual friendship
between the two countries and of enduring personal affection. Finally, with
fresh gifts of treasure and with tears of regret Hrothgar embraced Beowulf
and bade him go speedily to his ship, since a friend’s yearning could not
retain him longer from his native land. So the little troop of Geats with their
gifts and treasures marched proudly to their vessel and sailed away to
Geatland, their dragon-prowed ship laden with armour and jewels and
steeds, tokens of remembrance and thanks from the grateful Danes.

Beowulf’s Return

Blithe-hearted were the voyagers, and gaily the ship danced over the waves,
as the Geats strained their eyes towards the cliffs of their home and the
well-known shores of their country. When their vessel approached the land
the coast-warden came hurrying to greet them, for he had watched the
ocean day and night for the return of the valiant wanderers. Gladly he
welcomed them, and bade his underlings help to bear their spoils up to the
royal palace, where King Hygelac, himself young and valiant, awaited his
victorious kinsman, with his beauteous queen, Hygd, beside him. Then
came Beowulf, treading proudly the rocky paths to the royal abode, for
messengers had gone in advance to announce to the king his nephew’s

success, and a banquet was being prepared, where Beowulf would sit beside
his royal kinsman.
Once more there was a splendid feast, with tumultuous rejoicing. Again a
queenly hand—that of the beauteous Hygd—poured out the first bowl in
which to celebrate the safe return of the victorious hero. And now the
wonderful story of the slaying of the fen-fiends must be told.
Beowulf was called upon to describe again his perils and his victories, and
told in glowing language of the grisly monsters and the desperate combats,
and of the boundless gratitude and splendid generosity of the Danish king,
and of his prophecy of lasting friendship between the Danes and the Geats.
Then he concluded:

“Thus that great nation’s king lived in all noble deeds.
Of guerdon I failed not, of meed for my valour,
But the wise son of Healfdene gave to me treasures
great,
Gifts to my heart’s desire. These now I bring to thee,
Offer them lovingly: now are my loyalty
And service due to thee, O hero-king, alone!
Near kinsmen have I few but thee, O Hygelac!”

As the hero showed the treasures with which Hrothgar had rewarded his
courage, he distributed them generously among his kinsmen and friends,
giving his priceless jewelled collar to Queen Hygd, and his best steed to
King Hygelac, as a true vassal and kinsman should. So Beowulf resumed
his place as Hygelac’s chief warrior and champion, and settled down among
his own people.

Fifty Years After

When half a century had passed away, great and sorrowful changes had
taken place in the two kingdoms of Denmark and Geatland. Hrothgar was
dead, and had been succeeded by his son Hrethric, and Hygelac had been
slain in a warlike expedition against the Hetware. In this expedition
Beowulf had accompanied Hygelac, and had done all a warrior could do to

save his kinsman and his king. When he saw his master slain he had fought
his way through the encircling foes to the sea-shore, where, though sorely
wounded, he flung himself into the sea and swam back to Geatland. There
he had told Queen Hygd of the untimely death of her husband, and had
called on her to assume the regency of the kingdom for her young son
Heardred. Queen Hygd called an assembly of the Geats, and there, with the
full consent of the nation, offered the crown to Beowulf, the wisest
counsellor and bravest hero among them; but he refused to accept it, and so
swayed the Geats by his eloquence and his loyalty that they unanimously
raised Heardred to the throne, with Beowulf as his guardian and protector.
When in later years Heardred also fell before an enemy, Beowulf was again
chosen king, and as he was now the next of kin he accepted the throne, and
ruled long and gloriously over Geatland. His fame as a warrior kept his
country free from invasion, and his wisdom as a statesman increased its
prosperity and happiness; whilst the vengeance he took for his kinsman’s
death fulfilled all ideals of family and feudal duty held by the men of his
time. Beowulf, in fact, became an ideal king, as he was an ideal warrior and
hero, and he closed his life by an ideal act of self-sacrifice for the good of
his people.

Beowulf and the Fire-Dragon

In the fiftieth year of Beowulf’s reign a great terror fell upon the land: terror
of a monstrous fire-dragon, who flew forth by night from his den in the
rocks, lighting up the blackness with his blazing breath, and burning houses
and homesteads, men and cattle, with the flames from his mouth. The glare
from his fiery scales was like the dawn-glow in the sky, but his passage left
behind it every night a trail of black, charred desolation to confront the
rising sun. Yet the dragon’s wrath was in some way justified, since he had
been robbed, and could not trace the thief. Centuries before Beowulf’s
lifetime a mighty family of heroes had gathered together, by feats of arms,
and by long inheritance, an immense treasure of cups and goblets, of
necklaces and rings, of swords and helmets and armour, cunningly wrought
by magic spells; they had joyed in their cherished hoard for long years, until
all had died but one, and he survived solitary, miserable, brooding over the
fate of the dearly loved treasure. At last he caused his servants to make a

strong fastness in the rocks, with cunningly devised entrances, known only
to himself, and thither, with great toil and labour of aged limbs, he carried
and hid the precious treasure. As he sadly regarded it, and thought of its
future fate, he cried aloud:

“Hold thou now fast, O earth, now men no longer can,
The treasure of mighty earls. From thee brave men won
it
In days that are long gone by, but slaughter seized on
them,
Death fiercely vanquished them, each of my warriors,
Each one of my people, who closed their life-days here
After the joy of earth. None have I sword to wield
Or bring me the goblet, the richly wrought vessel.
All the true heroes have elsewhere departed!
Now must the gilded helm lose its adornments,
For those who polished it sleep in the gloomy grave,
Those who made ready erst war-gear of warriors.
Likewise the battle-sark which in the fight endured
Bites of the keen-edged blades midst the loud crash of
shields
Rusts, with its wearer dead. Nor may the woven mail
After the chieftain’s death wide with a champion rove.
Gone is the joy of harp, gone is the music’s mirth.
Now the hawk goodly-winged hovers not through the
hall,
Nor the swift-footed mare tramples the castle court:
Baleful death far has sent all living tribes of men.”

When this solitary survivor of the ancient race died his hoard remained
alone, unknown, untouched, until at length the fiery dragon, seeking a
shelter among the rocks, found the hidden way to the cave, and, creeping
within, discovered the lofty inner chamber and the wondrous hoard. For
three hundred winters he brooded over it unchallenged, and then one day a
hunted fugitive, fleeing from the fury of an avenging chieftain, in like
manner found the cave, and the dragon sleeping on his gold. Terrified
almost to death, the fugitive eagerly seized a marvellously wrought chalice

and bore it stealthily away, feeling sure that such an offering would appease
his lord’s wrath and atone for his offence. But when the dragon awoke he
discovered that he had been robbed, and his keen scent assured him that
some one of mankind was the thief. As he could not at once see the robber,
he crept around the outside of the barrow snuffing eagerly to find traces of
the spoiler, but it was in vain; then, growing more wrathful, he flew over
the inhabited country, shedding fiery death from his glowing scales and
flaming breath, while no man dared to face this flying horror of the night.
The news came to Beowulf that his folk were suffering and dying, and that
no warrior dared to risk his life in an effort to deliver the land from this
deadly devastation; and although he was now an aged man he decided to
attack the fire-drake. Beowulf knew that he would not be able to come to
hand-grips with this foe as he had done with Grendel and his mother: the
fiery breath of this dragon was far too deadly, and he must trust to armour
for protection. He commanded men to make a shield entirely of iron, for he
knew that the usual shield of linden-wood would be instantly burnt up in the
dragon’s flaming breath. He then chose with care eleven warriors, picked
men of his own bodyguard, to accompany him in this dangerous quest.
They compelled the unhappy fugitive whose theft had begun the trouble to
act as their guide, and thus they marched to the lonely spot where the
dragon’s barrow stood close to the sea-shore. The guide went unwillingly,
but was forced thereto by his lord, because he alone knew the way.

Beowulf Faces Death

When the little party reached the place they halted for a time, and Beowulf
sat down meditating sadly on his past life, and on the chances of this great
conflict which he was about to begin. When he had striven with Grendel,
when he had fought against the Hetware, he had been confident of victory
and full of joyous self-reliance, but now things were changed. Beowulf was
an old man, and there hung over him a sad foreboding that this would be his
last fight, and that he would rid the land of no more monsters. Wyrd seemed
to threaten him, and a sense of coming woe lay heavy on his heart as he
spoke to his little troop: “Many great fights I had in my youth. How well I
remember them all! I was only seven years old when King Hrethel took me

to bring up, and loved me as dearly as his own sons, Herebeald, Hathcyn, or
my own dear lord Hygelac. Great was our grief when Hathcyn, hunting in
the forest, slew all unwittingly his elder brother: greater than ordinary
sorrow, because we could not avenge him on the murderer! It would have
given no joy to Hrethel to see his second son killed disgracefully as a
murderer! So we endured the pain till King Hrethel died, borne down by his
bitter loss, and I wept for my protector, my kinsman. Then Hathcyn died
also, slain by the Swedes, and my dear lord Hygelac came to the throne: he
was gracious to me, a giver of weapons, a generous distributor of treasure,
and I repaid him as much as I could in battle against his foes. Daghrefn, the
Frankish warrior who slew my king, I sent to his doom with my deadly
hand-grip: he, at least, should not show my lord’s armour as trophy of his
prowess. But this fight is different: here I must use both point and edge, as I
was not wont in my youth: but here too will I, old though I be, work deeds
of valour. I will not give way the space of one foot, but will meet him here
in his own abode and make all my boasting good. Abide ye here, ye
warriors, for this is not your expedition, nor the work of any man but me
alone; wait till ye know which is triumphant, for I will win the gold and
save my people, or death shall take me.” So saying he raised his great
shield, and, unaccompanied, set his face to the dark entrance, where a
stream, boiling with strange heat, flowed forth from the cave; so hot was the
air that he stood, unable to advance far for the suffocating steam and smoke.
Angered by his impotence, Beowulf raised his voice and shouted a furious
defiance to the awesome guardian of the barrow. Thus aroused, the dragon
sprang up, roaring hideously and flapping his glowing wings together; out
from the recesses of the barrow came his fiery breath, and then followed the
terrible beast himself. Coiling and writhing he came, with head raised, and
scales of burnished blue and green, glowing with inner heat; from his
nostrils rushed two streams of fiery breath, and his flaming eyes shot
flashes of consuming fire. He half flew, half sprang at Beowulf. But the
hero did not retreat one step. His bright sword flashed in the air as he
wounded the beast, but not mortally, striking a mighty blow on his scaly
head. The guardian of the hoard writhed and was stunned for a moment, and
then sprang at Beowulf, sending forth so dense a cloud of flaming breath
that the hero stood in a mist of fire. So terrible was the heat that the iron
shield glowed red-hot and the ring-mail on the hero’s limbs seared him as a
furnace, and his breast swelled with the keen pain: so terrible was the fiery

cloud that the Geats, seated some distance away, turned and fled, seeking
the cool shelter of the neighbouring woods, and left their heroic lord to
suffer and die alone.

Beowulf’s Death

Among the cowardly Geats, however, there was one who thought it
shameful to flee—Wiglaf, the son of Weohstan. He was young, but a brave
warrior, to whom Beowulf had shown honour, and on whom he had
showered gifts, for he was a kinsman, and had proved himself worthy. Now
he showed that Beowulf’s favour had been justified, for he seized his
shield, of yellow linden-wood, took his ancient sword in hand, and prepared
to rush to Beowulf’s aid. With bitter words he reproached his cowardly
comrades, saying: “I remember how we boasted, as we sat in the mead hall
and drank the foaming ale, as we took gladly the gold and jewels which our
king lavished upon us, that we would repay him for all his gifts, if ever such
need there were! Now is the need come upon him, and we are here!
Beowulf chose us from all his bodyguard to help him in this mighty
struggle, and we have betrayed and deserted him, and left him alone against
a terrible foe. Now the day has come when our lord should see our valour,
and we flee from his side! Up, let us go and aid him, even while the grim
battle-flame flares around him. God knows that I would rather risk my body
in the fiery cloud than stay here while my king fights and dies! Not such
disloyalty has Beowulf deserved through his long reign that he should stand
alone in the death-struggle. He and I will die together, or side by side will
we conquer.” The youthful warrior tried in vain to rouse the courage of his
companions: they trembled, and would not move. So Wiglaf, holding on
high his shield, plunged into the fiery cloud and moved towards his king,
crying aloud: “Beowulf, my dear lord, let not thy glory be dimmed. Achieve
this last deed of valour, as thou didst promise in days of yore, that thy fame
should not fall, and I will aid thee.”
The sound of another voice roused the dragon to greater fury, and again
came the fiery cloud, burning up like straw Wiglaf’s linden shield, and
torturing both warriors as they stood behind the iron shield with their heated
armour. But they fought on manfully, and Beowulf, gathering up his

strength, struck the dragon such a blow on the head that his ancient sword
was shivered to fragments. The dragon, enraged, now flew at Beowulf and
seized him by the neck with his poisonous fangs, so that the blood gushed
out in streams, and ran down his corslet. Wiglaf was filled with grief and
horror at this dreadful sight, and, leaving the protection of Beowulf’s iron
shield, dashed forth at the dragon, piercing the scaly body in a vital part. At
once the fire began to fade away, and Beowulf, mastering his anguish, drew
his broad knife, and with a last effort cut the hideous reptile asunder. Then
the agony of the envenomed wound came upon him, and his limbs burnt
and ached with intolerable pain. In growing distress he staggered to a rough
ancient seat, carved out of the rock, hard by the door of the barrow. There
he sank down, and Wiglaf laved his brow with water from the little stream,
which boiled and steamed no longer. Then Beowulf partially recovered
himself, and said: “Now I bequeath to thee, my son, the armour which I also
inherited. Fifty years have I ruled this people in peace, so that none of my
neighbours durst attack us. I have endured and toiled much on this earth,
have held my own justly, have pursued none with crafty hatred, nor sworn
unjust oaths. At all this may I rejoice now that I lie mortally wounded. Do
thou, O dear Wiglaf, bring forth quickly from the cave the treasures for
which I lose my life, that I may see them and be glad in my nation’s wealth
ere I die.”
Thereupon Wiglaf entered the barrow, and was dazed by the bewildering
hoard of costly treasures. Filling his arms with such a load as he could
carry, he hastened out of the barrow, fearing even then to find his lord dead.
Then he flung down the treasures—magic armour, dwarf-wrought swords,
carved goblets, flashing gems, and a golden standard—at Beowulf’s feet, so
that the ancient hero’s dying gaze could fall on the hoard he had won for his
people. But Beowulf was now so near death that he swooned away, till
Wiglaf again flung water over him, and the dying champion roused himself
to say, as he grasped his kinsman’s hand and looked at the glittering heap
before him:

“I thank God eternal, the great King of Glory,
For the vast treasures which I here gaze upon,
That I ere my death-day might for my people
Win so great wealth. Since I have given my life,
Thou must now look to the needs of the nation;

Here dwell I no longer, for Destiny calleth me!
Bid thou my warriors after my funeral pyre
Build me a burial-cairn high on the sea-cliff’s head;
It shall for memory tower up on Hronesness,
So that the seafarers Beowulf’s Barrow
Henceforth shall name it, they who drive far and wide
Over the mighty flood their foamy keels.
Thou art the last of all the kindred of Wagmund!
Wyrd has swept all my kin, all the brave chiefs away!
Now must I follow them!”
These last words spoken, Beowulf fell back, and his soul passed away, to
meet the joy reserved for all true and steadfast spirits. The hero was dead,
but amid his grief Wiglaf yet remembered that the dire monster too lay
dead, and the folk were delivered from the horrible plague, though at
terrible cost! Wiglaf, as he mourned over his dead lord, resolved that no
man should joy in the treasures for which so grievous a price had been paid
—the cowards who deserted their king should help to lay the treasures in
his grave and bury them far from human use and profit. Accordingly, when
the ten faithless dastards ventured out from the shelter of the wood, and
came shamefacedly to the place where Wiglaf sat, sorrowing, at the head of
dead Beowulf, he stilled their cries of grief with one wave of the hand,
which had still been vainly striving to arouse his king by gentle touch, and,
gazing scornfully at them, he cried: “Lo! well may a truthful man say,
seeing you here, safely in the war-gear and ornaments which our dead hero
gave you, that Beowulf did but throw away his generous gifts, since all he
bought with them was treachery and cowardice in the day of battle! No
need had Beowulf to boast of his warriors in time of danger! Yet he alone
avenged his people and conquered the fiend—I could help him but little in
the fray, though I did what I could: all too few champions thronged round
our hero when his need was sorest. Now are all the joys of love and loyalty
ended; now is all prosperity gone from our nation, when foreign princes
hear of your flight and the shameless deed of this day. Better is death to
every man than a life of shame!”

The death of Beowulf

The Geats stood silent, abashed before the keen and deserved reproaches of
the young hero, and they lamented the livelong day. None left the shore and
their lord’s dead corpse; but one man who rode over the cliff near by saw
the mournful little band, with Beowulf dead in the midst. This warrior
galloped away to tell the people, saying: “Now is our ruler, the lord of the
Geats, stretched dead on the plain, stricken by the dragon which lies dead
beside him; and at his head sits Wiglaf, son of Weohstan, lamenting his
royal kinsman. Now is the joy and prosperity of our folk vanished! Now
shall our enemies make raids upon us, for we have none to withstand them!
But let us hasten to bury our king, to bear him royally to his grave, with
mourning and tears of woe.” These unhappy tidings roused the Geats, and
they hastened to see if it were really true, and found all as the messenger

had said, and wondered at the mighty dragon and the glorious hoard of
gold. They feared the monster and coveted the treasure, but all felt that the
command now lay with Wiglaf. At last Wiglaf roused himself from his
silent grief and said: “O men of the Geats, I am not to blame that our king
lies here lifeless. He would fight the dragon and win the treasure; and these
he has done, though he lost his life therein; yea, and I aided him all that I
might, though it was but little I could do. Now our dear lord Beowulf bade
me greet you from him, and bid you to make for him, after his funeral pyre,
a great and mighty cairn, even as he was the most glorious of men in his
lifetime. Bring ye all the treasures, bring quickly a bier, and place thereon
our king’s corpse, and let us bear our dear lord to Hronesness, where his
funeral fire shall be kindled, and his burial cairn built.”
The Geats, bitterly grieving, fulfilled Wiglaf’s commands. They gathered
wood for the fire, and piled it on the cliff-head; then eight chosen ones
brought thither the treasures, and threw the dragon’s body over the cliff into
the sea; then a wain, hung with shields, was brought to bear the corpse of
Beowulf to Hronesness, where it was solemnly laid on the funeral pile and
consumed to ashes.

“There then the Weder Geats wrought for their ruler
dead
A cairn on the ocean cliff widespread and lofty,
Visible far and near by vessels’ wandering crews.
They built in ten days’ space the hero’s monument,
And wrought with shining swords the earthen rampart
wall,
So that the wisest men worthy might deem it.
Then in that cairn they placed necklets and rings and
gems
Which from the dragon’s hoard brave men had taken.
Back to the earth they gave treasures of ancient folk,
Gold to the gloomy mould, where it now lieth
Useless to sons of men as it e’er was of yore.
Then round the mound there rode twelve manly
warriors,
Chanting their bitter grief, singing the hero dead,
Mourning their noble king in fitting words of woe!

They praised his courage high and his proud, valiant
deeds,
Honoured him worthily, as it is meet for men
Duly to praise in words their friendly lord and king
When his soul wanders forth far from its fleshly home.
So all the Geat chiefs, Beowulf’s bodyguard,
Wept for their leader’s fall: sang in their loud laments
That he of earthly kings mildest to all men was,
Gentlest, most gracious, most keen to win glory.”

CHAPTER II: THE DREAM OF MAXEN
WLEDIG

The Position of Constantine

I T would seem that the Emperor Constantine the Great loomed very large
in the eyes of mediæval England. Even in Anglo-Saxon times many
legends clustered round his name, so that Cynewulf, the religious poet of
early England, wrote the poem of “Elene” mainly on the subject of his
conversion. The story of the Vision of the Holy Cross with the inscription In
hoc signo vinces was inspiring to a poet to whom the heathen were a living
reality, not a distant abstraction; and Constantine’s generosity to the Church
of Rome and its bishop Sylvester added another element of attraction to his
character in the mediæval mind. It is hardly surprising that other legends of
his conversion and generosity should have sprung up, which differ entirely
from the earlier and more authentic record. Thus “the moral Gower” has
preserved for us an alternative legend of the cause of Constantine’s
conversion, which forms a good illustration of the virtue of pity in the
“Confessio Amantis.” Whence this later legend sprang we have no
knowledge, for nothing in the known history of Constantine warrants our
regarding him as a disciple of mercy, but its existence shows that the
mediæval mind was busied with his personality. Another most interesting
proof of his importance to Britain is given in the following legend of “The
Dream of Maxen Wledig,” preserved in the “Mabinogion.” This belongs to
the Welsh patriotic legends, and tends to glorify the marriage of the British
Princess Helena with the Roman emperor, by representing it as preordained
by Fate. The fact that the hero of the Welsh saga is the Emperor Maxentius
instead of Constantius detracts little from the interest of the legend, which is
only one instance of the well-known theme of the lover led by dream, or
vision, or magic glass to the home and heart of the beloved.

The Emperor Maxen Wledig

The Emperor Maxen Wledig was the most powerful occupant of the throne
of the Cæsars who had ever ruled Europe from the City of the Seven Hills.
He was the most handsome man in his dominions, tall and strong and
skilled in all manly exercises; withal he was gracious and friendly to all his
vassals and tributary kings, so that he was universally beloved. One day he
announced his wish to go hunting, and was accompanied on his expedition
down the Tiber valley by thirty-two vassal kings, with whom he enjoyed the
sport heartily. At noon the heat was intense, they were far from Rome, and
all were weary. The emperor proposed a halt, and they dismounted to take
rest. Maxen lay down to sleep with his head on a shield, and soldiers and
attendants stood around making a shelter for him from the sun’s rays by a
roof of shields hung on their spears. Thus he fell into a sleep so deep that
none dared to awake him. Hours passed by, and still he slumbered, and still
his whole retinue waited impatiently for his awakening. At length, when the
evening shadows began to lie long and black on the ground, their
impatience found vent in little restless movements of hounds chafing in
their leashes, of spears clashing, of shields dropping from the weariness of
their holders, and horses neighing and prancing; and then Maxen Wledig
awoke suddenly with a start. “Ah, why did you arouse me?” he asked sadly.
“Lord, your dinner hour is long past—did you not know?” they said. He
shook his head mournfully, but said no word, and, mounting his horse,
turned it and rode in unbroken silence back to Rome, with his head sunk on
his breast. Behind him rode in dismay his retinue of kings and tributaries,
who knew nothing of the cause of his sorrowful mood.

The Emperor’s Malady

From that day the emperor was changed, changed utterly. He rode no more,
he hunted no more, he paid no heed to the business of the empire, but
remained in seclusion in his own apartments and slept. The court banquets
continued without him, music and song he refused to hear, and though in
his sleep he smiled and was happy, when he awoke his melancholy could
not be cheered or his gloom lightened. When this condition of things had
continued for more than a week it was determined that the emperor must be
aroused from this dreadful state of apathy, and his groom of the chamber, a

noble Roman of very high rank—indeed, a king, under the emperor—
resolved to make the endeavour.
“My lord,” said he, “I have evil tidings for you. The people of Rome are
beginning to murmur against you, because of the change that has come over
you. They say that you are bewitched, that they can get no answers or
decisions from you, and all the affairs of the empire go to wrack and ruin
while you sleep and take no heed. You have ceased to be their emperor, they
say, and they will cease to be loyal to you.”

The Dream of the Emperor

Then Maxen Wledig roused himself and said to the noble: “Call hither my
wisest senators and councillors, and I will explain the cause of my
melancholy, and perhaps they will be able to give me relief.” Accordingly
the senators came together, and the emperor ascended his throne, looking so
mournful that the whole Senate grieved for him, and feared lest death
should speedily overtake him. He began to address them thus:
“Senators and Sages of Rome, I have heard that my people murmur against
me, and will rebel if I do not arouse myself. A terrible fate has fallen upon
me, and I see no way of escape from my misery, unless ye can find one. It is
now more than a week since I went hunting with my court, and when I was
wearied I dismounted and slept. In my sleep I dreamt, and a vision cast its
spell upon me, so that I feel no happiness unless I am sleeping, and seem to
live only in my dreams. I thought I was hunting along the Tiber valley, lost
my courtiers, and rode to the head of the valley alone. There the river
flowed forth from a great mountain, which looked to me the highest in the
world; but I ascended it, and found beyond fair and fertile plains, far vaster
than any in our Italy, with mighty rivers flowing through the lovely country
to the sea. I followed the course of the greatest river, and reached its mouth,
where a noble port stood on the shores of a sea unknown to me. In the
harbour lay a fleet of well-appointed ships, and one of these was most
beautifully adorned, its planks covered with gold or silver, and its sails of
silk. As a gangway of carved ivory led to the deck, I crossed it and entered
the vessel, which immediately sailed out of the harbour into the ocean. The
voyage was not of long duration, for we soon came to land in a wondrously

beautiful island, with scenery of varied loveliness. This island I traversed,
led by some secret guidance, till I reached its farthest shore, broken by cliffs
and precipices and mountain ranges, while between the mountains and the
sea I saw a fair and fruitful land traversed by a silvery, winding river, with a
castle at its mouth. My longing drew me to the castle, and when I came to
the gate I entered, for the dwelling stood open to every man, and such a hall
as was therein I have never seen for splendour, even in Imperial Rome. The
walls were covered with gold, set with precious gems, the seats were of
gold and the tables of silver, and two fair youths, whom I saw playing
chess, used pieces of gold on a board of silver. Their attire was of black
satin embroidered with gold, and golden circlets were on their brows. I
gazed at the youths for a moment, and next became aware of an aged man
sitting near them. His carved ivory seat was adorned with golden eagles, the
token of Imperial Rome; his ornaments on arms and hands and neck were of
bright gold, and he was carving fresh chessmen from a rod of solid gold.
Beside him sat, on a golden chair, a maiden (the loveliest in the whole
world she seemed, and still seems, to me). White was her inner dress under
a golden overdress, her crown of gold adorned with rubies and pearls, and a
golden girdle encircled her slender waist. The beauty of her face won my
love in that moment, and I knelt and said: ‘Hail, Empress of Rome!’ but as
she bent forward from her seat to greet me I awoke. Now I have no peace
and no joy except in sleep, for in dreams I always see my lady, and in
dreams we love each other and are happy; therefore in dreams will I live,
unless ye can find some way to satisfy my longing while I wake.”

The dream of the Emperor

The Quest for the Maiden

The senators were at first greatly amazed, and then one of them said: “My
lord, will you not send out messengers to seek throughout all your lands for
the maiden in the castle? Let each group of messengers search for one year,
and return at the end of the year with tidings. So shall you live in good hope
of success from year to year.” The messengers were sent out accordingly,
with wands in their hands and a sleeve tied on each cap, in token of peace
and of an embassy; but though they searched with all diligence, after three
years three separate embassies had brought back no news of the mysterious
land and the beauteous maiden.
Then the groom of the chamber said to Maxen Wledig: “My lord, will you
not go forth to hunt, as on the day when you dreamt this enthralling
dream?” To this the emperor agreed, and rode to the place in the valley
where he had slept. “Here,” he said, “my dream began, and I seemed to
follow the river to its source.” Then the groom of the chamber said: “Will
you not send messengers to the river’s source, my lord, and bid them follow
the track of your dream?” Accordingly thirteen messengers were sent, who
followed the river up until it issued from the highest mountain they had ever
seen. “Behold our emperor’s dream!” they exclaimed, and they ascended
the mountain, and descended the other side into a most beautiful and fertile
plain, as Maxen Wledig had seen in his dream. Following the greatest river
of all (probably the Rhine), the ambassadors reached the great seaport on
the North Sea, and found the fleet waiting with one vessel larger than all the
others; and they entered the ship and were carried to the fair island of
Britain. Here they journeyed westward, and came to the mountainous land
of Snowdon, whence they could see the sacred isle of Mona (Anglesey) and
the fertile land of Arvon lying between the mountains and the sea. “This,”
said the messengers, “is the land of our master’s dream, and in yon fair
castle we shall find the maiden whom our emperor loves.”

The Finding of the Maiden

So they went through the lovely land of Arvon to the castle of Caernarvon,
and in that lordly fortress was the great hall, with the two youths playing
chess, the venerable man carving chessmen, and the maiden in her chair of
gold. When the ambassadors saw the fair Princess Helena they fell on their

knees before her and said: “Empress of Rome, all hail!” But Helena half
rose from her seat in anger as she said: “What does this mockery mean?
You seem to be men of gentle breeding, and you wear the badge of
messengers: whence comes it, then, that ye mock me thus?” But the
ambassadors calmed her anger, saying: “Be not wroth, lady: this is no
mockery, for the Emperor of Rome, the great lord Maxen Wledig, has seen
you in a dream, and he has sworn to wed none but you. Which, therefore,
will you choose, to accompany us to Rome, and there be made empress, or
to wait here until the emperor can come to you?” The princess thought
deeply for a time, and then replied: “I would not be too credulous, or too
hard of belief. If the emperor loves me and would wed me, let him find me
in my father’s house, and make me his bride in my own home.”

The Dream Realized

After this the thirteen envoys departed, and returned to the emperor in such
haste that when their horses failed they gave no heed, but took others and
pressed on. When they reached Rome and informed Maxen Wledig of the
success of their mission he at once gathered his army and marched across
Europe towards Britain. When the Roman emperor had crossed the sea he
conquered Britain from Beli the son of Manogan, and made his way to
Arvon. On entering the castle he saw first the two youths, Kynon and
Adeon, playing chess, then their father, Eudav, the son of Caradoc, and then
his beloved, the beauteous Helena, daughter of Eudav. “Empress of Rome,
all hail!” Maxen Wledig said; and the princess bent forward in her chair and
kissed him, for she knew he was her destined husband. The next day they
were wedded, and the Emperor Maxen Wledig gave Helena as dowry all
Britain for her father, the son of the gallant Caradoc, and for herself three
castles, Caernarvon, Caerlleon, and Caermarthen, where she dwelt in turn;
and in one of them was born her son Constantine, the only British-born
Emperor of Rome. To this day in Wales the old Roman roads that connected
Helena’s three castles are known as “Sarn Helen.”

CHAPTER III: THE STORY OF
CONSTANTINE AND ELENE

The Greatness of Constantine Provokes Attack

I N the year 312, the sixth year after Constantine had become emperor,
the Roman Empire had increased on every hand, for Constantine was a
mighty leader in war, a gracious and friendly lord in peace; he was a true
king and ruler, a protector of all men. So mightily did he prosper that his
enemies assembled great armies against him, and a confederation to
overthrow him was made by the terrible Huns, the famous Goths, the brave
Franks, and the warlike Hugas. This powerful confederation sent against
Constantine an overwhelming army of Huns, whose numbers seemed to be
countless, and yet the Hunnish leaders feared, when they knew that the
emperor himself led the small Roman host.

The Eve of the Battle

The night before the battle Constantine lay sadly in the midst of his army,
watching the stars, and dreading the result of the next day’s conflict; for his
warriors were few compared with the Hunnish multitude, and even Roman
discipline and devotion might not win the day against the mad fury of the
barbarous Huns. At last, wearied out, the emperor slept, and a vision came
to him in his sleep. He seemed to see, standing by him, a beautiful shining
form, a man more glorious than the sons of men, who, as Constantine
sprang up ready helmed for war, addressed him by name. The darkness of
night fled before the heavenly light that shone from the angel, and the
messenger said:

“O Constantinus, the Ruler of Angels,
The Lord of all glory, the Master of heaven’s hosts,
Claims from thee homage. Be not thou affrighted,

Though armies of aliens array them for battle,
Though terrible warriors threaten fierce conflict.
Look thou to the sky, to the throne of His glory;
There seest thou surely the symbol of conquest.”
Elene.

Vision of the Cross

Constantine looked up as the angel bade him, and saw, hovering in the air, a
cross, splendid, glorious, adorned with gems and shining with heavenly
light. On its wood letters were engraved, gleaming with unearthly radiance:

“With this shalt thou conquer the foe in the conflict,
And with it shalt hurl back the host of the heathen.”

Elene.

Constantine is Cheered

Constantine read these words with awe and gladness, for indeed he knew
not what deity had thus favoured him, but he would not reject the help of
the Unknown God; so he bowed his head in reverence, and when he looked
again the cross and the angel had disappeared, and around him as he woke
was the greyness of the rising dawn. The emperor summoned to his tent two
soldiers from the troops, and bade them make a cross of wood to bear
before the army. This they did, greatly marvelling, and Constantine called a
standard-bearer, to whom he gave charge to bear forward the Standard of
the Cross where the danger was greatest and the battle most fierce.

The Morning of Battle

When the day broke, and the two armies could see each other, both hosts
arrayed themselves for battle, in serried ranks of armed warriors, shouting
their war-cries.

“Loud sang the trumpets to stern-minded foemen
The dewy-winged eagle watched them march onward,
The horny-billed raven rejoiced in the battle-play,
The sly wolf, the forest-thief, soon saw his heart’s desire
As the fierce warriors rushed at each other.
Great was the shield-breaking, loud was the clamour,
Hard were the hand-blows, and dire was the downfall,
When first the heroes felt the keen arrow-shower.
Soon did the Roman host fall on the death-doomed Huns,
Thrust forth their deadly spears over the yellow shields,
Broke with their battle-glaives breasts of the foemen.”

Elene.

The Cross is Raised

Then, when the battle was at its height, and the Romans knew not whether
they would conquer or die fighting to the last, the standard-bearer raised the
Cross, the token of promised victory, before all the host, and sang the chant
of triumph. Onward he marched, and the Roman host followed him,
pressing on resistless as the surging waves. The Huns, bewildered by the
strange rally, and dreading the mysterious sign of some mighty god, rolled
back, at first slowly, and then more and more quickly, till sullen retreat
became panic rout, and they broke and fled. Multitudes were cut down as
they fled, other multitudes were swept away by the devouring Danube as
they tried to cross its current; some, half dead, reached the other side, and
saved their lives in fortresses, guarding the steep cliffs beyond the Danube.
Few, very few they were who ever saw their native land again.
There was great rejoicing in the Roman army and in the Roman camp when
Constantine returned in triumph with the wondrous Cross borne before him.

He passed on to the city, and the people of Rome gazed with awe on the
token of the Unknown God who had saved their city, but none would say
who that God might be.

A Council Summoned

The emperor summoned a great council of all the wisest men in Rome, and
when all were met he raised the Standard of the Cross in the midst and said:

“Can any man tell me, by spells or by ancient lore,
Who is the gracious God, giver of victory,
Who came in His glory, with the Cross for His token,
Who rescued my people and gave me the victory,
Scattered my foemen and put the fierce Huns to flight,
Showed me in heaven His sign of deliverance,
The loveliest Cross of light, gleaming in glory?”

Elene.

At first no man could give him any answer—perhaps none dared—till after
a long silence the wisest of all arose and said he had heard that the Cross
was the sign of Christ the King of Heaven, and that the knowledge of His
way was only revealed to men in baptism. When strict search was made
some Christians were found, who preached the way of life to Constantine,
and rejoiced that they might tell before men, of the life and death, the
Resurrection and Ascension of Jesus Christ, who redeemed mankind from
the bonds of evil; and then Constantine, being fully instructed and
convinced, was baptized and became the first Christian emperor.

Constantine Desires to Find our Saviour’s Cross

Constantine’s heart, however, was too full of love for his new Lord to let
him rest satisfied without some visible token of Christ’s sojourn on earth.
He longed to have, to keep for his own, one thing at least which Jesus had

touched during His life, and his thoughts turned chiefly to that Cross which
had been to himself both the sign of triumph and the guide to the way of
life. Thus he again called together his Christian teachers, and inquired more
closely where Christ had suffered.
“In Judæa, outside the walls of Jerusalem, He died on the Cross,” they told
him.
“Then there, near that city, so blest and so curst, we must seek His precious
Cross,” cried Constantine.

Summons his Mother Elene

Forthwith he summoned from Britain his mother the British Princess Elene,
and when she had been taught the truth, had been converted and baptized,
he told her of his heart’s desire, and begged her to journey to Jerusalem and
seek the sacred Cross.
Elene herself, when she heard Constantine’s words, was filled with wonder,
and said: “Dear son, thy words have greatly rejoiced my heart, for know
that I, too, have seen a vision, and would gladly seek the Holy Cross, where
it lies hidden from the eyes of men.”

Elene’s Vision

“Now will I tell thee the brightest of visions,
Dreamt at the midnight when men lay in slumber.
Hovering in heaven saw I a radiant Cross,
Gloriously gold-adorned, shining in splendour;
Starry gems shone on it at the four corners,
Flashed from the shoulder-span five gleaming jewels.
Angels surrounded it, guarding it gladly.
Yet in its loveliness sad was that Cross to see,
For ’neath the gold and gems fast blood flowed from it,
Till it was all defiled with the dark drops.”

Dream of the Rood.

In this dream of Elene’s the Cross spoke to her, and told her of the sad fate
which had made of that hapless tree the Cross on which the Redeemer of
mankind had released the souls of men from evil, on which He had spread
out His arms to embrace mankind, had bowed His head, weary with the
strife, and had given up His soul. All creation wept that hour, for Christ was
on the Cross.

“Yet His friends came to him, left not His corpse alone,
Took down the Mighty King from His sharp sufferings—
Humbly I bowed myself down to the hands of men.
Sadly they laid Him down in His dark rock-hewn grave,
Sadly they sang for Him dirges for death-doomed ones,
Sadly they left Him there as His fair corpse grew cold.
We, the three Crosses, stood mournful in loneliness,
Till evil-thinking men felled us all three to ground,
Sank us deep into earth, sealed us from sight of man.”

Dream of the Rood.

She Undertakes the Quest

As Constantine had been guided by the heavenly vision of the True Cross,
so now Elene would journey to the land of the Jews and find the reality of
that Holy Cross. Her will and that of her son were one in this matter, so that
before long the whole city resounded with the bustle and clamour of
preparation, for Elene was to travel with the pomp and retinue befitting the
mother of the Emperor of Rome.

“There by the Wendel Sea stood the wave-horses.
Proudly the plunging ships sought out the ocean path.
Line followed after line of the tall brine-ploughs.
Forth went the water-steeds o’er the sea-serpent’s road

Bright shields on the bulwarks oft broke the foaming surge.
Ne’er saw I lady lead such a fair following!”
Elene.

She Comes to Judæa

Queen Elene had a prosperous voyage, and, after touching at the land of the
Greeks, reached in due time the country of Judæa, and so, with good hope
came to Jerusalem. There, in the emperor’s name, she summoned to an
assembly all the oldest and wisest Jews, a congregation of a thousand
venerable rabbis, learned in all the books of the Law and the Prophets and
proud that they were the Chosen People in a world of heathens, aliens from
the True God. These she addressed at first with a blending of flattery and
reproach—flattery for the Chosen People, reproach for their perversity of
wickedness—and, finally, peremptorily demanded an answer to any
question she might ask of them. The Jews withdrew and deliberated sadly
whether they durst refuse the request of so mighty a person as the emperor’s
mother, and, deciding that they durst not, returned to the hall where Elene
sat in splendour on her throne and announced their readiness to reply to all
her questions. Elene, however, bade them first lessen their numbers. They
chose five hundred to reply for them, and on these she poured such bitter
reproaches that they at last exclaimed:

“Lady, we learnt of yore laws of the Hebrew folk
Which all our fathers learnt from the true ark of God.
Lady, we know not now why thou thus blamest us;
How has the Jewish race done grievous wrong to thee?”

Elene.

She Cross-questions the Rabbis

Elene only replied: “Go ye away, and choose out from among these five
hundred those whose wisdom is great enough to show them without delay
the answer to all things I require”; and again they left her presence. When
they were alone, one of them, named Judas, said “I know what this queen
requires: she will demand to know from us where the Cross is concealed on
which the Lord of the Christians was crucified; but if we tell this secret I
know well that the Jews will cease to bear rule on the earth, and our holy
scriptures will be forgotten. For my grandfather Zacchæus, as he lay dying,
bade me confess the truth if ever man should inquire concerning the Holy
Tree; and when I asked how our nation had failed to recognise the Holy and
Just One, he told me that he had always withdrawn himself from the evil
deeds of his generation, and their leaders had been blinded by their own
unrighteousness, and had slain the Lord of Glory. And he ended:

“‘Thus I and my father secretly held the Faith.
Now warn I thee, my son, speak not thou mockingly
Of the true Son of God reigning in glory:
For whom my Stephen died, and the Apostle Paul.’

Elene.

“Now,” said Judas, “since things are so, decide ye what we shall reveal, or
what conceal, if this queen asks us.”

One Appointed to Answer her

The other elders replied: “Do what seems to thee best, since thou alone
knowest this. Never have we heard of these strange secrets. Do thou
according to thy great wisdom.”
While they still deliberated came the heralds with silver trumpets, which
they blew, proclaiming aloud:

“The mighty Queen calls you, O men, to the Council,
That she may hear from you of your decision.
Great is the need ye have of all your wisdom.”

Elene.

Slowly and reluctantly the Jewish rabbis returned to the council-chamber,
and listened to Elene as she plied them with questions about the ancient
prophecies and the death of Christ; but to all her inquiries they professed
entire ignorance, until, in her wrath, the queen threatened them with death
by fire. Then they led forward Judas, saying: “He can reveal the mysteries
of Fate, for he is of noble race, the son of a prophet. He will tell thee truth,
O Queen, as thy soul loveth.” Thus Elene let the other Jews go in peace, and
took Judas for a hostage.

She Threatens him

Now Elene greeted Judas and said:

“Lo, thou perverse one, two things lie before thee,
Or death or life for thee: choose which thou wilt.”

Elene.

Judas replied to her, since he could not escape:

“If the starved wanderer lost on the barren moors
Sees both a stone and bread, easily in his reach,
Which, O Queen, thinkest thou he will reject?”

Elene.

Thereupon Elene said: “If thou wouldst dwell in heaven with the angels,
reveal to me where the True Cross lies hidden.” Now Judas was very sad,
for his choice lay between death and the revealing of the fateful secret, but
he still tried to evade giving an answer, protesting that too long a time had
passed for the secret to be known. Elene retorted that the Trojan War was a
still more ancient story, and yet was still well known; but Judas replied that

men are bound to remember the valiant deeds of nations; he himself had
never even heard the story of which she spoke. This obstinacy angered the
queen greatly, and she demanded to be taken at once to the hill of Calvary,
that she might purify it, for the sake of Him who died there; but Judas only
repeated:

“I know not the place, nor aught of that field.”

Elene.

Queen Elene was yet more enraged by his stubborn denials, and determined
to obtain by force an answer to her questions. Calling her servants, she bade
them thrust Judas into a deep dry cistern, where he lay, starving, bound
hand and foot, for seven nights and days. On the seventh day his stubborn
spirit yielded, and Judas lifted up his voice and called aloud, saying:

“Now I beseech you all by the great God of heaven
That you will lift me up out of this misery.
I will tell all I know of that True Holy Cross,
Now I no longer can hide it for heavy pain.
Hunger has daunted me through all these dreary days.
Foolish was I of yore; late I confess it.”

Elene.

He Guides her to Calvary

The message was brought to Elene where she waited to hear tidings, and
she bade her servants lift the weakened Judas from the dark pit; then they
led him, half dead with hunger, out of the city to the hill of Calvary. There
Judas prayed to the God whom he now feared and worshipped for a sign,
some token to guide them in their search for the Holy Cross. As he prayed a
sweet-smelling vapour, curling upwards like the incense-wreaths around the
altar, rose to the skies from the summit of the hill. The sign was manifest to

all, and Judas gave thanks to God for His great mercy; then, bidding the
wondering soldiers help him, he began to dig. By this time all men knew
what they sought, and each wished to uncover the holy relic, so that all dug
with great zeal, until, under twenty feet of earth, they uncovered three
crosses, so well preserved that they lay in the earth just as the Jews had
hidden them.

Three Crosses Found

Judas and all rejoiced greatly at this marvel, and, reverently raising the
three crosses, they bore them into the city, and laid them at the feet of
Queen Elene, whose first rapture of joy was speedily turned to perplexity as
she realised that she knew not which was that sacred Cross on which the
King of Angels had suffered. “For,” she said, “two thieves were crucified
with him.” But even Judas could not clear her doubts.

“Lo we have heard of this from all the holy books,
That there were with him two in His deep anguish.
They hung in death by Him; He was Himself the third.
Heaven was all darkened o’er at that dread moment.
Say, if thou rightly canst, which of these crosses
Is that blest Tree of Fate which bore the Heaven’s King.”

Elene.

The Queen’s dilemma

A Miracle to Reveal our Saviour’s Cross

Judas, however, suggested that the crosses should be carried to the midst of
the city, and that they should pray for another miracle to reveal the truth.
This was done at dawn, and the triumphant band of Christians raised hymns
of prayer and praise until the ninth hour; then came a mighty crowd bearing
a young man lifeless on his bier. At Judas’s command they laid down the
bier, and he, praying to God, solemnly raised in turn each of the crosses and
held it above the dead man’s head. Lifeless still he lay as Judas raised the
first two, but when he held above the corpse the third, the True Cross, the
dead man arose instantly, body and soul reunited, one in praising God, and
the whole multitude broke out into shouts of thanksgiving to the Lord of
Hosts, and the sacred relic was restored to the loving care of the queen.

The Nails Sought for

Nevertheless Elene’s longing was still unsatisfied. She called Judas (whose
new name in baptism was Cyriacus) and begged him to fulfil her desires,
and to pray to God that she might find the nails which had pierced the Lord
of Life, where they lay hidden from men in the ground of Calvary. Leading
her out of the town, Cyriacus again prayed on Mount Calvary that God
would send forth a token and reveal the secret. As he prayed there came
from heaven a leaping flame, brighter than the sun, which touched the
surface of the ground here and there, and kindled in each place a tiny star.
When they dug at the spots where the stars shone they found each nail
shining visibly and casting a radiance of its own in the dark earth. So Elene
had obtained her heart’s desire, and had now the True Cross and the Holy
Nails.

Good News Brought to Constantine

Word of his mother’s success was sent to the Emperor Constantine, and he
was asked what should be done with these glorious relics. He bade Elene
build in Jerusalem a glorious church, and make therein a beautiful shrine of
silver, where the Holy Cross should be guarded for all generations by
priests who should watch it day and night. This was done, but the nails were
still Elene’s possession, and she was at a loss how to preserve these holy

relics, when the devout Cyriacus, now ordained Bishop of Jerusalem, went
to her and said: “O lady and queen, take these precious nails for thy son the
emperor. Make with them rings for his horse’s bridle. Victory shall ever go
with them; they shall be called Holy to God, and he shall be called blessed
whom that horse bears.” The advice pleased the queen, and she had wrought
a glorious bridle, adorned with the Holy Nails, and sent it to her son.
Constantine received it with all reverence, and ordained that April 24, the
day of the miracle of revelation, should henceforth be kept in honour as
“Holy Cross Day.” Thus were the Emperor’s zeal and the royal mother’s
devotion rewarded, and Christendom was enriched by some of its most
precious treasures, the True Cross and the Holy Nails.

CHAPTER IV: THE COMPASSION OF
CONSTANTINE

Youth of Constantine

C ONSTANTINE THE GREAT was the eldest son of the Roman
Emperor Constantius and the British Princess Helena, or Elena, and
was brought up as a devout worshipper of the many gods of Rome.
The lad grew up strong and handsome, of a tall and majestic figure, skilled
in all warlike exercises, and, as he fought in the civil wars between the
various Roman emperors, he showed himself a bold and prudent general in
battle, a friendly and popular leader in time of peace. The popularity of the
youthful Constantine was dangerous to him, and he needed, and showed,
great skill in evading the deadly jealousy of the old Emperor Diocletian,
and the hatred of his father’s rival, Galerius. At last, however, his position
became so dangerous that Constantius felt his son’s life was no longer safe,
and earnestly begged him to visit his native land of Britain, where
Constantius had just been proclaimed emperor and had defeated the wild
Caledonians. The excuse given was that Constantius was in bad health and
needed his son; but not until the young man was actually in Britain would
his anxious father avow that he feared for his son’s life.

Acclaimed Emperor

When the half-British Constantius died, Constantine, who was the favourite
of the Roman soldiery of the west, was at once acclaimed as emperor by his
devoted troops. He professed unwillingness to accept the honour, and it is
said that he even tried in vain to escape on horseback from the affectionate
solicitations of his soldiers. Seeing the uselessness of further protest,
Constantine accepted the imperial title, and wrote to Galerius claiming the
throne and justifying his acceptance of the unsought dignity thrust upon
him. Galerius acquiesced in the inevitable, and granted Constantine the

inferior title of “Cæsar,” with rule over Western Europe, and the wise prince
was content to wait until favouring circumstances should destroy his rivals
and give him that sole sway over the Roman Empire for which he was so
well fitted. He had now reached the age of thirty, had fought valiantly in the
wars in Egypt and Persia, and had risen by merit to the rank of tribune. His
marriage with Fausta, the daughter of the Emperor Maximian, and his
elevation to the rank of Augustus brought him nearer to the attainment of
his ambition; and at length the defeat and death of his rivals placed him at
the head of the world-wide empire of Rome. It is to some period previous to
Constantine’s elevation to the supreme authority that we must refer the
following story, told by Gower in his “Confessio Amantis” as an example of
that true charity which is the mother of pity, and makes a man’s heart so
tender that,

“Though he might himself relieve,
Yet he would not another grieve,”

but in order to give pleasure to others would bear his own trouble alone.

Becomes a Leper

The noble Constantine, Emperor of Rome, was in the full flower of his age,
goodly to look upon, strong and happy, when a great and sudden affliction
came upon him: leprosy attacked him. The horrible disease showed itself
first in his face, so that no concealment was possible, and if he had not been
the emperor he would have been driven out to live in the forests and wilds.
The leprosy spread from his face till it entirely covered his body, and
became so bad that he could no longer ride out or show himself to his
people. When all cures had been tried and had failed, Constantine withdrew
himself from his lords, gave up all use of arms, abandoned his imperial
duties, and shut himself in his palace, where he lived such a secluded life in
his own apartments that Rome had, as it were, no lord, and all men
throughout the empire talked of his illness and prayed their gods to heal
him. When everything seemed to be in vain, Constantine yielded to the
prayer of his council, that he would summon all the doctors, learned men,

and physicians from every realm to Rome, that they might consider his
illness and try if any cure could be found for his malady.

Rewards Offered for his Cure

A proclamation went forth throughout the world and great rewards were
offered to any man who should heal the emperor. Tempted by the rewards
and the great fame to be won, there came leeches and physicians from
Persia and Arabia, and from every land that owned the sway of Rome,
philosophers from Greece and Egypt, and magicians and sorcerers from the
unexplored desert of the east. But, though Constantine tried all the remedies
suggested or recommended by the wise men, his leprosy grew no better, but
rather worse, and even magic could give him no help.
Again the learned men assembled and consulted what they should advise,
for all were loath to abandon the emperor in his great distress, but they were
all at a loss. They sat in silence, till at last one very old and very wise man,
a great physician from Arabia, arose and said:

A Desperate Remedy

“Now that all else has failed, and naught is of any avail, I will tell of a
remedy of which I have heard. It will, I believe, certainly cure our beloved
emperor, but it is very terrible, and therefore I was loath to name it till every
other means had been tried and failed, for it is a cruel thing for any man to
do. Let the Emperor dip himself in a full bath of the blood of infants and
children, seven years old or under, and he shall be healed, and his leprosy
shall fall from him; for this malady is not natural to his body, and it
demands an unnatural cure.”

Constantine Assents Regretfully

The proposal was a terrible one to the assembly, and many would not agree
to it at first, but when they considered that nothing else would heal the

emperor they at length gave way, and sent two from among themselves to
bring the news to Constantine, who was waiting for them in his darkened
room. He was horrified when he heard the counsel they brought, and at first
utterly refused to carry out so evil a plan; but because his life was very dear
to his people, and because he felt that he had a great work to do in the
world, he ultimately agreed, with many tears, to try the terrible remedy.

A Cruel Proclamation

Thereupon the council drew up letters, under the emperor’s hand and seal,
and sent them out to all the world, bidding all mothers with children of
seven years of age or under to bring them with speed to Rome, that there
the blood of the innocents might prove healing to the emperor’s malady.
Alas! what weeping and wailing there was among the mothers when they
heard this cruel decree! How they cried, and clasped their babes to their
breasts, and how they called Constantine more cruel than Herod, who killed
the Holy Innocents! The eastern ruler, they said, slew only the infants of
one poor village, but their emperor, more ruthless, claimed the lives of all
the young children of his whole empire.

Constantine is Conscience-stricken

But though the mothers lamented bitterly, they must needs bow to the
emperor’s decree, whether they were lief or loath, and thus a great
multitude gathered in the great courtyard of the imperial palace at Rome:
women nursing sucking-babes at the breast, or holding toddling infants by
the hand, or with little children running by their sides, and all so heart-
broken and woebegone that many swooned for very grief. The mothers
wailed aloud, the children cried, and the tumult grew until Constantine
heard it, where he sat lonely and wretched in his darkened room. He looked
out of his window on the mournful sight in the courtyard, and was roused as
from a trance, saying to himself: “O Divine Providence, who hast formed
all men alike, lo! the poor man is born, lives, suffers, and dies, just as does
the rich; to wise man and fool alike come sickness and health; and no man
may avoid that fortune which Nature’s law hath ordained for him. Likewise

to all men are Nature’s gifts of strength and beauty, of soul and reason,
freely and fully given, so that the poor child is born as capable of virtue as
the king’s son; and to each man is given free will to choose virtue or vice.
Yet thou givest to men diversity of rank, wealth or poverty, lordship or
servitude, not always according to their deserts; so much the more virtuous
should that man be to whom thou hast put other men in subjection, men
who are nevertheless his fellows and wear his likeness. Thou, O God, who
hast put Nature and the whole universe under law, wouldst have all men
rule themselves by law, and thou hast said that a man must do to others such
things as he would have done to himself.”

His Noble Resolve

Thus Constantine spoke within himself as he stood by the window and
looked upon the weeping mothers and children, the very sentinels of his
palace pitying them, and trying in vain to comfort them; and a strife grew
strong within him between his natural longing for healing and deliverance
from this loathsome disease which had darkened his life, and the pity he felt
for these poor creatures, and his horror at the thought of so much human
blood to be shed for himself alone. The great moaning of the woeful
mothers came to him and the pitiful crying of the children, and he thought:
“What am I that my health is to outweigh the lives and happiness of so
many of my people? Is my life of more value to the world than those of all
the children who must shed their blood for my healing? Surely each babe is
as precious as Constantine the Emperor!” Thus his heart grew so tender and
so full of compassion that he chose rather to die by this terrible sickness
than to commit so great a slaughter of innocent children, and he renounced
all other physicians, and trusted himself wholly to God’s care.

He Announces his Determination

He at once summoned his council, and announced to them his resolution,
giving as his reason, “He that will be truly master must be ever servant to
pity!” and without delay the anxious mothers were told that their children
were free and safe, for the emperor had renounced the cure, and needed

their blood no longer. What raptures of rejoicing there were, what
outpouring of blessing on the emperor, what songs of praise and thanks
from the women wild with joy, cannot be fully told; and yet greater grew
their joy and thankfulness when Constantine, calling his high officials, bade
them take all his gathered treasures and distribute them among the poor
women, that they might feed and clothe their children, and so return home
untouched by any loss, and recompensed in some degree for their
sufferings. Thus did Constantine obey the behests of pity, and try to atone
for the wrong to which he had consented in his heart, and which he had so
nearly done to his people.

The Victims Sent Home Happy

Home to all parts of the Roman Empire went the women, bearing with them
their happy children, and the rich gifts they had received. Each one thanked
and blessed the emperor, and sang his praises, where before she had passed
with tears and bitter curses on his head; each woman shared her joy with
her neighbours; and the very children learnt from their mothers and fathers
to pray for the healing of their great lord, who had given up his own will
and sacrificed his own cure for gentle pity’s sake. Thus the whole world
prayed for Constantine’s healing.

A Vision

Lo! it never yet was known that charity went unrequited and this
Constantine now learnt in his own glad experience; for that same night, as
he lay asleep, God sent to him a vision of two strangers, men of noble face
and form, whom he reverenced greatly, and who said to him: “O
Constantine, because thou hast obeyed the voice of pity, thou hast deserved
pity; therefore shalt thou find such mercy, that God, in His great pity, will
save thee. Double healing shalt thou receive, first for thy body, and next for
thy woeful soul; both alike shall be made whole. And that thou mayst not
despair, God will grant thee a sign—thy leprosy shall not increase till thou
hast sent to Mount Celion, to Sylvester and all his clergy. There they dwell
in secret for dread of thee, who hast been a foe to the law of Christ, and hast

destroyed those who preach in His Holy Name. Now thou hast appeased
God somewhat by thy good deed, since thou hast had pity on the innocent
blood, and hast spared it; for this thou shalt find teaching, from Sylvester, to
the salvation of both body and soul. Thou wilt need no other leech.” The
emperor, who had listened with eagerness and awe, now spoke: “Great
thanks I owe to you, my lords, and I will indeed do as ye have said; but one
thing I would pray you—what shall I tell Sylvester of the name or estate of
those who send me to him?” The two strangers said: “We are the Apostles
Peter and Paul, who endured death here in thy city of Rome for the Holy
Name of Christ, and we bid Sylvester teach and baptize thee into the true
faith. So shall the Roman Empire become the kingdom of the Lord and of
His Christ.” So saying, they blessed him, and passed into the heavens out of
his sight, and Constantine awoke from his slumber and knew that he had
seen a vision. He called aloud eagerly, and his servants waiting in an outer
room ran in to him quickly, for there was urgency in his voice. To them
Constantine told his vision and the command which was laid upon him.

Sylvester Summoned

Messengers rode in hot haste to Mount Celion, and inquired long and
anxiously for Sylvester. At last they found him, a holy and venerable man,
and summoned him, saying: “The Emperor calls for thee: come, therefore,
at once.” Sylvester’s clergy were greatly affrighted, not knowing what this
summons might mean, and dreading the death of their dear bishop and
master; but he went forth gladly, not knowing to what fate he was going.
When he was brought to the palace the emperor greeted him kindly, and
told him all his dream, and the command of the Apostles Peter and Paul,
and ended with these words: “Now I have done as the vision bade, and have
fetched thee here: tell me, I pray, the glad tidings which shall bring healing
to my body and soul.” When Sylvester heard this speech he was filled with
joy and wonder, and thanked God for the vision He had sent to the emperor,
and then he began to preach to him the Christian faith: he told of the Fall of
Man, and the redemption of the world by the death and resurrection of Jesus
Christ, of the Ascension of Jesus and His return at the Day of Judgment, of
the justice of God, who will judge all men impartially according to their
works, good or bad, and of the life of joy or misery to come. As Sylvester

taught, the monarch listened and believed, and, when the tale was ended,
announced his conversion to the true faith, and said he was ready, with his
whole heart and soul, to be baptized.

Constantine Baptized

At the emperor’s command, they took the great vessel of silver which had
been made for the children’s blood, and Sylvester bade them fill it with pure
water from the well. When that was done with all haste, he bade
Constantine stand therein, so that the water reached his chin. As the holy
rite began a great light like the sun’s rays shone from heaven into the place,
and upon Constantine; and as the sacred words were being read there fell
now and again from his body scales like those of a fish, till there was
nothing left of his horrible disease; and thus in baptism Constantine was
purified in body and soul.

They filled the great vessel of silver with pure water

CHAPTER V: HAVELOK THE DANE

The Origin of the Story

T HE Danish occupation of England has left a very strong mark on our
country in various ways—on its place-names, its racial characteristics,
its language, its literature, and, in part, on its ideals. The legend of
Havelok the Dane, with its popularity and widespread influence, is one
result of Danish supremacy. It is thought that the origin of the legend, which
contains a twofold version of the common story of the cruel guardian and
the persecuted heir, is to be found in Wales; but, however that may be, it is
certain that in the continual rise and fall of small tribal kingdoms, Celtic or
Teutonic, English or Danish, the circumstances out of which the story grew
must have been common enough. Kings who died leaving helpless heirs to
the guardianship of ambitious and wicked nobles were not rare in the early
days of Britain, Wales, or Denmark; the murder of the heir and the
usurpation of the kingdom by the cruel regent were no unusual occurrences.
The opportunity of localising the early legend seems to have come with the
growing fame of Anlaf, or Olaf, Sihtricson, who was known to the Welsh as
Abloec or Habloc. His adventurous life included a threefold expulsion from
his inheritance of Northumbria, a marriage with the daughter of King
Constantine III. of Scotland, and a family kinship with King Athelstan of
England. In Anlaf Curan (as he was called) we have an historical hero on
whom various romantic stories were gradually fathered, because of his
adventurous life and his strong personality. These stories finally crystallized
in a form which shows the English and Danish love of physical prowess
(Havelok is the strongest man in the kingdom), as well as a certain cruelty
of revenge which is more peculiarly Danish. There is resentment of the
Norman predominance to be found in the popularity of a story which shows
the kitchen-boy excelling all the nobles in manly exercises, and the heiress
to the kingdom wedded in scorn, as so many Saxon heiresses were after the
Conquest, to a mere scullion. There can be no doubt, however, that Havelok
stood to mediæval England as a hero of the strong arm, a champion of the

populace against the ruling race, and that his royal birth and dignity were a
concession to historic facts and probabilities, not much regarded by the
common people. The story, again, showed another truly humble hero, Grim
the fisher, whose loyalty was supposed to account for the special trading
privileges of his town, Grimsby. In Grim the story found a character who
was in reality a hero of the poor and lowly, with the characteristic devotion
of the tribesman to his chief, of the vassal to his lord, a devotion which was
handed on from father to son, so that a second generation continued the
services, and received the rewards, of the father who risked life and all for
the sake of his king’s heir.
The reader will not fail to notice the characteristic anachronisms which give
to life in Saxon England in the tenth century the colour of the Norman
chivalry of the thirteenth.

Havelok and Godard

In Denmark, long ago, lived a good king named Birkabeyn, rich and
powerful, a great warrior and a man of mighty prowess, whose rule was
undisputed over the whole realm. He had three children—two daughters,
named Swanborow and Elfleda the Fair, and one young and goodly son,
Havelok, the heir to all his dominions. All too soon came the day that no
man can avoid, when Death would call King Birkabeyn away, and he
grieved sore over his young children to be left fatherless and unprotected;
but, after much reflection, and prayers to God for wisdom to help his
choice, he called to him Jarl Godard, a trusted counsellor and friend, and
committed into his hands the care of the realm and of the three royal
children, until Havelok should be of age to be knighted and rule the land
himself. King Birkabeyn felt that such a charge was too great a temptation
for any man unbound by oaths of fealty and honour, and although he did not
distrust his friend, he required Godard to swear,

“By altar and by holy service book,
By bells that call the faithful to the church,
By blessed sacrament, and sacred rites,
By Holy Rood, and Him who died thereon,

That thou wilt truly rule and keep my realm,
Wilt guard my babes in love and loyalty,
Until my son be grown, and dubbèd knight:
That thou wilt then resign to him his land,
His power and rule, and all that owns his sway.”
Jarl Godard took this most solemn oath at once with many protestations of
affection and whole-hearted devotion to the dying king and his heir, and
King Birkabeyn died happy in the thought that his children would be well
cared for during their helpless youth.
When the funeral rites were celebrated Jarl Godard assumed the rule of the
country, and, under pretext of securing the safety of the royal children,
removed them to a strong castle, where no man was allowed access to them,
and where they were kept so closely that the royal residence became a
prison in all but name. Godard, finding Denmark submit to his government
without resistance, began to adopt measures to rid himself of the real heirs
to the throne, and gave orders that food and clothes should be supplied to
the three children in such scanty quantities that they might die of hardship;
but since they were slow to succumb to this cruel, torturing form of murder,
he resolved to slay them suddenly, knowing that no one durst call him to
account. Having steeled his heart against all pitiful thoughts, he went to the
castle, and was taken to the inner dungeon where the poor babes lay
shivering and weeping for cold and hunger. As he entered, Havelok, who
was even then a bold lad, greeted him courteously, and knelt before him,
with clasped hands, begging a boon.
“Why do you weep and wail so sore?” asked Godard.
“Because we are so hungry,” answered Havelok. “We have so little food,
and we have no servants to wait on us; they do not give us half as much as
we could eat; we are shivering with cold, and our clothes are all in rags.
Woe to us that we were ever born! Is there in the land no more corn with
which men can make bread for us? We are nearly dead from hunger.”
These pathetic words had no effect on Godard, who had resolved to yield to
no pity and show no mercy. He seized the two little girls as they lay
cowering together, clasping one another for warmth, and cut their throats,
letting the bodies of the hapless babies fall to the floor in a pool of blood;

and then, turning to Havelok, aimed his knife at the boy’s heart. The poor
child, terrified by the awful fate of the two girls, knelt again before him and
begged for mercy:

“Fair lord, have mercy on me now, I pray!
Look on my helpless youth, and pity me!
Oh, let me live, and I will yield you all—
My realm of Denmark will I leave to you,
And swear that I will ne’er assail your sway.
Oh, pity me, lord! be compassionate!
And I will flee far from this land of mine,
And vow that Birkabeyn was ne’er my sire!”

Jarl Godard was touched by Havelok’s piteous speech, and felt some faint
compassion, so that he could not slay the lad himself; yet he knew that his
only safety was in Havelok’s death.
“If I let him go,” thought he, “Havelok will at last work me woe! I shall
have no peace in my life, and my children after me will not hold the
lordship of Denmark in safety, if Havelok escapes! Yet I cannot slay him
with my own hands. I will have him cast into the sea with an anchor about
his neck: thus at least his body will not float.”
Godard left Havelok kneeling in terror, and, striding from the tower, leaving
the door locked behind him, he sent for an ignorant fisherman, Grim, who,
he thought, could be frightened into doing his will. When Grim came he
was led into an ante-room, where Godard, with terrible look and voice,
addressed him thus:
“Grim, thou knowest thou art my thrall.” “Yea, fair lord,” quoth Grim,
trembling at Godard’s stern voice. “And I can slay thee if thou dost disobey
me.” “Yea, lord; but how have I offended you?” “Thou hast not yet; but I
have a task for thee, and if thou dost it not, dire punishment shall fall upon
thee.” “Lord, what is the work that I must do?” asked the poor fisherman.
“Tarry: I will show thee.” Then Godard went into the inner room of the
tower, whence he returned leading a fair boy, who wept bitterly. “Take this
boy secretly to thy house, and keep him there till dead of night; then launch

thy boat, row out to sea, and fling him therein with an anchor round his
neck, so that I shall see him never again.”
Grim looked curiously at the weeping boy, and said: “What reward shall I
have if I work this sin for you?”
Godard replied: “The sin will be on my head as I am thy lord and bid thee
do it; but I will make thee a freeman, noble and rich, and my friend, if thou
wilt do this secretly and discreetly.”
Thus reassured and bribed, Grim suddenly took the boy, flung him to the
ground, and bound him hand and foot with cord which he took from his
pockets. So anxious was he to secure the boy that he drew the cords very
tight, and Havelok suffered terrible pain; he could not cry out, for a handful
of rags was thrust into his mouth and over his nostrils, so that he could
hardly breathe. Then Grim flung the poor boy into a horrible black sack,
and carried him thus from the castle, as if he were bringing home broken
food for his family. When Grim reached his poor cottage, where his wife
Leve was waiting for him, he slung the sack from his shoulder and gave it
to her, saying, “Take good care of this boy as of thy life. I am to drown him
at midnight, and if I do so my lord has promised to make me a free man and
give me great wealth.”
When Dame Leve heard this she sprang up and flung the lad down in a
corner, and nearly broke his head with the crash against the earthen floor.
There Havelok lay, bruised and aching, while the couple went to sleep,
leaving the room all dark but for the red glow from the fire. At midnight
Grim awoke to do his lord’s behest, and Dame Leve, going to the living-
room to kindle a light, was terrified by a mysterious gleam as bright as day
which shone around the boy on the floor and streamed from his mouth.
Leve hastily called Grim to see this wonder, and together they released
Havelok from the gag and bonds and examined his body, when they found
on the right shoulder the token of true royalty, a cross of red gold.
“God knows,” quoth Grim, “that this is the heir of our land. He will come to
rule in good time, will bear sway over England and Denmark, and will
punish the cruel Godard.” Then, weeping sore, the loyal fisherman fell
down at Havelok’s feet, crying, “Lord, have mercy on me and my wife! We
are thy thralls, and never will we do aught against thee. We will nourish

thee until thou canst rule, and will hide thee from Godard; and thou wilt
perchance give me my freedom in return for thy life.”
At this unexpected address Havelok sat up surprised, and rubbed his bruised
head and said: “I am nearly dead, what with hunger, and thy cruel bonds,
and the gag. Now bring me food in plenty!” “Yea, lord,” said Dame Leve,
and bustled about, bringing the best they had in the hut; and Havelok ate as
if he had fasted for three days; and then he was put to bed, and slept in
peace while Grim watched over him.

“Havelok sat up surprised”

However, Grim went the next morning to Jarl Godard and said: “Lord, I
have done your behest, and drowned the boy with an anchor about his neck.
He is safe, and now, I pray you, give me my reward, the gold and other
treasures, and make me a freeman as you have promised.” But Godard only
looked fiercely at him and said: “What, wouldst thou be an earl? Go home,
thou foul churl, and be ever a thrall! It is enough reward that I do not hang
thee now for insolence, and for thy wicked deeds. Go speedily, else thou
mayst stand and palter with me too long.” And Grim shrank quietly away,
lest Godard should slay him for the murder of Havelok.
Now Grim saw in what a terrible plight he stood, at the mercy of this cruel
and treacherous man, and he took counsel with himself and consulted his
wife, and the two decided to flee from Denmark to save their lives.
Gradually Grim sold all his stock, his cattle, his nets, everything that he
owned, and turned it into good pieces of gold; then he bought and secretly
fitted out and provisioned a ship, and at last, when all was ready, carried on
board Havelok (who had lain hidden all this time), his own three sons and
two daughters; then when he and his wife had gone on board he set sail,
and, driven by a favourable wind, reached the shores of England.

Goldborough and Earl Godrich

Meanwhile in England a somewhat similar fate had befallen a fair princess
named Goldborough. When her father, King Athelwold, lay dying all his
people mourned, for he was the flower of all fair England for knighthood,
justice, and mercy; and he himself grieved sorely for the sake of his little
daughter, soon to be left an orphan. “What will she do?” moaned he. “She
can neither speak nor walk! If she were only able to ride, to rule England,
and to guard herself from shame, I should have no grief, even if I died and
left her alone, while I lived in the joy of paradise!”

Then Athelwold summoned a council to be held at Winchester, and asked
the advice of the nobles as to the care of the infant Goldborough. They with
one accord recommended Earl Godrich of Cornwall to be made regent for
the little princess; and the earl, on being appointed, swore with all solemn
rites that he would marry her at twelve years old to the highest, the best,
fairest, and strongest man alive, and in the meantime would train her in all
royal virtues and customs. So King Athelwold died, and was buried with
great lamentations, and Godrich ruled the land as regent. He was a strict but
just governor, and England had great peace, without and within, under his
severe rule, for all lived in awe of him, though no man loved him.
Goldborough grew and throve in all ways, and became famous through the
land for her gracious beauty and gentle and virtuous demeanour. This
roused the jealousy of Earl Godrich, who had played the part of king so
long that he almost believed himself King of England, and he began to
consider how he could secure the kingdom for himself and his son.
Thereupon he had Goldborough taken from Winchester, where she kept
royal state, to Dover, where she was imprisoned in the castle, and strictly
secluded from all her friends; there she remained, with poor clothes and
scanty food, awaiting a champion to uphold her right.

Havelok Becomes Cook’s Boy

When Grim sailed from Denmark to England he landed in the Humber, at
the place now called Grimsby, and there established himself as a fisherman.
So successful was he that for twelve years he supported his family well, and
carried his catches of fish far afield, even to Lincoln, where rare fish always
brought a good price. In all this time Grim never once called on Havelok for
help in the task of feeding the family; he reverenced his king, and the whole
household served Havelok with the utmost deference, and often went with
scanty rations to satisfy the boy’s great appetite. At length Havelok began to
think how selfishly he was living, and how much food he consumed, and
was filled with shame when he realized how his foster-father toiled
unweariedly while he did nothing to help. In his remorseful meditations it
became clear to him that, though a king’s son, he ought to do some useful
work. “Of what use,” thought he, “is my great strength and stature if I do
not employ it for some good purpose? There is no shame in honest toil. I

will work for my food, and try to make some return to Father Grim, who
has done so much for me. I will gladly bear his baskets of fish to market,
and I will begin to-morrow.”
On the next day, in spite of Grim’s protests Havelok carried a load of fish
equal to four men’s burden to Grimsby market, and sold it successfully,
returning home with the money he received; and this he did day by day, till
a famine arose and fish and food both became scarce. Then Grim, more
concerned for Havelok than for his own children, called the youth to him
and bade him try his fortunes in Lincoln, for his own sake and for theirs; he
would be better fed, and the little food Grim could get would go further
among the others if Havelok were not there. The one obstacle in the way
was Havelok’s lack of clothes, and Grim overcame that by sacrificing his
boat’s sail to make Havelok a coarse tunic. That done, they bade each other
farewell, and Havelok started for Lincoln, barefooted and bareheaded, for
his only garment was the sailcloth tunic. In Lincoln Havelok found no
friends and no food for two days, and he was desperate and faint with
hunger, when he heard a call: “Porters, porters! hither to me!” Roused to
new vigour by the chance of work, Havelok rushed with the rest, and bore
down and hurled aside the other porters so vigorously that he was chosen to
carry provisions for Bertram, the earl’s cook; and in return he received the
first meal he had eaten for nearly three days.
On the next day Havelok again overthrew the porters, and, knocking down
at least sixteen, secured the work. This time he had to carry fish, and his
basket was so laden that he bore nearly a cartload, with which he ran to the
castle. There the cook, amazed at his strength, first gave him a hearty meal,
and then offered him good service under himself, with food and lodging for
his wages. This offer Havelok accepted, and was installed as cook’s boy,
and employed in all the lowest offices—carrying wood, water, turf, hewing
logs, lifting, fetching, carrying—and in all he showed himself a wonderfully
strong worker, with unfailing good temper and gentleness, so that the little
children all loved the big, gentle, fair-haired youth who worked so quietly
and played with them so merrily. When Havelok’s old tunic became worn
out, his master, the cook, took pity on him and gave him a new suit, and
then it could be seen how handsome and tall and strong a youth this cook’s
boy really was, and his fame spread far and wide round Lincoln Town.

“Havelok again overthrew the porters”

Havelok and Goldborough

At the great fair of Lincoln, sports of all kinds were indulged in, and in
these Havelok took his part, for the cook, proud of his mighty scullion,
urged him to compete in all the games and races. As Earl Godrich had
summoned his Parliament to meet that year at Lincoln, there was a great
concourse of spectators, and even the powerful Earl Regent himself
sometimes watched the sports and cheered the champions. The first contest
was “putting the stone,” and the stone chosen was so weighty that none but
the most stalwart could lift it above the knee—none could raise it to his
breast. This sport was new to Havelok, who had never seen it before, but
when the cook bade him try his strength he lifted the stone easily and threw
it more than twelve feet. This mighty deed caused his fame to be spread, not
only among the poor servants with whom Havelok was classed, but also
among the barons, their masters, and Havelok’s Stone became a landmark
in Lincoln. Thus Godrich heard of a youth who stood head and shoulders
taller than other men and was stronger, more handsome—and yet a mere
common scullion. The news brought him a flash of inspiration: “Here is the
highest, strongest, best man in all England, and him shall Goldborough
wed. I shall keep my vow to the letter, and England must fall to me, for
Goldborough’s royal blood will be lost by her marriage with a thrall, the
people will refuse her obedience, and England will cast her out.”
Godrich therefore brought Goldborough to Lincoln, received her with bell-
ringing and seemly rejoicing, and bade her prepare for her wedding. This
the princess refused to do until she knew who was her destined husband, for
she said she would wed no man who was not of royal birth. Her firmness
drove Earl Godrich to fierce wrath, and he burst out: “Wilt thou be queen
and mistress over me? Thy pride shall be brought down: thou shalt have no
royal spouse: a vagabond and scullion shalt thou wed, and that no later than
to-morrow! Curses on him who speaks thee fair!” In vain the princess wept
and bemoaned herself: the wedding was fixed for the morrow morn.
The next day at dawn Earl Godrich sent for Havelok, the mighty cook’s
boy, and asked him: “Wilt thou take a wife?”
“Nay,” quoth Havelok, “that will I not. I cannot feed her, much less clothe
and lodge her. My very garments are not my own, but belong to the cook,
my master.” Godrich fell upon Havelok and beat him furiously, saying,
“Unless thou wilt take the wench I give thee for wife I will hang or blind

thee”; and so, in great fear, Havelok agreed to the wedding. At once
Goldborough was brought, and forced into an immediate marriage, under
penalty of banishment or burning as a witch if she refused. And thus the
unwilling couple were united by the Archbishop of York, who had come to
attend the Parliament.
Never was there so sad a wedding! The people murmured greatly at this
unequal union, and pitied the poor princess, thus driven to wed a man of
low birth; and Goldborough herself wept pitifully, but resigned herself to
God’s will. All men now acknowledged with grief that she and her husband
could have no claim to the English throne, and thus Godrich seemed to have
gained his object. Havelok and his unwilling bride recognised that they
would not be safe near Godrich, and as Havelok had no home in Lincoln to
which he could take the princess, he determined to go back to his faithful
foster-father, Grim, and put the fair young bride under his loyal protection.
Sorrowfully, with grief and shame in their hearts, Havelok and
Goldborough made their way on foot to Grimsby, only to find the loyal
Grim dead; but his five children were alive and in prosperity. When they
saw Havelok and his wife they fell on their knees and saluted them with all
respect and reverence. In their joy to see their king again, these worthy
fisherfolk forgot their newly won wealth, and said: “Welcome, dear lord,
and thy fair lady! What joy is ours to see thee again, for thy subjects are we,
and thou canst do with us as thou wilt. All that we have is thine, and if thou
wilt dwell with us we will serve thee and thy wife truly in all ways!” This
greeting surprised Goldborough, who began to suspect some mystery, and
she was greatly comforted when brothers and sisters busied themselves in
lighting fires, cooking meals, and waiting on her hand and foot, as if she
had been indeed a king’s wife. Havelok, however, said nothing to explain
the mystery, and Goldborough that night lay awake bewailing her fate as a
thrall’s bride, even though he was the fairest man in England.

The Revelation and Return to Denmark

As Goldborough lay sleepless and unhappy she became aware of a brilliant
light shining around Havelok and streaming from his mouth; and while she
feared and wondered an angelic voice cried to her:

“Fair Princess, cease this grief and heavy moan!
For Havelok, thy newly wedded spouse,
Is son and heir to famous kings: the sign
Thou findest in the cross of ruddy gold
That shineth on his shoulder. He shall be
Monarch and ruler of two mighty realms;
Denmark and England shall obey his rule,
And he shall sway them with a sure command.
This shalt thou see with thine own eyes, and be
Lady and Queen, with Havelok, o’er these lands.”

This angelic message so gladdened Goldborough that she kissed, for the
first time, her unconscious husband, who started up from his sleep, saying,
“Dear love, sleepest thou? I have had a wondrous dream. I thought I sat on
a lofty hill, and saw all Denmark before me. As I stretched out my arms I
embraced it all, and the people clung to my arms, and the castles fell at my
feet; then I flew over the salt sea with the Danish people clinging to me, and
I closed all fair England in my hand, and gave it to thee, dear love! Now
what can this mean?”
Goldborough answered joyfully: “It means, dear heart, that thou shalt be
King of Denmark and of England too: all these realms shall fall into thy
power, and thou shalt be ruler in Denmark within one year. Now do thou
follow my advice, and let us go to Denmark, taking with us Grim’s three
sons, who will accompany thee for love and loyalty; and have no fear, for I
know thou wilt succeed.”
The next morning Havelok went to church early, and prayed humbly and
heartily for success in his enterprise and retribution on the false traitor
Godard; then, laying his offering on the altar before the Cross, he went
away glad in heart. Grim’s three sons, Robert the Red, William Wendut, and
Hugh the Raven, joyfully consented to go with Havelok to Denmark, to
attack with all their power the false Jarl Godard and to win the kingdom for
the rightful heir. Their wives and families stayed in England, but
Goldborough would not leave her husband, and after a short voyage the
party landed safely on the shores of Denmark, in the lands of Jarl Ubbe, an
old friend of King Birkabeyn, who lived far from the court now that a
usurper held sway in Denmark.

Havelok and Ubbe

Havelok dared not reveal himself and his errand until he knew more of the
state of parties in the country, and he therefore only begged permission to
live and trade there, giving Ubbe, as a token of goodwill and a tribute to his
power, a valuable ring, which the jarl prized greatly. Ubbe, gazing at the so-
called merchant’s great stature and beauty, lamented that he was not of
noble birth, and planned to persuade him to take up the profession of arms.
At first, however, he simply granted Havelok permission to trade, and
invited him and Goldborough to a feast, promising them safety and honour
under his protection. Havelok dreaded lest his wife’s beauty might place
them in jeopardy, but he dared not refuse the invitation, which was
pointedly given to both; accordingly, when they went to Ubbe’s hall,
Goldborough was escorted by Robert the Red and William Wendut.
Ubbe received them with all honour, and all men marvelled at
Goldborough’s beauty, and Ubbe’s wife loved Goldborough at first sight as
her husband did Havelok, so that the feast passed off with all joy and mirth,
and none dared raise a hand or lift his voice against the wandering merchant
whom Ubbe so strangely favoured. But Ubbe knew that when once Havelok
and his wife were away from his protection there would be little safety for
them, since the rough Danish nobles would think nothing of stealing a
trader’s fair wife, and many a man had cast longing eyes on Goldborough’s
loveliness. Therefore when the feast was over, and Havelok took his leave,
Ubbe sent with him a body of ten knights and sixty men-at-arms, and
recommended them to the magistrate of the town, Bernard Brown, a true
and upright man, bidding him, as he prized his life, keep the strangers in
safety and honour. Well it was that Ubbe and Bernard Brown took these
precautions, for late at night a riotous crowd came to Bernard’s house
clamouring for admittance. Bernard withstood the angry mob, armed with a
great axe, but they burst the door in by hurling a huge stone; and then
Havelok joined in the defence. He drew out the great beam which barred
the door, and crying, “Come quickly to me, and you shall stay here! Curses
on him who flees!” began to lay about him with the big beam, so that three
fell dead at once. A terrible fight followed, in which Havelok, armed only
with the beam, slew twenty men in armour, and was then sore beset by the
rest of the troop, aiming darts and arrows at his unarmoured breast. It was

going hardly with him, when Hugh the Raven, hearing and understanding
the cries of the assailants, called his brothers to their lord’s aid, and they all
joined the fight so furiously that, long ere day, of the sixty men who had
attacked the inn not one remained alive.
In the morning news was brought to Jarl Ubbe that his stranger guest had
slain sixty of the best of his soldiery.
“What can this mean?” said Ubbe. “I had better go and see to it myself, for
any messenger would surely treat Havelok discourteously, and I should be
full loath to do that.” He rode away to the house of Bernard Brown, and
asked the meaning of its damaged and battered appearance.
“My lord,” answered Bernard Brown, “last night at moonrise there came a
band of sixty thieves who would have plundered my house and bound me
hand and foot. When Havelok and his companions saw it they came to my
aid, with sticks and stones, and drove out the robbers like dogs from a mill.
Havelok himself slew three at one blow. Never have I seen a warrior so
good! He is worth a thousand in a fray. But alas! he is grievously wounded,
with three deadly gashes in side and arm and thigh, and at least twenty
smaller wounds. I am scarcely harmed at all, but I fear he will die full
soon.”
Ubbe could scarcely believe so strange a tale, but all the bystanders swore
that Bernard told nothing but the bare truth, and that the whole gang of
thieves, with their leader, Griffin the Welshman, had been slain by the hero
and his small party. Then Ubbe bade them bring Havelok, that he might call
a leech to heal his wounds, for if the stranger merchant should live Jarl
Ubbe would without fail dub him knight; and when the leech had seen the
wounds he said the patient would make a good and quick recovery. Then
Ubbe offered Havelok and his wife a dwelling in his own castle, under his
own protection, till Havelok’s grievous wounds were healed. There, too, fair
Goldborough would be under the care of Ubbe’s wife, who would cherish
her as her own daughter. This kind offer was accepted gladly, and they all
went to the castle, where a room was given them next to Ubbe’s own.
At midnight Ubbe woke, aroused by a bright light in Havelok’s room,
which was only separated from his own by a slight wooden partition. He
was vexed suspecting his guest of midnight wassailing, and went to inquire

what villainy might be hatching. To his surprise, both husband and wife
were sound asleep, but the light shone from Havelok’s mouth, and made a
glory round his head. Utterly amazed at the marvel, Ubbe went away
silently, and returned with all the garrison of his castle to the room where
his guests still lay sleeping. As they gazed on the light Havelok turned in his
sleep, and they saw on his shoulder the golden cross, shining like the sun,
which all men knew to be the token of royal birth. Then Ubbe exclaimed:
“Now I know who this is, and why I loved him so dearly at first sight: this
is the son of our dead King Birkabeyn. Never was man so like another as
this man is to the dead king: he is his very image and his true heir.” With
great joy they fell on their knees and kissed him eagerly, and Havelok
awoke and began to scowl furiously, for he thought it was some treacherous
attack; but Ubbe soon undeceived him.

“With great joy they fell on their knees”

“‘Dear lord,’ quoth he, ‘be thou in naught dismayed,
For in thine eyes methinks I see thy thought—
Dear son, great joy is mine to live this day!
My homage, lord, I freely offer thee:

Thy loyal men and vassals are we all,
For thou art son of mighty Birkabeyn,
And soon shalt conquer all thy father’s land,
Though thou art young and almost friendless here.
To-morrow will we swear our fealty due,
And dub thee knight, for prowess unexcelled.’”
Now Havelok knew that his worst danger was over, and he thanked God for
the friend He had sent him, and left to the good Jarl Ubbe the management
of his cause. Ubbe gathered an assembly of as many mighty men of the
realm, and barons, and good citizens, as he could summon; and when they
were all assembled, pondering what was the cause of this imperative
summons, Ubbe arose and said:
“Gentles, bear with me if I tell you first things well known to you. Ye know
that King Birkabeyn ruled this land until his death-day, and that he left three
children—one son, Havelok, and two daughters—to the guardianship of Jarl
Godard: ye all heard him swear to keep them loyally and treat them well.
But ye do not know how he kept his oath! The false traitor slew both the
maidens, and would have slain the boy, but for pity he would not kill the
child with his own hands. He bade a fisherman drown him in the sea; but
when the good man knew that it was the rightful heir, he saved the boy’s
life and fled with him to England, where Havelok has been brought up for
many years. And now, behold! here he stands. In all the world he has no
peer, and ye may well rejoice in the beauty and manliness of your king.
Come now and pay homage to Havelok, and I myself will be your leader!”
Jarl Ubbe turned to Havelok, where he stood with Goldborough beside him,
and knelt before him to do homage, an example which was followed by all
present. At a second and still larger assembly held a fortnight later a similar
oath of fealty was sworn by all, Havelok was dubbed knight by the noble
Ubbe, and a great festival was celebrated, with sports and amusements for
the populace. A council of war and vengeance was held with the great
nobles.

The Death of Godard

Havelok, now acknowledged King of Denmark, was unsatisfied until he
had punished the treacherous Godard, and he took a solemn oath from his
soldiers that they would never cease the search for the traitor till they had
captured him and brought him bound to judgment. After all, Godard was
captured as he was hunting. Grim’s three sons, now knighted by King
Havelok, met him in the forest, and bade him come to the king, who called
on him to remember and account for his treatment of Birkabeyn’s children.
Godard struck out furiously with his fists, but Sir Robert the Red wounded
him in the right arm. When Godard’s men joined in the combat, Robert and
his brothers soon slew ten of their adversaries, and the rest fled; returning,
ashamed at the bitter reproaches of their lord, they were all slain by
Havelok’s men. Godard was taken, bound hand and foot, placed on a
miserable jade with his face to the tail, and so led to Havelok. The king
refused to be the judge of his own cause, and entrusted to Ubbe the task of
presiding at the traitor’s trial. No mercy was shown to the cruel Jarl Godard,
and he was condemned to a traitor’s death, with torments of terrible
barbarity. The sentence was carried out to the letter, and Denmark rejoiced
in the punishment of a cruel villain.

Death of Godrich

Meanwhile Earl Godrich of Cornwall had heard with great uneasiness that
Havelok had become King of Denmark, and intended to invade England
with a mighty army to assert his wife’s right to the throne. He recognised
that his own device to shame Goldborough had turned against him, and that
he must now fight for his life and the usurped dominion he held over
England. Godrich summoned his army to Lincoln for the defence of the
realm against the Danes, and called out every man fit to bear weapons, on
pain of becoming thrall if they failed him. Then he thus addressed them:

“Friends, listen to my words, and you will know
’Tis not for sport, nor idle show, that I
Have bidden you to meet at Lincoln here.
Lo! here at Grimsby foreigners are come
Who have already won the Priory.
These Danes are cruel heathen, who destroy

Our churches and our abbeys: priests and nuns
They torture to the death, or lead away
To serve as slaves the haughty Danish jarls.
Now, Englishmen, what counsel will ye take?
If we submit, they will rule all our land,
Will kill us all, and sell our babes for thralls,
Will take our wives and daughters for their own.
Help me, if ever ye loved English land,
To fight these heathen and to cleanse our soil
From hateful presence of these alien hordes.
I make my vow to God and all the saints
I will not rest, nor houseled be, nor shriven,
Until our realm be free from Danish foe!
Accursed be he who strikes no blow for home!”
The army was inspired with valour by these courageous words, and the
march to Grimsby began at once, with Earl Godrich in command. Havelok’s
men marched out gallantly to meet them, and when the battle joined many
mighty deeds of valour were done, especially by the king himself, his
foster-brothers, and Jarl Ubbe. The battle lasted long and was very fierce
and bloody, but the Danes gradually overcame the resistance of the English,
and at last, after a great hand-to-hand conflict, King Havelok captured
Godrich. The traitor earl, who had lost a hand in the fray, was sent bound
and fettered to Queen Goldborough, who kept him, carefully guarded, until
he could be tried by his peers, since (for all his treason) he was still a
knight.
When the English recognised their rightful lady and queen they did homage
with great joy, begging mercy for having resisted their lawful ruler at the
command of a wicked traitor; and the king and queen pardoned all but
Godrich, who was speedily brought to trial at Lincoln. He was sentenced to
be burnt at the stake, and the sentence was carried out amid general
rejoicings.
Now that vengeance was satisfied, Havelok and his wife thought of
recompensing the loyal helpers who had believed in them and supported
them through the long years of adversity. Havelok married one of Grim’s
daughters to the Earl of Chester, and the other to Bertram, the good cook,

who became Earl of Cornwall in the place of the felon Godrich and his
disinherited children; the heroic Ubbe was made Regent of Denmark for
Havelok, who decided to stay and rule England, and all the noble Danish
warriors were rewarded with gifts of gold, and lands and castles. After a
great coronation feast, which lasted for forty days, King Havelok dismissed
the Danish regent and his followers, and after sad farewells they returned to
their own country. Havelok and Goldborough ruled England in peace and
security for sixty years, and lived together in all bliss, and had fifteen
children, who all became mighty kings and queens.

CHAPTER VI: HOWARD THE HALT

Introduction

I N every society and in all periods the obligations of family affection and
duty to kinsmen have been recognised as paramount. In the early
European communities a man’s first duty was to stand by his kinsman in
strife and to avenge him in death, however unrighteous the kinsman’s
quarrel might be.
How pitiful is the aged Priam’s lament that he must needs kiss the hands
that slew his dear son Hector, and, kneeling, clasp the knees of his son’s
murderer! How sad is Cuchulain’s plaint that his son Connla must go down
to the grave unavenged, since his own father slew him, all unwitting! One
remembers, too, Beowulf’s words: “Better it is for every man that he
avenge his friend than that he mourn him much!” Since, then, family
affection, the laws of honour and duty, and every recognised standard of life
demanded that a kinsman should obtain a full wergild (or money payment)
for his relative’s death, unless he chose to take up the blood-feud against the
murderer’s family, we can hardly wonder that some of the heroes of early
European literature are heroes of vengeance. Orestes and Electra are Greek
embodiments of the idea of the sacredness of vengeance for murdered
kinsfolk, and similar feelings are revealed in Gudrun’s revenge for the
murder of Siegfried in the “Nibelungenlied.” To the Teutonic or Celtic
warrior there would be heroism of a noble type in a just vengeance fully
accomplished, and this heroism would be more easily recognised when the
wrongdoer was rich and powerful, the avenger old, poor, and friendless.
While admitting that the hero of vengeance belongs to and represents only
one side of the civilisation of a somewhat barbaric community, we must
allow that the elements of dogged perseverance, dauntless courage, and
resolute loyalty in some degree redeemed the ferocity and cruelty of the
blood-feud he waged against the ill-doer.

It is certain that in the popular Icelandic saga of “Howard the Halt” tradition
has recorded with minute detail of approbation the story of a man and
woman, old, weak, friendless, who, in spite of terrible odds, succeeded in
obtaining a late but sufficing vengeance for the cruel slaughter of their only
son, the murderer being the most powerful man of the region. The part here
assigned to the woman indicates the firm hold which the blood-feud had
gained on the imagination of the Norsemen.

Icelandic Ghosts

The story possesses a further interest as revealing the unique character of
the Icelandic ghost or phantom. In other literatures the spirit returned from
the dead is a thin, immaterial, disembodied essence, a faint shadow of its
former self; in Icelandic legend the spirit returns in full possession of its
body, but more evil-disposed to mankind than before death. It fights and
wrestles, pummels its adversary black and blue, it is huge and bloated and
hideous, it tries to strangle men, and leaves finger-marks on their throats. If
the ghosts are those of drowned men, they come home every night dripping
with sea-water, and crowd the family from the fire and from the hall.
Apparently they are evil spirits animating the dead body, and nothing but
the utter destruction of the body avails to drive away the malignant spirit.

The Story. Howard and Thorbiorn

Thus runs the saga of “Howard the Halt”:
About the year 1000, when the Christian faith had hardly yet been heard of
in Iceland, there dwelt at Bathstead, on the shores of Icefirth, in that far-
distant land a mighty chieftain, of royal descent and great wealth, named
Thorbiorn. Though not among the first settlers of Iceland, he had
appropriated much unclaimed land, and was one of the leading men of the
country-side, but was generally disliked for his arrogance and injustice.
Thorkel, the lawman and arbitrator of Icefirth, was weak and easily cowed,
so Thorbiorn’s wrongdoing remained unchecked; many a maiden had he
betrothed to himself, and afterwards rejected, and many a man had he

ousted from his lands, yet no redress could be obtained, and no man was
bold enough to attack so great a chieftain or resist his will. Thorbiorn’s
house at Bathstead was one of the best in the district, and his lands stretched
down to the shores of the firth, where he had made a haven with a jetty for
ships. His boathouse stood a little back above a ridge of shingle, and beside
a deep pool or lagoon. The household of Thorbiorn included Sigrid, a fair
maiden, young and wealthy, who was his housekeeper; Vakr, an ill-
conditioned and malicious fellow, Thorbiorn’s nephew; and a strong and
trusted serving-man named Brand. Besides these there were house-carles in
plenty, and labourers, all good fighting-men.
Not far from Bathstead, at Bluemire, dwelt an old Viking called Howard.
He was of honourable descent, and had won fame in earlier Viking
expeditions, but since he had returned lamed and nearly helpless from his
last voyage he had aged greatly, and men called him Howard the Halt. His
wife, Biargey, however, was an active and stirring woman, and their only
son, Olaf, bade fair to become a redoubtable warrior. Though only fifteen,
Olaf had reached full stature, was tall, fair, handsome, and stronger than
most men. He wore his fair hair long, and always went bareheaded, for his
great bodily strength defied even the bitter winter cold of Iceland, and he
faced the winds clad in summer raiment only. With all his strength and
beauty, Olaf was a loving and obedient son to Howard and Biargey, and the
couple loved him as the apple of their eye.

Olaf Meets Sigrid

The men of Icefirth were wont to drive their sheep into the mountains
during the summer, leave them there till autumn, and then, collecting the
scattered flocks, to restore to each man his own branded sheep. One autumn
the flocks were wild and shy, and it was found that many sheep had strayed
in the hills. When those that had been gathered were divided Thorbiorn had
lost at least sixty wethers, and was greatly vexed. Some weeks later Olaf
Howardson went alone into the hills, and returned with all the lost sheep,
having sought them with great toil and danger. Olaf drove the rest of the
sheep home to their grateful owners, and then took Thorbiorn’s to
Bathstead. Reaching the house at noonday, he knocked on the door, and as

all men sat at their noontide meal, the housekeeper, the fair Sigrid, went
forth herself and saw Olaf.
She greeted him courteously and asked his business, and he replied, “I have
brought home Thorbiorn’s wethers which strayed this autumn,” and then the
two talked together for a short time. Now Thorbiorn was curious to know
what the business might be, and sent his nephew Vakr to see who was there;
he went secretly and listened to the conversation between Sigrid and Olaf,
but heard little, for Olaf was just saying, “Then I need not go in to
Thorbiorn; thou, Sigrid, canst as well tell him where his sheep are now”;
then he simply bade her farewell and turned away.

Olaf and Sigrid

Vakr ran back into the hall, shouting and laughing, till Thorbiorn asked:
“How now, nephew! Why makest thou such outcry? Who is there?”

“It was Olaf Howardson, the great booby of Bluemire, bringing back the
sheep thou didst lose in the autumn.”
“That was a neighbourly deed,” said Thorbiorn.
“Ah! but there was another reason for his coming, I think,” said Vakr. “He
and Sigrid had a long talk together, and I saw her put her arms round his
neck; she seemed well pleased to greet him.”
“Olaf may be a brave man, but it is rash of him to anger me thus, by trying
to steal away my housekeeper,” said Thorbiorn, scowling heavily. Olaf had
no thanks for his kindness, and was ill received whenever he came; yet he
came often to see Sigrid, for he loved her, and tried to persuade her to wed
him. Thorbiorn hated him the more for his open wooing, which he could not
forbid.

Thorbiorn Insults Olaf

The next year, when harvest was over, and the sheep were brought home,
again most of the missing sheep belonged to Thorbiorn, and again Olaf
went to the mountains alone and brought back the stray ones. All thanked
him, except the master of Bathstead, to whom Olaf drove back sixty
wethers. Thorbiorn had grown daily more enraged at Olaf’s popularity, his
strength and beauty, and his evident love for Sigrid, and now chose this
opportunity of insulting the bold youth who rivalled him in fame and in
public esteem.
Olaf reached Bathstead at noon, and seeing that all men were in the hall, he
entered, and made his way to the daïs where Thorbiorn sat; there he leaned
on his axe, gazed steadily at the master, who gave him no single word of
greeting. Then every one kept silence watching them both.
At last Olaf broke the stillness by asking: “Why are you all dumb? There is
no honour to those who say naught. I have stood here long enough and had
no word of courteous greeting. Master Thorbiorn, I have brought home thy
missing sheep.”

Vakr answered spitefully: “Yes, we all know that thou hast become the
Icefirth sheep-drover; and we all know that thou hast come to claim some
share of the sheep, as any other beggar might. Kinsman Thorbiorn, thou
hadst better give him some little alms to satisfy him!”
Olaf flushed angrily as he answered: “Nay, it is not for that I came; but,
Thorbiorn, I will not seek thy lost sheep a third time.” And as he turned and
strode indignantly from the hall Vakr mocked and jeered at him. Yet Olaf
passed forth in silence.
The third year Olaf found and brought home all men’s sheep but
Thorbiorn’s; and then Vakr spread the rumour that Olaf had stolen them,
since he could not otherwise obtain a share of them. This rumour came at
last to Howard’s ears, and he upbraided Olaf, saying, when his son praised
their mutton, “Yes, it is good, and it is really ours, not Thorbiorn’s. It is
terrible that we have to bear such injustice.”
Olaf said nothing, but, seizing the leg of mutton, flung it across the room;
and Howard smiled at the wrath which his son could no longer suppress;
perhaps, too, Howard longed to see Olaf in conflict with Thorbiorn.

Olaf and the Wizard’s Ghost

While Howard was still upbraiding Olaf a widow entered, who had come to
ask for help in a difficult matter. Her dead husband (a reputed wizard)
returned to his house night after night as a dreadful ghost, and no man
would live in the house. Would Howard come and break the spell and drive
away the dreadful nightly visitant?
“Alas!” replied Howard, “I am no longer young and strong. Why do you not
ask Thorbiorn? He accounts himself to be chief here, and a chieftain should
protect those in his country-side.”
“Nay,” said the widow. “I am only too glad if Thorbiorn lets me alone. I
will not meddle with him.”
Then said Olaf: “Father, I will go and try my strength with this ghost, for I
am young and stronger than most, and I deem such a matter good sport.”

Accordingly Olaf went back with the widow, and slept in the hall that night,
with a skin rug over him. At nightfall the dead wizard came in, ghastly, evil-
looking, and terrible, and tore the skin from over Olaf; but the youth sprang
up and wrestled with the evil creature, who seemed to have more than
mortal strength. They fought grimly till the lights died out, and the struggle
raged in the darkness up and down the hall, and finally out of doors. In the
yard round the house the dead wizard fell, and Olaf knelt upon him and
broke his back, and thought him safe from doing any mischief again. When
Olaf returned to the hall men had rekindled the lights, and all made much of
him, and tended his bruises and wounds, and counted him a hero indeed.
His fame spread through the whole district, and he was greatly beloved by
all men; but Thorbiorn hated him more than ever.
Soon another quarrel arose, when a stranded whale, which came ashore on
Howard’s land, was adjudged to Thorbiorn. The lawman, Thorkel, was
summoned to decide to whom the whale belonged, and came to view it. “It
is manifestly theirs,” said he falteringly, for he dreaded Thorbiorn’s wrath.
“Whose saidst thou?” cried Thorbiorn, coming to him menacingly, with
drawn sword. “Thine,” said Thorkel, with downcast eyes; and Thorbiorn
triumphantly claimed and took the whale though the injustice of the decree
was evident. Yet Olaf felt no ill-will to Thorbiorn, for Sigrid’s sake, but
contrived to render him another service.

Olaf’s Second Fight with the Ghost

Brand the Strong, Thorbiorn’s shepherd, could not drive his sheep one day.
Olaf met him trying to get his frightened wethers home: it seemed an
impossible task, because an uncanny human form, with waving arms, stood
in a narrow bend of the path and drove them back and scattered them.
Brand told Olaf all the tale, and when the two went to look, Olaf saw that
the enemy was the ghost of the dead wizard whom he had fought before.
“Which wilt thou do,” said Olaf, “fight the wizard or gather thy sheep?”
“I have no wish to fight the ghost; I will find my scattered sheep,” said
Brand; “that is the easier task.”

Then Olaf ran at the ghost, who awaited him at the top of a high bank, and
he and the wizard wrestled again with each other till they fell from the bank
into a snowdrift, and so down to the sea-shore. There Olaf, whose strength
had been tried to the utmost, had the upper hand, and again broke the back
of the dead wizard; but, seeing that that had been of no avail before, he took
the body, swam out to sea with it, and sank it deep in the firth. Ever after
men believed that this part of the coast was dangerous to ships.
Brand thanked the youth much for his help, and when he reached Bathstead
related what Olaf had done for him. Thorbiorn said nothing, but Vakr
sneered, and called Brand a coward for asking help of Olaf. The strife grew
keen between them, almost to blows, and was only settled by Thorbiorn,
who forbade Brand to praise Olaf or to accept help from him. His ill-will
grew so evident to all men that Howard the Halt decided, in spite of Olaf’s
reluctance, to remove to a homestead on the other side of the firth, away
from Thorbiorn’s neighbourhood.

Olaf Meets Thorbiorn

That summer Thorbiorn decided to marry. He wooed a maiden who was
sister of the wise Guest, who dwelt at the Mead, and Guest agreed to the
match, on condition that Thorbiorn should renounce his injustice and evil
ways; to this Thorbiorn assented, and the wedding was held shortly after.
Thorbiorn had said nothing to his household of his proposed marriage, and
Sigrid first heard of it when the wedding was over, and the bridal party
would soon be riding home to Bathstead. Sigrid was very wroth that she
must give up her control of the household to another, and refused to stay to
serve under Thorbiorn’s wife; accordingly she withdrew from Bathstead to
a kinsman’s house, taking all her goods with her. Thorbiorn raged furiously
on his return, when he found that she was gone, for her wealth made a great
difference to his comfort, and threatened dire punishment to all who had
helped her. Olaf continued his wooing of Sigrid, and went to see her often
in her kinsman’s abode, and they loved each other greatly.
One day when Olaf had been seeking some lost sheep he made his way to
Sigrid’s house, to talk with her as usual. As they stood near the house
together and talked Sigrid looked suddenly anxious and said:

“I see Thorbiorn and Vakr coming in a boat over the firth with weapons
beside them, and I see the gleam of Thorbiorn’s great sword Warflame. I
fear they have done, or will do, some evil deed, and therefore I pray thee,
Olaf, not to stay and meet them. He has hated thee for a long time, and the
help thou didst give me to leave Bathstead did not mend matters. Go thy
way now, and do not fall in with them.”
“I am not afraid,” said Olaf. “I have done Thorbiorn no wrong, and I will
not flee before him. He is only one man, as I am.”
“Alas!” Sigrid replied, “how canst thou, a stripling of eighteen, hope to
stand before a grown man, a mighty champion, armed with a magic sword?
Thy words and thoughts are brave, as thou thyself art, but the odds are too
great for thee: they are two to one, since Vakr, ever spiteful and malicious,
will not stand idle while thou art in combat with Thorbiorn.”
“Well,” said Olaf, “I will not avoid them, but I will not seek a contest. If it
must be so, I will fight bravely; thou shalt hear of my deeds.”
“No, that will never be; I will not live after thee to ask of them,” said Sigrid.
“Farewell now; live long and happily!” said Olaf; and so they bade each
other farewell, and Olaf left her there, and went down to the shore where
his sheep lay. Thorbiorn and Vakr had just landed, and they greeted each
other, and Olaf asked them their errand. “We go to my mother,” said Vakr.
“Let us go together,” replied Olaf, “for my way is the same in part. But I am
sorry that I must needs drive my sheep home, for Icefirth sheep-drovers will
become proud if a great man like thee should join the trade, Thorbiorn.”
“Nay, I do not mind that,” said Thorbiorn; so they all went on together; and
as he went Olaf caught up a crooked cudgel with which to herd his sheep;
he noticed, too, that Thorbiorn and Vakr kept trying to lag behind him, and
he took care that they all walked abreast.

The Combat

When the three came near the house of Thordis, Vakr’s mother, where the
ways divided, Thorbiorn said: “Now, nephew Vakr, we need no longer delay
what we would do.” And then Olaf knew that he had fallen into their snare.
He ran up a bank beside the road, and the two set on him from below, and
he defended himself at first manfully with the crooked cudgel; but
Thorbiorn’s sword Warflame sliced this like a stalk of flax, and Olaf had to
betake himself to his axe, and the fight went on for long.

A New Enemy Comes

The noise of the fray reached the ears of Thordis, Vakr’s mother, in her
house, so that she sent a boy to learn the cause, and when he told her that
Olaf Howardson was fighting against Thorbiorn and Vakr she bade her
second son go to the help of his kinsfolk.
“I will not go,” said he. “I would rather fight for Olaf than for them. It is a
shame for two to set on one man, and they such great champions too. I will
not be the third; I will not go.”
“Now I know that thou art a coward,” sneered his mother. “Daughter, not
son, thou art, too timid to help thy kinsfolk. I will show thee that I am a
braver daughter than thou a son!”

Olaf’s Death

By these words Thordis so enraged her son that he seized his axe and
rushed from the house down the hill towards Olaf, who could not see the
new-comer, because he stood with his back to the house. Coming close to
Olaf, the new assailant drove the axe in deep between his shoulders, and
when Olaf felt the blow he turned and with a mighty stroke slew his last
enemy. Thereupon Thorbiorn thrust Olaf through with the sword Warflame,
and he died. Then Thorbiorn took Olaf’s teeth, which he smote from his
jaw, wrapped them in a cloth, and carried them home.
The news of the slaughter was at once told by Thorbiorn (for so long as
homicide was not concealed it was not considered murder), and told fairly,

so that all men praised Olaf for his brave defence, and lamented his death.
But when men sought for the fair Sigrid she could not be found, and was
seen no more from that day. She had loved Olaf greatly, had seen him fall,
and could not live when he was dead; but no man knew where she died or
was buried.
The terrible news of Olaf’s death came to Howard, and he sighed heavily
and took to his bed for grief, and remained bedridden for twelve months,
leaving his wife Biargey to manage the daily fishing and the farm. Men
thought that Olaf would be for ever unavenged, because Howard was too
feeble, and his adversary too mighty and too unjust.

Howard Claims Wergild for Olaf

When a year had passed away Biargey came to Howard where he lay in his
bed, and bade him arise and go to Bathstead. Said she:
“I would have thee claim wergild for our son, since a man that can no
longer fight may well prove his valour by word of mouth, and if Thorbiorn
should show any sign of justice thou shalt not claim too much.”
Howard replied: “I know it is a bootless errand to ask justice from
Thorbiorn, but I will do thy will in this matter.”
So Howard went heavily, walking as an old man, to Bathstead, and, after
the usual greetings, said:
“I have come to thee, Thorbiorn, on a great matter—to claim wergild for
my dead son Olaf, whom thou didst slay guiltless.”
Thorbiorn answered: “I have never yet paid a wergild, though I have slain
many men—some say innocent men. But I am sorry for thee, since thou
hast lost a brave son, and I will at least give thee something. There is an old
horse named Dodderer out in the pastures, grey with age, sore-backed, too
old to work; but thou canst take him home, and perhaps he will be some
good, when thou hast fed him up.”

Now Howard was angered beyond speech. He reddened and turned straight
to the door; and as he went down the hall Vakr shouted and jeered; but
Howard said no word, good or bad. He returned home, and took to his bed
for another year.

Howard leaves the house of Thorbiorn

Howard at the Thing

In the second year Biargey again urged Howard to try for a wergild. She
suggested that he should follow Thorbiorn to the Thing and try to obtain
justice, for men loathed Thorbiorn’s evil ways, and Howard would be sure
to have many sympathizers. Howard was loath to go. “Thorbiorn, my son’s
slayer, has mocked me once; shall he mock me again where all the
chieftains are assembled? I will not go to endure such shame!”
To his surprise, Biargey urged her will, saying: “Thou wilt have friends, I
know, since Guest will be there, and he is a just man, and will strive to
bring about peace between thee and Thorbiorn. And hearken to me, and
heed my words, husband! If Thorbiorn is condemned to pay thee money,
and there is a large ring of assessors, it may be that when thou and he are in
the ring together he will do something to grieve thee sorely. Then look thou
well to it! If thy heart be light, make thou no peace; I am somewhat
foresighted, and I know that then Olaf shall be avenged. But if thou be
heavy-hearted, then do thou be reconciled to Thorbiorn, for I know that
Olaf shall lie unatoned for.”
Howard replied: “Wife, I understand thee not, nor thy words, but this I
know: I would do and bear all things if I might but obtain due vengeance
for Olaf’s death.”
At last Howard, impressed by his wife’s half-prophetic words, roused
himself, and rode away to the Thing; here he found shelter with a great
chieftain, Steinthor of Ere, who was kind to the old man, and gave Howard
a place in his booth. Steinthor praised Olaf’s courage and manful defence,
and bade his followers cherish the old man, and not arouse his grief for his
dead son.

Howard and Thorbiorn

As the days wore on Howard did nothing towards obtaining compensation
for his great loss, until Steinthor asked him why he took no action in the
matter. Howard replied that he felt helpless against Thorbiorn’s evil words
and deeds; but Steinthor bade him try to win Guest to his side—then he

would succeed. Howard took heart, and set off for the booth which
Thorbiorn shared with Guest; but unhappily Guest was not there when
Howard came. Thorbiorn greeted him and asked what matter had brought
him, and Howard replied:
“My grief for Olaf is yet deep in my heart; still I remember his death; and
now again I come to claim a wergild for him.”
Thorbiorn answered: “Come to me at home in my own country, and I may
do somewhat for thee, but I will not have thee whining against me here.”
Howard said: “If thou wilt do nothing here, I have proved that thou wilt do
still less in thine own country; but I had hoped for help from other
chieftains.”
Thorbiorn burst out wrathfully: “See! He will stir up other men against me!
Get thee gone, old man, or thou shalt not escape a beating.”
Now Howard was greatly angered, and said: “Yes, old I am—too old and
feeble to win respect; but the days have been when I would not have
endured such wrong; yea, and if Olaf were still alive thou wouldst not have
flouted me thus.” As he left Thorbiorn’s sight his grief and anger were so
great that he did not notice Guest returning, but went heavily to Steinthor’s
booth, where he told all Thorbiorn’s injustice, and won much sympathy.

Guest and Howard

When Guest had entered the booth he sat down beside Thorbiorn and said:
“Who was the man whom I met leaving the booth just now?”
“A wise question for a wise man to ask! How can I tell? So many come and
go,” said Thorbiorn.
“But this was an old man, large of stature, lame in one knee; yet he looked a
brave warrior, and he was so wrathful that he did not know where he went.
He seemed a man likely to be lucky, too, and not one to be lightly
wronged.”

“That must have been old Howard the Halt,” said Thorbiorn. “He is a man
from my district, who has come after me to the Thing.”
“Ah! Was it his brave son Olaf whom thou didst slay guiltless?”
“Yes, certainly,” returned Thorbiorn.
“How hast thou kept the promise of better ways which thou didst make
when thou didst marry my sister?” he asked; and Thorbiorn sat silent. “This
wrong must be amended,” said Guest, and sent an honourable man to bring
Howard to him. Howard at first refused to face Thorbiorn again, but at last
reluctantly consented to meet Guest, and when the latter had greeted him in
friendly and honourable fashion he told the whole story, from the time of
Thorbiorn’s first jealousy of Olaf.
Guest was horrified. “Heard ever man such injustice!” he cried. “Now,
Thorbiorn, choose one of two things: either my sister shall no longer be thy
wife, or thou shalt allow me to give judgment between Howard and thee.”

Guest’s Judgment and the Payment of the Wergild

Thorbiorn agreed to leave the matter in Guest’s hands, and many men were
called to make a ring as assessors, that all might be legally done, and
Thorbiorn and Howard stood together in the ring. Then Guest gave
judgment: “Thorbiorn, I cannot condemn thee to pay Howard all thou owest
—with all thy wealth, thou hast not money enough for that; but for slaying
Olaf thou shalt pay a threefold wergild. For the other wrongs thou hast done
him, I, thy brother-in-law, will try to atone by gifts, and friendship, and all
honour in my power, as long as we both live; and if he will come home to
stay with me he shall be right welcome.”
Thorbiorn agreed to the award, saying carelessly: “I will pay him at home
in my own country, if he will come to me when I have more leisure.”
“No,” said Guest, who distrusted Thorbiorn, “thou shalt pay here, and now,
fully; and I myself will pay one wergild, to help thee in atonement.” When
this was agreed Howard sat down in the ring, and Guest gave him the one
wergild (a hundred of silver), which Howard received in the skirt of his

cloak; and then Thorbiorn paid one wergild slowly, coin by coin, and said
he had no more money; but Guest bade him pay it all.
Then Thorbiorn drew out a cloth and untied it, saying, “He will surely count
himself paid in full if I give him this!” and he flung into the old man’s face,
as he sat on the ground, the teeth of the dead Olaf, saying, “Here are thy
son’s teeth!”
Howard sprang up, bleeding, mad with rage and grief. The silver rolled in
all directions from his cloak as he came to his feet, but he heeded it not at
all. Blinded with blood, and furious, he broke through the ring of assessors,
dashed one of them to earth, and rushed away like a young man; but when
he came to Steinthor’s booth he lay as if dead, and spoke to no man.

“The silver rolled in all directions from his cloak”

Guest would have no more to do with Thorbiorn. “Thou hast no equal for
cruelty and evil; thou shalt surely repent it,” he said; and he rode to
Bathstead, took his sister away, with all her wealth, and broke off his

alliance with Thorbiorn, caring nothing for the shame he put upon so unjust
a man.
Howard went home, told Biargey all that had happened, and took to his bed
again, a poor, old, helpless, miserable man; but his wife, who saw her
presage beginning to come true, kept up her courage, rowed out fishing
every day, and guided the household for yet another year.

Biargey and her Brethren

That summer, one day, as Biargey was rowed out to the fishing as usual, she
saw Thorbiorn’s boat coming up the firth, and bade her man take up the
lines and go to meet him, and row round the cutter, while she talked with
Thorbiorn. As Biargey’s little boat approached the cutter Thorbiorn stopped
his vessel for he saw that she would speak with him, and her boat circled
round the cutter while she asked his business, and learnt that he was going
with Vakr to meet a brother and nephew of his, to bring them to Bathstead,
and that he expected to be away from home for a week. The little skiff had
now passed completely round the motionless cutter, and Olaf’s mother,
having learnt all she wanted, bade her rower quit Thorbiorn; the little boat
shot swiftly and suddenly away, leaving Thorbiorn with an uneasy sense of
witchcraft. So disquieted did he feel that he would have pursued her and
drowned “the old hag,” as he called her, had he not been prevented by
Brand the Strong, who had been helped in his need by Olaf.
As the little craft shot away Biargey smiled mysteriously, and said to her
rower: “Now I feel sure that Olaf my son will be avenged. I have work to
do: let us not go home yet.”
“Where, then, shall we go?” asked the man.
“To my brother Valbrand.”

Valbrand

Now Valbrand was an old man who had been a mighty warrior in his youth,
but had now settled down to a life of quiet and peace; he had, however, two
promising sons, well-grown and manly youths. When Valbrand saw his
sister he came to meet her, saying:
“Welcome, sister! Seldom it is that we see thee. Wilt thou abide with us this
night, or is thine errand one that craves haste?”
“I must be home to-night,” she replied, and added mysteriously: “But there
is help I would fain ask of thee. Wilt thou lend me thy seal-nets? We have
not enough to catch such fish as we need.”
Valbrand answered: “Willingly, and thou shalt choose for thyself. Here are
three, one old and worn out, two new and untried; which wilt thou take?”
“I will have the new ones, but I do not need them yet; keep them ready for
the day when I shall send and ask for them,” Biargey replied, and bade
Valbrand farewell, and rowed away to her next brother.

Thorbrand and Asbrand

When Howard’s wife came to her brother Thorbrand she was well received
by him and his two sons, and here she asked for the loan of a trout-net,
since she had not enough to catch the fish. Thorbrand offered her her choice
—one old and worn out, or two new and untried nets; and again Biargey
chose the new ones, and bade them be ready when the messenger came.
From her third brother, Asbrand, who had only one son, Biargey asked a
turf-cutter, as hers was not keen enough to cut all she wanted; again she was
offered her choice, and chose the new, untried cutter, instead of the old,
rusty, notched one. Then Biargey bade farewell to Asbrand, refusing his
offer of hospitality, and went home to Howard, and told him of her quests
and the promises she had received. The old couple knew what the promises
meant, but they said nothing to each other about it.

The Arousing of Howard

When seven days had passed Biargey came to Howard, saying: “Arise now,
and play the man, if thou wilt ever win vengeance for Olaf. Thou must do it
now or never, since now the opportunity has come. Knowest thou not that
to-day Thorbiorn returns to Bathstead, and thou must meet him to-day? And
have I not found helpers for thee in my nephews? Thou wilt not need to
face the strife alone.”
Hereupon Howard sprang up joyfully from his bed, and was no longer lame
or halt, nor looked like an old man, but moved briskly, clad himself in good
armour, and seemed a mighty warrior. His joy broke forth in words, and he
chanted songs of gladness in vengeance, and joy in strife, and evil omen to
the death-doomed foe. Thus gladly, with spear in hand, he went forth to find
his enemy and avenge his son; but he turned and kissed his brave wife
farewell, for he said: “It may well be that we shall not meet again.” Biargey
said: “Nay, we shall meet again, for I know that thou bearest a bold heart
and a strong arm, and wilt do valiantly.”

Howard Gathers his Friends

Howard and one fighting-man took their boat and rowed to Valbrand’s
house, and saw him and his sons making hay. Valbrand greeted Howard
well, for he had not seen him for long, and begged him to stay there, but
Howard would not. “I am in haste, and have come to fetch the two new
seal-nets thou didst lend to my wife,” he said; and Valbrand understood him
well. He called to his sons, “Come hither, lads; here is your kinsman
Howard, with mighty work on hand,” and the two youths ran up hastily,
leaving their hay-making. Valbrand went to the house, and returned bearing
good weapons, which he gave to his sons, bidding them follow their
kinsman Howard and help in his vengeance.
They three went down to the boat, took their seats beside Howard’s man,
and rowed to Asbrand’s house. There Howard asked for the promised new
turf-cutter, and Asbrand’s son, a tall and manly youth, joined the party. At
their next visit, to Thorbrand’s house, Howard asked for the two trout-nets,
and Thorbrand’s two sons, with one stout fighting-man, came gladly with
their kinsman.

Howard’s Plan

As they rowed away together one of the youths asked: “Why is it that thou
hast no sword or axe, Uncle Howard?” Howard replied: “It may be that we
shall meet Thorbiorn, and when the meeting is over I shall not be a
swordless man, but it is likely that I shall have Warflame, that mighty
weapon, the best of swords; and here I have a good spear.”
These words seemed to them all a good omen, and as they rowed towards
Bathstead they saw a flock of ravens, which encouraged them yet more,
since the raven was the bird of Odin, the haunter of fields of strife and
bloodshed.
When they reached Bathstead they sprang on the jetty, carried their boat
over the ridge of shingle to the quiet pool by the boathouse, and hid
themselves where they could see, but remain themselves unseen. Howard
took command, and appointed their places, bidding them be wary, and not
stir till he gave the word.

Thorbiorn’s Return

Late that evening, just before dusk, Thorbiorn and Vakr came home,
bringing their kinsmen with them, a party of ten in all. They had no
suspicion of any ambush, and Thorbiorn said to Vakr: “It is a fine night, and
dry, Vakr; we will leave the boat here—she will take no hurt through the
night—and thou shalt carry our swords and spears up to the boathouse.”
Vakr obeyed, and bore all the weapons to the boathouse. Howard’s men
would have slain him then but Howard forbade, and let him return to the
jetty for more armour. When Vakr had gone back Howard sent to the
boathouse for the magic sword, Warflame; drawing it, he gripped it hard
and brandished it, for he would fain avenge Olaf with the weapon which
had slain him. When Vakr came towards the ambush a second time he was
laden with shields and helmets. Howard’s men sprang up to take him, and
he turned to flee as he saw and heard them. But his foot slipped, and he fell
into the pool, and lay there weighed down by all the armour, till he died
miserably—a fitting end for one so ignoble and cruel.

Thorbiorn’s Death

Howard’s men shouted and waved their weapons, and ran down to the
beach to attack their enemies; but Thorbiorn, seeing them, flung himself
into the sea, swimming towards a small rocky islet. When Howard saw this
he took Warflame between his teeth, and, old as he was, plunged into the
waves and pursued Thorbiorn. The latter had, however, a considerable start,
and was both younger and stronger than his adversary, so that he was
already on the rock and prepared to dash a huge stone at Howard, when the
old man reached the islet. Now there seemed no hope for Howard, but still
he clung fiercely to the rock and strove to draw himself up on the land.
Thorbiorn lifted the huge stone to cast at his foe, but his foot slipped on the
wet rocks, and he fell backward; before he could recover his footing
Howard rushed forward and slew him with his own sword Warflame,
striking out his teeth, as Thorbiorn had done to Olaf.

“Thorbiorn lifted the huge stone”

When Howard swam back to Bathstead, and they told him that in all six of
Thorbiorn’s men were dead, while he had only lost one serving-man, he
rejoiced greatly; but his vengeance was not satisfied until he had slain yet
another brother of Thorbiorn’s.

Steinthor Shelters Howard

Then, with the news of this great revenge to be told, Howard and his
kinsmen took refuge with that Steinthor who had given him help and shelter
during the Thing.
“Who are ye, and what tidings do ye bring?” asked Steinthor as the little
party of seven entered his hall.
“I am Howard, and these are my kinsmen,” said Howard. “We tell the
slaying of Thorbiorn and his brothers, his nephews and his house-carles,
eight in all.”
Steinthor exclaimed in surprise: “Art thou that Howard, old and bedridden,
who didst seem like to die last year at the Thing, and hast thou done these
mighty deeds with only these youths to aid thee? This is a great marvel,
nearly as wondrous as thy restoration to youth and health. Great enmity will
ye have aroused against you!”
Said Howard: “Bethink thee that thou didst promise me thy help if I should
ever need it. Therefore have I come to thee now, because I have some little
need of aid.”
Steinthor laughed. “A little help! When dost thou think thou wilt need
much, if this be not the time? But bide ye all here in honour, and I will set
the matter right, since thou and these thy helpers have done so valiantly.”

The Thing and Guest’s Award

Howard and his kinsmen abode long with their host, until the Thing met
again; then Steinthor rode away, leaving the uncle and nephews under good
safeguard. It was a great meeting, with many cases to judge. When the
matter of the death of Thorbiorn’s family was brought up Steinthor spoke
on Howard’s behalf, and offered to let Guest again give judgment, since he
had done so before. This offer was accepted by Thorbiorn’s surviving
kinsfolk, and Guest, as before, gave a fair award.

Since a threefold wergild was still due to Howard for the slaying of Olaf,
three of the eight dead need not be paid for. Thorbiorn, Vakr, and that
brother of his slain by Olaf should continue unatoned for, because they were
evildoers, and fell in an unrighteous quarrel of their own seeking; moreover,
the slaying of Howard’s serving-man cancelled one wergild; there
remained, therefore, but one wergild for Howard to pay—one hundred of
silver—which was paid out of hand. In addition to this, Howard must
change his dwelling, and his nephews must travel abroad for some years.
This sentence pleased all men greatly, and they broke up the Thing in great
content, and Howard rode home at the head of a goodly company to his
stout-hearted wife Biargey, who had kept his house and lands in good order
all this time. They made a great feast, and gave rich gifts to all their friends
and kinsmen; then when the farewells were over the exiles went abroad and
did valiantly in Norway; but Howard sold his lands and moved to another
part of the island. There he prospered greatly; and when he died his memory
was handed down as that of a mighty warrior and a valiant and prudent
man.

CHAPTER VII: ROLAND, THE HERO OF
EARLY FRANCE

The Roland Legends

C HARLES THE GREAT, King of the Franks, world-famous as
Charlemagne, won his undying renown by innumerable victories for
France and for the Church. Charles as the head of the Holy Roman
Empire and the Pope as the head of the Holy Catholic Church equally
dominated the imagination of the mediæval world. Yet in romance
Charlemagne’s fame has been eclipsed by that of his illustrious nephew and
vassal, Roland, whose crowning glory has sprung from his last conflict and
heroic death in the valley of Roncesvalles.

“Oh for a blast of that dread horn,
On Fontarabian echoes borne,
That to King Charles did come,
When Roland brave, and Olivier,
And every paladin and peer
On Roncesvalles died.”

Scott.

Briefly, the historical facts are these: In A.D. 778 Charles was returning from
an expedition into Spain, where the dissensions of the Moorish rulers had
offered him the chance of extending his borders while he fought for the
Christian faith against the infidel. He had taken Pampeluna, but had been
checked before Saragossa, and had not ventured beyond the Ebro; he was
now making his way home through the Pyrenees. When the main army had
safely traversed the passes, the rear was suddenly attacked by an
overwhelming body of mountaineers, Gascons and Basques, who, resenting
the violation of their mountain sanctuaries, and longing for plunder, drove

the Frankish rearguard into a little valley (now marked by the chapel of
Ibagneta and still called Roncesvalles), and there slew every man.

Charlemagne
Stella Langdale

The Historic Basis

The whole romantic legend of Roland has sprung from the simple words in
a contemporary chronicle, “In which battle was slain Roland, prefect of the
marches of Brittany.”[12]
This same fight of Roncesvalles was the theme of an archaic poem, the
“Song of Altobiscar,” written about 1835. In it we hear the exultation of the
Basques as they see the knights of France fall beneath their onslaughts. The
Basques are on the heights—they hear the trampling of a mighty host which
throngs the narrow valley below: its numbers are as countless as the sands
of the sea, its movement as resistless as the waves which roll those sands on
the shore. Awe fills the bosoms of the mountain tribesmen, but their leader
is undaunted. “Let us unite our strong arms!” he cries aloud. “Let us tear
our rocks from their beds and hurl them upon the enemy! Let us crush and
slay them all!” So said, so done: the rocks roll plunging into the valley,
slaying whole troops in their descent. “And what mangled flesh, what
broken bones, what seas of blood! Soon of that gallant band not one is left
alive; night covers all, the eagles devour the flesh, and the bones whiten in
this valley to all eternity!”

A Spanish Version

So runs the “Song of Altobiscar.” But Spain too claims part of the honour of
the day of Roncesvalles. True, Roland was in reality slain by Basques, not
by Spaniards; but Spain, eager to share the honour, has glorified a national
hero, Bernardo del Carpio, who, in the Spanish legend, defeats Roland in
single combat and wins the day.

The Italian Orlando

Italy has laid claim to Roland, and in the guise of Orlando, Orlando
Furioso, Orlando Innamorato, has made him into a fantastic, chivalrous
knight, a hero of many magical adventures.

Roland in French Literature

Noblest of all, however, is the development of the “Roland Saga” in French
literature; for, even setting aside much legendary lore and accumulated
tradition, the Roland of the old epic is a perfect hero of the early days of
feudalism, when chivalry was in its very beginnings, before the cult of the
Blessed Virgin Mary added the grace of courtesy to its heroism. Evidently
Roland had grown in importance before the “Chanson de Roland” took its
present form, for we find the rearguard skirmish magnified into a great
battle, which manifestly contains recollections of later Saracen invasions
and Gascon revolts. As befits the hero of an epic, Roland is now of royal
blood, the nephew of the great emperor, who has himself increased in age
and splendour; this heroic Roland can obviously only be overcome by the
treachery of one of the Franks themselves, so there appears the traitor
Ganelon (a Romance version of a certain Danilo or Nanilo), who is among
the Twelve Peers what Judas was among the Apostles; the mighty Saracens,
not the insignificant Basques, are now the victors; and the vengeance taken
by Charlemagne on the Saracens and on the traitor is boldly added to
history, which leaves the disaster unavenged. Thus the bare fact was
embroidered over gradually by the historical imagination, aided by
patriotism, until a really national hero was evolved out of an obscure Breton
count.

The “Chanson de Roland”

The “Song of Roland,” as we now have it, seems to be a late version of an
Anglo-Norman poem, made by a certain Turoldus or Thorold; and it must
bear a close resemblance to that chant which fired the soldiers of William
the Norman at Hastings, when

“Taillefer, the noble singer,
On his war-horse swift and fiery,
Rode before the Norman host;
Tossed his sword in air and caught it,
Chanted loud the death of Roland,
And the peers who perished with him

At the pass of Roncevaux.”
Roman de Rou.

The “Song of Roland” bears an intimate relation to the development of
European thought, and the hero is doubly worth our study as hero and as
type of national character. Thus runs the story:

The Story

The Emperor Charles the Great, Carolus Magnus, or Charlemagne, had
been for seven years in Spain, and had conquered it from sea to sea, except
Saragossa, which, among its lofty mountains, and ruled by its brave king
Marsile, had defied his power. Marsile still held to his idols, Mahomet,
Apollo, and Termagaunt, dreading in his heart the day when Charles would
force him to become a Christian.

The Saracen Council

The Saracen king gathered a council around him, as he reclined on a seat of
blue marble in the shade of an orchard, and asked the advice of his wise
men.

“‘My lords,’ quoth he, ‘you know our grievous state.
The mighty Charles, great lord of France the fair,
Has spread his hosts in ruin o’er our land.
No armies have I to resist his course,
No people have I to destroy his hosts.
Advise me now, what counsel shall I take
To save my race and realm from death and shame?’”

Blancandrin’s Advice

A wily emir, Blancandrin, of Val-Fonde, was the only man who replied. He
was wise in counsel, brave in war, a loyal vassal to his lord.

“‘Fear not, my liege,’ he answered the sad king.
‘Send thou to Charles the proud, the arrogant,
And offer fealty and service true,
With gifts of lions, bears, and swift-foot hounds,
Seven hundred camels, falcons, mules, and gold—
As much as fifty chariots can convey—
Yea, gold enough to pay his vassals all.
Say thou thyself will take the Christian faith,
And follow him to Aix to be baptized.
If he demands thy hostages, then I
And these my fellows give our sons to thee,
To go with Charles to France, as pledge of truth.
Thou wilt not follow him, thou wilt not yield
To be baptized, and so our sons must die;
But better death than life in foul disgrace,
With loss of our bright Spain and happy days.’
So cried the pagans all; but Marsile sat
Thoughtful, and yet at last accepted all.”

An Embassy to Charlemagne

Now King Marsile dismissed the council with words of thanks, only
retaining near him ten of his most famous barons, chief of whom was
Blancandrin; to them he said: “My lords, go to Cordova, where Charles is at
this time. Bear olive-branches in your hands, in token of peace, and
reconcile me with him. Great shall be your reward if you succeed. Beg
Charles to have pity on me, and I will follow him to Aix within a month,
will receive the Christian law, and become his vassal in love and loyalty.”
“Sire,” said Blancandrin, “you shall have a good treaty!”
The ten messengers departed, bearing olive-branches in their hands, riding
on white mules, with reins of gold and saddles of silver, and came to

Charles as he rested after the siege of Cordova, which he had just taken and
sacked.

Reception by Charlemagne

Charlemagne was in an orchard with his Twelve Peers and fifteen thousand
veteran warriors of France. The messengers from the heathen king reached
this orchard and asked for the emperor; their gaze wandered over groups of
wise nobles playing at chess, and groups of gay youths fencing, till at last it
rested on a throne of solid gold, set under a pine-tree and overshadowed
with eglantine. There sat Charles, the king who ruled fair France, with
white flowing beard and hoary head, stately of form and majestic of
countenance. No need was there of usher to cry: “Here sits Charles the
King.”

“Here sits Charles the King”

The ambassadors greeted Charlemagne with all honour, and Blancandrin
opened the embassy thus:

“Peace be with you from God the Lord of Glory whom you adore! Thus
says the valiant King Marsile: He has been instructed in your faith, the way
of salvation, and is willing to be baptized; but you have been too long in our
bright Spain, and should return to Aix. There will he follow you and
become your vassal, holding the kingdom of Spain at your hand. Gifts have
we brought from him to lay at your feet, for he will share his treasures with
you!”

He is Perplexed

Charlemagne raised his hands in thanks to God, but then bent his head and
remained thinking deeply, for he was a man of prudent mind, cautious and
far-seeing, and never spoke on impulse. At last he said proudly: “Ye have
spoken fairly, but Marsile is my greatest enemy: how can I trust your
words?”
Blancandrin replied: “He will give hostages, twenty of our noblest youths,
and my own son will be among them. King Marsile will follow you to the
wondrous springs of Aix-la-Chapelle, and on the feast of St. Michael will
receive baptism in your court.”
Thus the audience ended. The messengers were feasted in a pavilion raised
in the orchard, and the night passed in gaiety and good-fellowship.

He Consults his Twelve Peers

In the early morning Charlemagne arose and heard Mass; then, sitting
beneath a pine-tree, he called the Twelve Peers to council. There came the
twelve heroes, chief of them Roland and his loyal brother-in-arms Oliver;
there came Archbishop Turpin; and, among a thousand loyal Franks, there
came Ganelon the traitor. When all were seated in due order Charlemagne
began:
“My lords and barons, I have received an embassy of peace from King
Marsile, who sends me great gifts and offers, but on condition that I leave

Spain and return to Aix. Thither will he follow me, to receive the Faith,
become a Christian and my vassal. Is he to be trusted?”
“Let us beware,” cried all the Franks.

Roland Speaks

Roland, ever impetuous, now rose without delay, and spoke: “Fair uncle
and sire, it would be madness to trust Marsile. Seven years have we warred
in Spain, and many cities have I won for you, but Marsile has ever been
treacherous. Once before when he sent messengers with olive-branches you
and the French foolishly believed him, and he beheaded the two counts who
were your ambassadors to him. Fight Marsile to the end, besiege and sack
Saragossa, and avenge those who perished by his treachery.”

Ganelon Objects

Charlemagne looked out gloomily from under his heavy brows, he twisted
his moustache and pulled his long white beard, but said nothing, and all the
Franks remained silent, except Ganelon, whose hostility to Roland showed
clearly in his words:
“Sire, blind credulity were wrong and foolish, but follow up your own
advantage. When Marsile offers to become your vassal, to hold Spain at
your hand and to take your faith, any man who urges you to reject such
terms cares little for our death! Let pride no longer be your counsellor, but
hear the voice of wisdom.”
The aged Duke Naimes, the Nestor of the army, spoke next, supporting
Ganelon: “Sire, the advice of Count Ganelon is wise, if wisely followed.
Marsile lies at your mercy; he has lost all, and only begs for pity. It would
be a sin to press this cruel war, since he offers full guarantee by his
hostages. You need only send one of your barons to arrange the terms of
peace.”

This advice pleased the whole assembly, and a murmur was heard: “The
Duke has spoken well.”

“Who Shall Go to Saragossa?”

“‘My lords and peers, whom shall we send
To Saragossa to Marsile?’
‘Sire, let me go,’ replied Duke Naimes;
‘Give me your glove and warlike staff.’
‘No!’ cried the king, ‘my counsellor,
Thou shalt not leave me unadvised—
Sit down again; I bid thee stay.’

“‘My lords and peers, whom shall we send
To Saragossa to Marsile?’
‘Sire, I can go,’ quoth Roland bold.
‘That canst thou not,’ said Oliver;
‘Thy heart is far too hot and fierce—
I fear for thee. But I will go,
If that will please my lord the King.’
‘No!’ cried the king, ‘ye shall not go.
I swear by this white flowing beard
No peer shall undertake the task.’

“‘My lords and peers, whom shall we send?’
Archbishop Turpin rose and spoke:
‘Fair sire, let me be messenger.
Your nobles all have played their part;
Give me your glove and warlike staff,
And I will show this heathen king
In frank speech how a true knight feels.’
But wrathfully the king replied:
‘By this white beard, thou shalt not go!
Sit down, and raise thy voice no more.’”

Roland Suggests Ganelon

“Knights of France,” quoth Charlemagne, “choose me now one of your
number to do my errand to Marsile, and to defend my honour valiantly, if
need be.”
“Ah,” said Roland, “then it must be Ganelon, my stepfather; for whether he
goes or stays, you have none better than he!”
This suggestion satisfied all the assembly, and they cried: “Ganelon will
acquit himself right manfully. If it please the King, he is the right man to
go.”
Charlemagne thought for a moment, and then, raising his head, beckoned to
Ganelon. “Come hither, Ganelon,” he said, “and receive this glove and
staff, which the voice of all the Franks gives to thee.”

Ganelon is Angry

“No,” replied Ganelon, wrathfully. “This is the work of Roland, and I will
never forgive him, nor his friends, Oliver and the other Peers. Here, in your
presence, I bid them defiance!”
“Your anger is too great,” said Charlemagne; “you will go, since it is my
will also.”
“Yes, I shall go, but I shall perish as did your two former ambassadors. Sire,
forget not that your sister is my wife, and that Baldwin, my son, will be a
valiant champion if he lives. I leave to him my lands and fiefs. Sire, guard
him well, for I shall see him no more.”
“Your heart is too tender,” said Charlemagne. “You must go, since such is
my command.”

He Threatens Roland

Ganelon, in rage and anguish, glared round the council, and his face drew
all eyes, so fiercely he looked at Roland.
“Madman,” said he, “all men know that I am thy stepfather, and for this
cause thou hast sent me to Marsile, that I may perish! But if I return I will
be revenged on thee.”
“Madness and pride,” Roland retorted, “have no terrors for me; but this
embassy demands a prudent man not an angry fool: if Charles consents, I
will do his errand for thee.”
“Thou shalt not. Thou art not my vassal, to do my work, and Charles, my
lord, has given me his commands. I go to Saragossa; but there will I find
some way to vent my anger.”
Now Roland began to laugh, so wild did his stepfather’s threats seem, and
the laughter stung Ganelon to madness. “I hate you,” he cried to Roland;
“you have brought this unjust choice on me.” Then, turning to the emperor:
“Mighty lord, behold me ready to fulfil your commands.”

But is Sent

“Fair Lord Ganelon,” spoke Charlemagne, “bear this message to Marsile.
He must become my vassal and receive holy baptism. Half of Spain shall be
his fief; the other half is for Count Roland. If Marsile does not accept these
terms I will besiege Saragossa, capture the town, and lead Marsile prisoner
to Aix, where he shall die in shame and torment. Take this letter, sealed with
my seal, and deliver it into the king’s own right hand.”
Thereupon Charlemagne held out his right-hand glove to Ganelon, who
would fain have refused it. So reluctant was he to grasp it that the glove fell
to the ground. “Ah, God!” cried the Franks, “what an evil omen! What woes
will come to us from this embassy!” “You shall hear full tidings,” quoth
Ganelon. “Now, sire, dismiss me, for I have no time to lose.” Very solemnly
Charlemagne raised his hand and made the sign of the Cross over Ganelon,
and gave him his blessing, saying, “Go, for the honour of Jesus Christ, and
for your Emperor.” So Ganelon took his leave, and returned to his lodging,
where he prepared for his journey, and bade farewell to the weeping

retainers whom he left behind, though they begged to accompany him.
“God forbid,” cried he, “that so many brave knights should die! Rather will
I die alone. You, sirs, return to our fair France, greet well my wife, guard
my son Baldwin, and defend his fief!”

He Plots with Marsile’s Messengers

Then Ganelon rode away, and shortly overtook the ambassadors of the
Moorish king, for Blancandrin had delayed their journey to accompany
him, and the two envoys began a crafty conversation, for both were wary
and skilful, and each was trying to read the other’s mind. The wily Saracen
began:

“‘Ah! what a wondrous king is Charles!
How far and wide his conquests range!
The salt sea is no bar to him:
From Poland to far England’s shores
He stretches his unquestioned sway;
But why seeks he to win bright Spain?’
‘Such is his will,’ quoth Ganelon;
‘None can withstand his mighty power!’

“‘How valiant are the Frankish lords
But how their counsel wrongs their king
To urge him to this long-drawn strife—
They ruin both themselves and him!’
‘I blame not them,’ quoth Ganelon,
‘But Roland, swollen with fatal pride.
Near Carcassonne he brought the King
An apple, crimson streaked with gold:
“Fair sire,” quoth he, “here at your feet
I lay the crowns of all the kings.”
If he were dead we should have peace!’

“‘How haughty must this Roland be
Who fain would conquer all the earth!

Such pride deserves due chastisement!
What warriors has he for the task?’
‘The Franks of France,’ quoth Ganelon,
‘The bravest warriors ’neath the sun!
For love alone they follow him
(Or lavish gifts which he bestows)
To death, or conquest of the world!’”

“Ganelon rode away”

To Betray Roland

The bitterness in Ganelon’s tone at once struck: Blancandrin, who cast a
glance at him and saw the Frankish envoy trembling with rage. He suddenly
addressed Ganelon in whispered tones: “Hast thou aught against the
nephew of Charles? Wouldst thou have revenge on Roland? Deliver him to
us, and King Marsile will share with thee all his treasures.” Ganelon was at
first horrified, and refused to hear more, but so well did Blancandrin argue
and so skilfully did he lay his snare that before they reached Saragossa and
came to the presence of King Marsile it was agreed that Roland should be
destroyed by their means.

Ganelon with the Saracens

Blancandrin and his fellow ambassadors conducted Ganelon into the
presence of the Saracen king, and announced Charlemagne’s peaceable
reception of their message and the coming of his envoy. “Let him speak: we
listen,” said Marsile.
Ganelon then began artfully: “Peace be to you in the name of the Lord of
Glory whom we adore! This is the message of King Charles: You shall
receive the Holy Christian Faith, and Charles will graciously grant you one-
half of Spain as a fief; the other half he intends for his nephew Roland (and
a haughty partner you will find him!). If you refuse he will take Saragossa,
lead you captive to Aix, and give you there to a shameful death.”

Marsile’s Anger

Marsile’s anger was so great at this insulting message that he sprang to his
feet, and would have slain Ganelon with his gold-adorned javelin; but he,
seeing this, half drew his sword, saying:

“‘Sword, how fair and bright thou art!
Come thou forth and view the light.
Long as I can wield thee here
Charles my Emperor shall not say
That I die alone, unwept.
Ere I fall Spain’s noblest blood
Shall be shed to pay my death.’”

The Saracen Council

However, strife was averted, and Ganelon received praise from all for his
bold bearing and valiant defiance of his king’s enemy. When quiet was
restored he repeated his message and delivered the emperor’s letter, which
was found to contain a demand that the caliph, Marsile’s uncle, should be
sent, a prisoner, to Charles, in atonement for the two ambassadors foully
slain before. The indignation of the Saracen nobles was intense, and
Ganelon was in imminent danger, but, setting his back against a pine-tree,
he prepared to defend himself to the last. Again the quarrel was stayed, and
Marsile, taking his most trusted leaders, withdrew to a secret council,
whither, soon, Blancandrin led Ganelon. Here Marsile excused his former
rage, and, in reparation, offered Ganelon a superb robe of marten’s fur,
which was accepted; and then began the tempting of the traitor. First
demanding a pledge of secrecy, Marsile pitied Charlemagne, so aged and so
weary with rule. Ganelon praised his emperor’s prowess and vast power.
Marsile repeated his words of pity, and Ganelon replied that as long as
Roland and the Twelve Peers lived Charlemagne needed no man’s pity and
feared no man’s power; his Franks, also, were the best living warriors.
Marsile declared proudly that he could bring four hundred thousand men
against Charlemagne’s twenty thousand French; but Ganelon dissuaded him
from any such expedition.

Ganelon Plans Treachery

“‘Not thus will you overcome him;
Leave this folly, turn to wisdom.
Give the Emperor so much treasure
That the Franks will be astounded.
Send him, too, the promised pledges,
Sons of all your noblest vassals.
To fair France will Charles march homeward,
Leaving (as I will contrive it)
Haughty Roland in the rearguard.
Oliver, the bold and courteous,
Will be with him: slay those heroes,
And King Charles will fall for ever!’
‘Fair Sir Ganelon,’ quoth Marsile,
‘How must I entrap Count Roland?’
‘When King Charles is in the mountains
He will leave behind his rearguard
Under Oliver and Roland.
Send against them half your army:
Roland and the Peers will conquer,
But be wearied with the struggle—
Then bring on your untired warriors.
France will lose this second battle,
And when Roland dies, the Emperor
Has no right hand for his conflicts—
Farewell all the Frankish greatness!
Ne’er again can Charles assemble
Such a mighty host for conquest,
And you will have peace henceforward!’”

Welcomed by Marsile

Marsile was overjoyed at the treacherous advice and embraced and richly
rewarded the felon knight. The death of Roland and the Peers was solemnly
sworn between them, by Marsile on the book of the Law of Mahomet, by

Ganelon on the sacred relics in the pommel of his sword. Then, repeating
the compact between them, and warning Ganelon against treason to his
friends, Marsile dismissed the treacherous envoy who hastened to return
and put his scheme into execution.

Ganelon Returns to Charles

In the meantime Charles had retired as far as Valtierra, on his way to
France, and there Ganelon found him, and delivered the tribute, the keys of
Saragossa, and a false message excusing the absence of the caliph. He had,
so Marsile said, put to sea with three hundred thousand warriors who would
not renounce their faith, and all had been drowned in a tempest, not four
leagues from land. Marsile would obey King Charles’s commands in all
other respects. “Thank God!” cried Charlemagne. “Ganelon, you have done
well, and shall be well rewarded!”

The French Camp. Charles Dreams

Now the whole Frankish army marched towards the Pyrenees, and, as
evening fell, found themselves among the mountains, where Roland planted
his banner on the topmost summit, clear against the sky, and the army
encamped for the night; but the whole Saracen host had also marched and
encamped in a wood not far from the Franks. Meanwhile, as Charlemagne
slept he had dreams of evil omen. Ganelon, in his dreams, seized the
imperial spear of tough ash-wood, and broke it, so that the splinters flew far
and wide. In another dream he saw himself at Aix attacked by a leopard and
a bear, which tore off his right arm; a greyhound came to his aid but he
knew not the end of the fray, and slept unhappily.

A Morning Council

When morning light shone, and the army was ready to march, the clarions
of the host sounded gaily, and Charlemagne called his barons around him.

“‘My lords and Peers, ye see these strait defiles:
Choose ye to whom the rearguard shall be given.’
‘My stepson Roland,’ straight quoth Ganelon.
‘’Mid all the Peers there is no braver knight:
In him will lie the safety of your host.’
Charles heard in wrath, and spoke in angry tones:
‘What fiendish rage has prompted this advice?
Who then will go before me in the van?’
The traitor tarried not, but answered swift:
‘Ogier the Dane will do that duty best.’”

When Roland heard that he was to command the rearguard he knew not
whether to be pleased or not. At first he thanked Ganelon for naming him.
“Thanks, fair stepfather, for sending me to the post of danger. King Charles
shall lose no man nor horse through my neglect.” But when Ganelon replied
sneeringly, “You speak the truth, as I know right well,” Roland’s gratitude
turned to bitter anger, and he reproached the villain. “Ah, wretch! disloyal
traitor! thou thinkest perchance that I, like thee, shall basely drop the glove,
but thou shalt see! Sir King, give me your bow. I will not let my badge of
office fall, as thou didst, Ganelon, at Cordova. No evil omen shall assail the
host through me.”

Roland for the Rearguard

Charlemagne was very loath to grant his request, but on the advice of Duke
Naimes, most prudent of counsellors, he gave to Roland his bow, and
offered to leave with him half the army. To this the champion would not
agree, but would only have twenty thousand Franks from fair France.
Roland clad himself in his shining armour, laced on his lordly helmet, girt
himself with his famous sword Durendala, and hung round his neck his
flower-painted shield; he mounted his good steed Veillantif, and took in
hand his bright lance with the white pennon and golden fringe; then,
looking like the Archangel St. Michael, he rode forward, and easy it was to
see how all the Franks loved him and would follow where he led. Beside
him rode the famous Peers of France, Oliver the bold and courteous, the
saintly Archbishop Turpin, and Count Gautier, Roland’s loyal vassal. They

chose carefully the twenty thousand French for the rearguard, and Roland
sent Gautier with one thousand of their number to search the mountains.
Alas! they never returned, for King Almaris, a Saracen chief, met and slew
them all among the hills; and only Gautier, sorely wounded and bleeding to
death, returned to Roland in the final struggle.
Charlemagne spoke a mournful “Farewell” to his nephew and the rearguard,
and the mighty army began to traverse the gloomy ravine through the dark
masses of rocks, and to emerge on the other side of the Pyrenees. All wept,
most for joy to set eyes on that dear land of fair France, which for seven
years they had not seen; but Charles, with a sad foreboding of disaster, hid
his eyes beneath his cloak and wept in silence.

Charles is Sad

“What grief weighs on your mind, sire?” asked the wise Duke Naimes,
riding up beside Charlemagne.
“I mourn for my nephew. Last night in a vision I saw Ganelon break my
trusty lance—this Ganelon who has sent Roland to the rear. And now I have
left Roland in a foreign land, and, O God! if I lose him I shall never find his
equal!” And the emperor rode on in silence, seeing naught but his own sad
foreboding visions.

The Saracen Pursuit

Meanwhile King Marsile, with his countless Saracens, had pursued so
quickly that the van of the heathen army soon saw waving the banners of
the Frankish rear. Then as they halted before the strife began, one by one
the nobles of Saragossa, the champions of the Moors, advanced and claimed
the right to measure themselves against the Twelve Peers of France.
Marsile’s nephew received the royal glove as chief champion, and eleven
Saracen chiefs took a vow to slay Roland and spread the faith of Mahomet.
“Death to the rearguard! Roland shall die! Death to the Peers! Woe to
France and Charlemagne! We will bring the Emperor to your feet! You shall

sleep at St. Denis! Down with fair France!” Such were their confident cries
as they armed for the conflict; and on their side no less eager were the
Franks.
“Fair Sir Comrade,” said Oliver to Roland, “methinks we shall have a fray
with the heathen.”
“God grant it,” returned Roland. “Our duty is to hold this pass for our king.
A vassal must endure for his lord grief and pain, heat and cold, torment and
death; and a knight’s duty is to strike mighty blows, that men may sing of
him, in time to come, no evil songs. Never shall such be sung of me.”

Oliver Descries the Saracens

Hearing a great tumult, Oliver ascended a hill and looked towards Spain,
where he perceived the great pagan army, like a gleaming sea, with shining
hauberks and helms flashing in the sun. “Alas! we are betrayed! This
treason is plotted by Ganelon, who put us in the rear,” he cried. “Say no
more,” said Roland; “blame him not in this: he is my stepfather.”
Now Oliver alone had seen the might of the pagan array, and he was
appalled by the countless multitudes of the heathens. He descended from
the hill and appealed to Roland.

Roland will not Blow his Horn

“‘Comrade Roland, sound your war-horn,
Your great Olifant, far-sounding:
Charles will hear it and return here.’
‘Cowardice were that,’ quoth Roland;
‘In fair France my fame were tarnished.
No, these Pagans all shall perish
When I brandish Durendala.’

“‘Comrade Roland, sound your war-horn:
Charles will hear it and return here.’

‘God forbid it,’ Roland answered,
‘That it e’er be sung by minstrels
I was asking help in battle
From my King against these Pagans.
I will ne’er do such dishonour
To my kinsmen and my nation.
No, these heathen all shall perish
When I brandish Durendala.’

“‘Comrade Roland, sound your war-horn
Charles will hear it and return here.
See how countless are the heathen
And how small our Frankish troop is!’
‘God forbid it,’ answered Roland,
‘That our fair France be dishonoured
Or by me or by my comrades—
Death we choose, but not dishonour!’”
Roland was a valiant hero, but Oliver had prudence as well as valour, and
his advice was that of a good and careful general. Now he spoke
reproachfully.

It is Too Late

“Ah, Roland, if you had sounded your magic horn the king would soon be
here, and we should not perish! Now look to the heights and to the
mountain passes: see those who surround us. None of us will see the light of
another day!”
“Speak not so foolishly,” retorted Roland. “Accursed be all cowards, say I.”
Then, softening his tone a little, he continued: “Friend and comrade, say no
more. The emperor has entrusted to us twenty thousand Frenchmen, and not
a coward among them. Lay on with thy lance, Oliver, and I will strike with
Durendala. If I die men shall say: ‘This was the sword of a noble vassal.’”

Turpin Blesses the Knights

Then spoke the brave and saintly Archbishop Turpin. Spurring his horse, he
rode, a gallant figure, to the summit of a hill, whence he called aloud to the
Frankish knights:

“‘Fair sirs and barons, Charles has left us here
To serve him, or at need to die for him.
See, yonder come the foes of Christendom,
And we must fight for God and Holy Faith.
Now, say your shrift, and make your peace with Heaven;
I will absolve you and will heal your souls;
And if you die as martyrs, your true home
Is ready midst the flowers of Paradise!’”

The Frankish knights, dismounting, knelt before Turpin, who blessed and
absolved them all, bidding them, as penance, to strike hard against the
heathen.
Then Roland called his brother-in-arms, the brave and courteous Oliver, and
said: “Fair brother, I know now that Ganelon has betrayed us for reward and
Marsile has bought us; but the payment shall be made with our swords, and
Charlemagne will terribly avenge us.”

“Montjoie! Montjoie!”

While the two armies yet stood face to face in battle array Oliver replied:
“What good is it to speak? You would not sound your horn, and Charles
cannot help us; he is not to blame. Barons and lords, ride on and yield not.
In God’s name fight and slay, and remember the war-cry of our Emperor.”
And at the words the war-cry of “Montjoie! Montjoie!” burst from the
whole army as they spurred against the advancing heathen host.

The Fray

Great was the fray that day, deadly was the combat, as the Moors and
Franks crashed together, shouting their cries, invoking their gods or saints,

wielding with utmost courage sword, lance, javelin, scimitar, or dagger.
Blades flashed, lances were splintered, helms were cloven in that terrible
fight of heroes. Each of the Twelve Peers did mighty feats of arms. Roland
himself slew the nephew of King Marsile, who had promised to bring
Roland’s head to his uncle’s feet, and bitter were the words that Roland
hurled at the lifeless body of his foe, who had but just before boasted that
Charlemagne should lose his right hand. Oliver slew the heathen king’s
brother, and one by one the Twelve Peers proved their mettle on the twelve
champions of King Marsile, and left them dead or mortally wounded on the
field. Wherever the battle was fiercest and the danger greatest, where help
was most needed, there Roland spurred to the rescue, swinging Durendala,
and, falling on the heathen like a thunderbolt of war, turned the tide of
battle again and yet again.

“Red was Roland, red with bloodshed:
Red his corselet, red his shoulders,
Red his arm, and red his charger.”

Like the red god Mars he rode through the battle; and as he went he met
Oliver, with the truncheon or a spear in his grasp.

“‘Friend, what hast thou there?’ cried Roland.
‘In this game ’tis not a distaff,
But a blade of steel thou needest.
Where is now Hauteclaire, thy good sword,
Golden-hilted, crystal-pommeled?’
‘Here,’ said Oliver; ‘so fight I
That I have not time to draw it.’
‘Friend,’ quoth Roland, ‘more I love thee
Ever henceforth than a brother.’”

The Saracens Perish

Thus the battle continued, most valiantly contested by both sides, and the
Saracens died by hundreds and thousands, till all their host lay dead but one
man, who fled wounded, leaving the Frenchmen masters of the field, but in

sorry plight—broken were their swords and lances, rent their hauberks, torn
and blood-stained their gay banners and pennons, and many, many of their
brave comrades lay lifeless. Sadly they looked round on the heaps of
corpses, and their minds were filled with grief as they thought of their
companions, of fair France which they should see no more, and of their
emperor who even now awaited them while they fought and died for him.
Yet they were not discouraged; loudly their cry re-echoed, “Montjoie!
Montjoie!” as Roland cheered them on, and Turpin called aloud: “Our men
are heroes; no king under heaven has better. It is written in the Chronicles
of France that in that great land it is our king’s right to have valiant
soldiers.”

A Second Saracen Army

While they sought in tears the bodies of their friends, the main army of the
Saracens, under King Marsile in person, came upon them; for the one
fugitive who had escaped had urged Marsile to attack again at once, while
the Franks were still weary. The advice seemed good to Marsile, and he
advanced at the head of a hundred thousand men, whom he now hurled
against the French in columns of fifty thousand at a time; and they came on
right valiantly, with clarions sounding and trumpets blowing.

“‘Soldiers of the Lord,’ cried Turpin,
‘Be ye valiant and steadfast,
For this day shall crowns be given you
Midst the flowers of Paradise.
In the name of God our Saviour,
Be ye not dismayed nor frighted,
Lest of you be shameful legends
Chanted by the tongue of minstrels.
Rather let us die victorious,
Since this eve shall see us lifeless!—
Heaven has no room for cowards!
Knights, who nobly fight, and vainly,
Ye shall sit amid the holy
In the blessed fields of Heaven.

On then, Friends of God, to glory!’”
And the battle raged anew, with all the odds against the small handful of
French, who knew they were doomed, and fought as though they were
“fey.”[13]

Gloomy Portents

Meanwhile the whole course of nature was disturbed. In France there were
tempests of wind and thunder, rain and hail; thunderbolts fell everywhere,
and the earth shook exceedingly. From Mont St. Michel to Cologne, from
Besançon to Wissant, not one town could show its walls uninjured, not one
village its houses unshaken. A terrible darkness spread over all the land,
only broken when the heavens split asunder with the lightning-flash. Men
whispered in terror: “Behold the end of the world! Behold the great Day of
Doom!” Alas! they knew not the truth: it was the great mourning for the
death of Roland.

Many French Knights Fall

In this second battle the French champions were weary, and before long
they began to fall before the valour of the newly arrived Saracen nobles.
First died Engelier the Gascon, mortally wounded by the lance of that
Saracen who swore brotherhood to Ganelon; next Samson, and the noble
Duke Anseis. These three were well avenged by Roland and Oliver and
Turpin. Then in quick succession died Gerin and Gerier and other valiant
Peers at the hands of Grandoigne, until his death-dealing career was cut
short by Durendala. Another desperate single combat was won by Turpin,
who slew a heathen emir “as black as molten pitch.”

The Second Army Defeated

Finally this second host of the heathens gave way and fled, begging Marsile
to come and succour them; but now of the victorious French there were but

sixty valiant champions left alive, including Roland, Oliver, and the fiery
prelate Turpin.

A Third Appears

Now the third host of the pagans began to roll forward upon the dauntless
little band, and in the short breathing-space before the Saracens again
attacked them Roland cried aloud to Oliver:

“‘Fair Knight and Comrade, see these heroes,
Valiant warriors, lying lifeless!
I must mourn for our fair country
France, left widowed of her barons.
Charles my King, why art thou absent?
Brother mine, how shall we send him
Mournful tidings of our struggle?’
‘How I know not,’ said his comrade.
‘Better death than vile dishonour.’”

Roland Willing to Blow his Horn

“‘Comrade, I will blow my war-horn:
Charles will hear it in the passes
And return with all his army.’
Oliver quoth: ‘’Twere disgraceful
To your kinsmen all their life-days.
When I urged it, then you would not;
Now, to sound your horn is shameful,
And I never will approve it.’”

Oliver Objects. They Quarrel

“‘See, the battle goes against us:
Comrade, I shall sound my war-horn.’

Oliver replied: ‘O coward!
When I urged it, then you would not.
If fair France again shall greet me
You shall never wed my sister;
By this beard of mine I swear it!’

“‘Why so bitter and so wrathful?’
Oliver returned: ‘’Tis thy fault;
Valour is not kin to madness,
Temperance knows naught of fury.
You have killed these noble champions,
You have slain the Emperor’s vassals,
You have robbed us of our conquests.
Ah, your valour, Count, is fatal!
Charles must lose his doughty heroes,
And your league with me must finish
With this day in bitter sorrow.’”

Turpin Mediates

Archbishop Turpin heard the dispute, and strove to calm the angry heroes.
“Brave knights, be not so enraged. The horn will not save the lives of these
gallant dead, but it will be better to sound it, that Charles, our lord and
emperor, may return, may avenge our death and weep over our corpses,
may bear them to fair France, and bury them in the sanctuary, where the
wild beasts shall not devour them.” “That is well said,” quoth Roland and
Oliver.

The Horn is Blown

Then at last Roland put the carved ivory horn, the magic Olifant, to his lips,
and blew so loudly that the sound echoed thirty leagues away. “Hark! our
men are in combat!” cried Charlemagne; but Ganelon retorted: “Had any
but the king said it, that had been a lie.”

A second time Roland blew his horn, so violently and with such anguish
that the veins of his temples burst, and the blood flowed from his brow and
from his mouth. Charlemagne, pausing, heard it again, and said: “That is
Roland’s horn; he would not sound it were there no battle.” But Ganelon
said mockingly: “There is no battle, for Roland is too proud to sound his
horn in danger. Besides, who would dare to attack Roland, the strong, the
valiant, great and wonderful Roland? No man. He is doubtless hunting, and
laughing with the Peers. Your words, my liege, do but show how old and
weak and doting you are. Ride on, sire; the open country lies far before
you.”

“Charlemagne heard it again”

When Roland blew the horn for the third time he had hardly breath to
awaken the echoes; but still Charlemagne heard. “How faintly comes the
sound! There is death in that feeble blast!” said the emperor; and Duke
Naimes interrupted eagerly: “Sire, Roland is in peril; some one has betrayed

him—doubtless he who now tries to beguile you! Sire, rouse your host, arm
for battle, and ride to save your nephew.”

Ganelon Arrested

Then Charlemagne called aloud: “Hither, my men. Take this traitor Ganelon
and keep him safe till my return.” And the kitchen folk seized the felon
knight, chained him by the neck, and beat him; then, binding him hand and
foot, they flung him on a sorry nag, to be borne with them till Charles
should demand him at their hands again.

Charles Returns

With all speed the whole army retraced their steps, turning their faces to
Spain, and saying: “Ah, if we could find Roland alive what blows we would
strike for him!” Alas! it was too late! Too late!
How lofty are the peaks, how vast and shadowy the mountains! How dim
and gloomy the passes, how deep the valleys! How swift the rushing
torrents! Yet with headlong speed the Frankish army hastens back, with
trumpets sounding in token of approaching help, all praying God to
preserve Roland till they come. Alas! they cannot reach him in time! Too
late. Too late!

Roland Weeps for his Comrades

Now Roland cast his gaze around on hill and valley, and saw his noble
vassals and comrades lie dead. As a noble knight he wept for them, saying:

“‘Fair Knights, may God have mercy on your souls!
May He receive you into Paradise
And grant you rest on banks of heavenly flowers!
Ne’er have I known such mighty men as you.
Fair France, that art the best of all dear lands,

How art thou widowed of thy noble sons!
Through me alone, dear comrades, have you died,
And yet through me no help nor safety comes.
God have you in His keeping! Brother, come,
Let us attack the heathen and win death,
Or grief will slay me! Death is duty now.’”

He Fights Desperately

So saying, he rushed into the battle, slew the only son of King Marsile, and
drove the heathen before him as the hounds drive the deer. Turpin saw and
applauded. “So should a good knight do, wearing good armour and riding a
good steed. He must deal good strong strokes in battle, or he is not worth a
groat. Let a coward be a monk in some cloister and pray for the sins of us
fighters.”
Marsile in wrath attacked the slayer of his son, but in vain; Roland struck
off his right hand, and Marsile fled back mortally wounded to Saragossa,
while his main host, seized with panic, left the field to Roland. However,
the caliph, Marsile’s uncle, rallied the ranks, and, with fifty thousand
Saracens, once more came against the little troop of Champions of the
Cross, the three poor survivors of the rearguard.
Roland cried aloud: “Now shall we be martyrs for our faith. Fight boldly,
lords, for life or death! Sell yourselves dearly! Let not fair France be
dishonoured in her sons. When the Emperor sees us dead with our slain foes
around us he will bless our valour.”

Oliver Falls

The pagans were emboldened by the sight of the three alone, and the caliph,
rushing at Oliver, pierced him from behind with his lance. But though
mortally wounded Oliver retained strength enough to slay the caliph, and to
cry aloud: “Roland! Roland! Aid me!” then he rushed on the heathen army,
doing heroic deeds and shouting “Montjoie! Montjoie!” while the blood ran
from his wound and stained the earth blood-red. At this woeful sight Roland

swooned with grief, and Oliver, faint from loss of blood, and with eyes
dimmed by fast-coming death, distinguished not the face of his dear friend;
he saw only a vague figure drawing near, and, mistaking it for an enemy,
raised his sword Hauteclaire and gave Roland one last terrible blow, which
clove the helmet, but harmed not the head. The blow roused Roland from
his swoon, and, gazing tenderly at Oliver, he gently asked him:

“‘Comrade and brother, was that blow designed
To slay your Roland, him who loves you so?
There is no vengeance you would wreak on me.’
‘Roland, I hear you speak, but see you not.
God guard and keep you, friend; but pardon me
The blow I struck, unwitting, on your head.’
‘I have no hurt,’ said Roland; ‘I forgive
Here and before the judgment-throne of God.’”

And Dies

Now Oliver felt the pains of death come upon him. Both sight and hearing
were gone, his colour fled, and, dismounting, he lay upon the earth; there,
humbly confessing his sins, he begged God to grant him rest in Paradise, to
bless his lord Charlemagne and the fair land of France, and to keep above
all men his comrade Roland, his best-loved brother-in-arms. This ended, he
fell back, his heart failed, his head drooped low, and Oliver the brave and
courteous knight lay dead on the blood-stained earth, with his face turned to
the east. Roland lamented him in gentle words: “Comrade, alas for thy
valour! Many days and years have we been comrades: no ill didst thou to
me, nor I to thee: now thou art dead, ’tis pity that I live!”

Turpin is Mortally Wounded. The Horn Again

Turpin and Roland now stood together for a time and were joined by the
brave Count Gautier, whose thousand men had been slain, and he himself
grievously wounded; he now came, like a loyal vassal, to die with his lord
Roland, and was slain in the first discharge of arrows which the Saracens

shot. Taught by experience, the pagans kept their distance, and wounded
Turpin with four lances, while they stood some yards away from the heroes.
But when Turpin felt himself mortally wounded he plunged into the throng
of the heathen, killing four hundred before he fell, and Roland fought on
with broken armour, and with ever-bleeding head, till in a pause of the
deadly strife he took his horn and again sent forth a feeble dying blast.

Charles Answers the Horn

Charlemagne heard it, and was filled with anguish. “Lords, all goes ill: I
know by the sound of Roland’s horn he has not long to live! Ride on faster,
and let all our trumpets sound, in token of our approach.” Then sixty
thousand trumpets sounded, so that mountains echoed it and valleys replied,
and the heathen heard it and trembled. “It is Charlemagne! Charles is
coming!” they cried. “If Roland lives till he comes the war will begin again,
and our bright Spain is lost.” Thereupon four hundred banded together to
slay Roland; but he rushed upon them, mounted on his good steed
Veillantif, and the valiant pagans fled. But while Roland dismounted to tend
the dying archbishop they returned and cast darts from afar, slaying
Veillantif, the faithful war-horse, and piercing the hero’s armour. Still nearer
and nearer sounded the clarions of Charlemagne’s army in the defiles, and
the Saracen host fled for ever, leaving Roland alone, on foot, expiring, amid
the dying and the dead.

Turpin Blesses the Dead

Roland made his way to Turpin, unlaced his golden helmet, took off his
hauberk, tore his own tunic to bind up his grievous wounds, and then gently
raising the prelate, carried him to the fresh green grass, where he most
tenderly laid him down.

“‘Ah, gentle lord,’ said Roland, ‘give me leave
To carry here our comrades who are dead,
Whom we so dearly loved; they must not lie
Unblest; but I will bring their corpses here

And thou shalt bless them, and me, ere thou die.’
‘Go,’ said the dying priest, ‘but soon return.
Thank God! the victory is yours and mine!’”
With great pain and many delays Roland traversed the field of slaughter,
looking in the faces of the dead, till he had found and brought to Turpin’s
feet the bodies of the eleven Peers, last of all Oliver, his own dear friend
and brother, and Turpin blessed and absolved them all. Now Roland’s grief
was so deep and his weakness so great that he swooned where he stood, and
the archbishop saw him fall and heard his cry of pain. Slowly and painfully
Turpin struggled to his feet, and, bending over Roland, took Olifant, the
curved ivory horn; inch by inch the dying archbishop tottered towards a
little mountain stream, that the few drops he could carry might revive
Roland.

He Dies

However, his weakness overcame him before he reached the water, and he
fell forward dying. Feebly he made his confession, painfully he joined his
hands in prayer, and as he prayed his spirit fled. Turpin, the faithful
champion of the Cross, in teaching and in battle, died in the service of
Charlemagne. May God have mercy on his soul!
When Roland awoke from his swoon he looked for Turpin, and found him
dead, and, seeing Olifant, he guessed what the archbishop’s aim had been,
and wept for pity. Crossing the fair white hands over Turpin’s breast, he
sadly prayed:

“‘Alas! brave priest, fair lord of noble birth,
Thy soul I give to the great King of Heaven!
No mightier champion has He in His hosts,
No prophet greater to maintain the Faith,
No teacher mightier to convert mankind
Since Christ’s Apostles walked upon the earth!
May thy fair soul escape the pains of Hell
And Paradise receive thee in its bowers!’”

Roland’s Last Fight

Now death was very near to Roland, and he felt it coming upon him while
he yet prayed and commended himself to his guardian angel Gabriel.
Taking in one hand Olifant, and in the other his good sword Durendala,
Roland climbed a little hill, one bowshot within the realm of Spain. There
under two pine-trees he found four marble steps, and as he was about to
climb them, fell swooning on the grass very near his end. A lurking
Saracen, who had feigned death, stole from his covert, and, calling aloud,
“Charles’s nephew is vanquished! I will bear his sword back to Arabia,”
seized Durendala as it lay in Roland’s dying clasp. The attempt roused
Roland, and he opened his eyes, saying, “Thou art not of us,” then struck
such a blow with Olifant on the helm of the heathen thief that he fell dead
before his intended victim.

He Tries to Break his Sword

Pale, bleeding, dying, Roland struggled to his feet, bent on saving his good
blade from the defilement of heathen hands. He grasped Durendala, and the
brown marble before him split beneath his mighty blows; but the good
sword stood firm, the steel grated but did not break, and Roland lamented
aloud that his famous sword must now become the weapon of a lesser man.
Again Roland smote with Durendala, and clove the block of sardonyx, but
the good steel only grated and did not break, and the hero bewailed himself
aloud, saying, “Alas! my good Durendala, how bright and pure thou art!
How thou flamest in the sunbeams, as when the angel brought thee! How
many lands hast thou conquered for Charles my King, how many
champions slain, how many heathen converted! Must I now leave thee to
the pagans? May God spare fair France this shame!” A third time Roland
raised the sword and struck a rock of blue marble, which split asunder, but
the steel only grated—it would not break; and the hero knew that he could
do no more.

His Last Prayer

Then he flung himself on the ground under a pine-tree with his face to the
earth, his sword and Olifant beneath him, his face to the foe, that
Charlemagne and the Franks might see when they came that he died
victorious. He made his confession, prayed for mercy, and offered to
Heaven his glove, in token of submission for all his sins. “Mea culpa! O
God! I pray for pardon for all my sins, both great and small, that I have
sinned from my birth until this day.” So he held up towards Heaven his
right-hand glove, and the angels of God descended around him. Again
Roland prayed:

“‘O very Father, who didst never lie,
Didst bring St. Lazarus from the dead again,
Didst save St. Daniel from the lion’s mouth,
Save Thou my soul and keep it from all ills
That I have merited by all my sins!’”

He Dies

Again he held up to Heaven his glove, and St. Gabriel received it; then,
with head bowed and hands clasped, the hero died, and the waiting
cherubim, St. Raphael, St. Michael, and St. Gabriel, bore his soul to
Paradise.
So died Roland and the Peers of France.

Charles Arrives

Soon after Roland’s heroic spirit had passed away the emperor came
galloping out of the mountains into the valley of Roncesvalles, where not a
foot of ground was without its burden of death.
Loudly he called: “Fair nephew, where art thou? Where is the archbishop?
And Count Oliver? Where are the Peers?”
Alas! of what avail was it to call? No man replied, for all were dead; and
Charlemagne wrung his hands, and tore his beard and wept, and his army

bewailed their slain comrades, and all men thought of vengeance. Truly a
fearful vengeance did Charles take, in that terrible battle which he fought
the next day against the Emir of Babylon, come from oversea to help his
vassal Marsile, when the sun stood still in heaven that the Christians might
be avenged on their enemies; in the capture of Saragossa and the death of
Marsile, who, already mortally wounded, turned his face to the wall and
died when he heard of the defeat of the emir; but when vengeance was
taken on the open enemy Charlemagne thought of mourning, and returned
to Roncesvalles to seek the body of his beloved nephew.
The emperor knew well that Roland would be found before his men, with
his face to the foe. Thus he advanced a bowshot from his companions and
climbed a little hill, there found the little flowery meadow stained red with
the blood of his barons, and there at the summit, under the trees, lay the
body of Roland on the green grass. The broken blocks of marble bore traces
of the hero’s dying efforts, and Charlemagne raised Roland, and, clasping
the hero in his arms, lamented over him.

His Lament

“‘The Lord have mercy, Roland, on thy soul!
Never again shall our fair France behold
A knight so worthy, till France be no more!

“‘The Lord have mercy, Roland, on thy soul!
That thou mayest rest in flowers of Paradise
With all His glorious Saints for evermore!
My honour now will lessen and decay,
My days be spent in grief for lack of thee,
My joy and power will vanish. There is none,
Comrade or kinsman, to maintain my cause.

“‘The Lord have mercy, Roland, on thy soul!
And grant thee place in Paradise the blest,
Thou valiant youth, thou mighty conqueror!
How widowed lies our fair France and how lone
How will the realms that I have swayed rebel

Now thou art taken from my weary age!
So deep my woe that fain would I die too
And join my valiant Peers in Paradise
While men inter my weary limbs with thine!’”[14]

The Dead Buried

The French army buried the dead with all honour, where they had fallen,
except the bodies of Roland, Oliver, and Turpin, which were carried to
Blaye, and interred in the great cathedral there; and then Charlemagne
returned to Aix.

Aude the Fair

As Charles the Great entered his palace a beauteous maiden met him, Aude
the Fair, the sister of Oliver and betrothed bride of Roland. She asked
eagerly:
“Where is Roland the mighty captain, who swore to take me for his bride?”

Aude the Fair
Evelyn Paul

“Alas! dear sister and friend,” said Charlemagne, weeping and tearing his
long white beard, “thou askest tidings of the dead. But I will replace him:
thou shalt have Louis, my son, Count of the Marches.”

“These words are strange,” exclaimed Aude the Fair. “God and all His
saints and angels forbid that I should live when Roland my love is dead.”
Thereupon she lost her colour and fell at the emperor’s feet; he thought her
fainting, but she was dead. God have mercy on her soul!

The Traitor Put to Death

Too long it would be to tell of the trial of Ganelon the traitor. Suffice it that
he was torn asunder by wild horses, and his name remains in France a
byword for all disloyalty and treachery.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] See “Myths and Legends of the Middle Ages,” by H. Guerber.
[13] Marked out for death.
[14] The poetical quotations are from the “Chanson de Roland.”

CHAPTER VIII: THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN

Celtic Mysticism

I N all Celtic literature there is recognisable a certain spirit which seems
to be innate in the very character of the people, a spirit of mysticism and
acknowledgment of the supernatural. It carries with it a love of Nature, a
delight in beauty, colour and harmony, which is common to all the Celtic
races. But with these characteristics we find in Ireland a spiritual beauty, a
passion of self-sacrifice, unknown in Wales or Brittany. Hence the early
Irish heroes are frequently found renouncing advantages, worldly honour,
and life itself, at the bidding of some imperative moral impulse. They are
the knights-errant of early European chivalry which was a much deeper and
more real inspiration than the carefully cultivated artificial chivalry of
centuries later. Cuchulain, Diarmuit, Naesi all pay with their lives for their
obedience to the dictates of honour and conscience. And in women, for
whom in those early days sacrifice of self was the only way of heroism, the
surrender even of eternal bliss was only the sublimation of honour and
chivalry; and this was the heroism of the Countess Cathleen.

The Cathleen Legend

The legend is old, so old that its root has been lost and we know not who
first imagined it; but the idea, the central incident, doubtless goes back to
Druid times, when a woman might well have offered herself up to the cruel
gods to avert their wrath and stay the plagues which fell upon her people.
Under a like impulse Curtius sprang into the gulf in the Forum, and Decius
devoted himself to death to win the safety of the Roman army. In each case
the powers, evil or beneficent, were supposed to be appeased by the
offering of a human life. When Christianity found this legend of sacrifice
popular among the heathen nations, it was comparatively easy to adopt it
and give it a yet wider scope, by making the sacrifice spiritual rather than

physical, and by finally rewarding the hero with heavenly joys. It is to be
noted, too, that even at this early period there is a certain glorification of
chicanery: the fiend fulfils his side of the contract, but God Himself breaks
the other side. This becomes a regular feature in all tales that relate dealings
with the Evil One: all Devil’s Bridges, Devil’s Dykes, and the Faust legends
show that Satan may be trusted to keep his word, while the saints invariably
kept the letter and broke the spirit. To so primitive a tale as that of “The
Countess Cathleen” the pettifogging quibbles of later saints are utterly
unknown: God saves her soul because it is His will to reward such
abnegation of self, and even the Evil One dare not question the Divine Will.

The Story. Happy Ireland

Once, long ago, as the Chronicles tell us, Ireland was known throughout
Europe as “The Isle of Saints,” for St. Patrick had not long before preached
the Gospel, the message of good tidings, to the warring inhabitants, to tribes
of uncivilised Celts, and to marauding Danes and Vikings. He had driven
out the serpent-worshippers, and consecrated the Black Stone of Tara to the
worship of the True God; he had convinced the High King of the truth and
reasonableness of the doctrine of the Trinity by the illustration of the
shamrock leaf, and had overthrown the great idols and purified the land.
Therefore the fair shores and fertile vales of Erin, the clustered islets,
dropped like jewels in the azure seas, the mist-covered, heather-clad hill-
sides, even the barren mountain-tops and the patches of firm ground
scattered in the solitudes of fathomless bogs, were homes of pious Culdee
or lonely hermit. There was still strife in Ireland, for king fought with king,
and heathen marauders still vexed the land; but many warlike Irish clans or
“septs” turned their ardour for fight to religious conflicts, and often every
man of a tribe became a monk, so that great abbeys and tribal monasteries
and schools were built on the hills where, in former days, stood the
chieftain’s stronghold (rath or dun, as Irish legends name it), with its earth
mounds and wooden palisades. Holy psalms and chants replaced the
boastful songs of the old bards, whilst warriors accustomed to regard
fighting and hunting as the only occupations worthy of a free-born man,
now peacefully illuminated manuscripts or wrought at useful handicrafts.
Yet still in secret they dreaded and tried to appease the wrath of the Dagda,

Brigit of the Holy Fire, Ængus the Ever-Young, and the awful Washers of
the Ford, the Choosers of the Slain; and to this dread was now joined the
new fear of the cruel demons who obeyed Satan, the Prince of Evil.

The Young Countess

At this time there dwelt in Ireland the Countess Cathleen, young, good, and
beautiful. Her eyes were as deep, as changeful, and as pure as the ocean that
washed Erin’s shores; her yellow hair, braided in two long tresses, was as
bright as the golden circlet on her brow or the yellow corn in her garners;
and her step was as light and proud and free as that of the deer in her wide
domains. She lived in a stately castle in the midst of great forests, with the
cottages of her tribesmen around her gates, and day by day and year by year
she watched the changing glories of the mighty woods, as the seasons
brought new beauties, till her soul was as lovely as the green woods and
purple hills around. The Countess Cathleen loved the dim, mysterious
forest, she loved the tales of the ancient gods, and of

“Old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago;”

Wordsworth.

but more than all she loved her clansmen and vassals: she prayed for them
at all the holy hours, and taught and tended them with loving care, so that in
no place in Ireland could be found a happier tribe than that which obeyed
her gentle rule.

Dearth and Famine

One year there fell upon Ireland, erewhile so happy, a great desolation
—“For Scripture saith, an ending to all good things must be”[15]—and the
happiness of the Countess Cathleen’s tribe came to an end in this wise: A
terrible famine fell on the land; the seed-corn rotted in the ground, for rain

and never-lifting mists filled the heavy air and lay on the sodden earth; then
when spring came barren fields lay brown where the shooting corn should
be; the cattle died in the stall or fell from weakness at the plough, and the
sheep died of hunger in the fold; as the year passed through summer
towards autumn the berries failed in the sun-parched woods, and the
withered leaves, fallen long before the time, lay rotting on the dank earth;
the timid wild things of the forest, hares, rabbits, squirrels, died in their
holes or fell easy victims to the birds and beasts of prey; and these, in their
turn, died of hunger in the famine-stricken forests.

“I searched all day: the mice and rats and hedgehogs
Seemed to be dead, and I could hardly hear
A wing moving in all the famished woods.”[16]

Distress of the Peasants

A cry of bitter agony and lamentation rose from the starving Isle of Saints
to the gates of Heaven, and fell back unheard; the sky was hard as brass
above and the earth was barren beneath, and men and women died in
despair, their shrivelled lips still stained green by the dried grass and twigs
they had striven to eat.

“I passed by Margaret Nolan’s: for nine days
Her mouth was green with dock and dandelion;
And now they wake her.”

The Misery Increases

In vain the High King of Ireland proclaimed a universal peace, and wars
between quarrelling tribes stopped and foreign pirates ceased to molest the
land, and chief met chief in the common bond of misery; in vain the rich
gave freely of their wealth—soon there was no distinction between rich and
poor, high and low, chief and vassal, for all alike felt the grip of famine, all
died by the same terrible hunger. Soon many of the great monasteries lay
desolate, their stores exhausted, their portals open, while the brethren, dead

within, had none to bury them; the lonely hermits died in their little
beehive-shaped cells, or fled from the dreadful solitude to gather in some
wealthy abbey which could still feed its monks; and isle and vale which had
echoed their holy chants knew the sounds no more. Over all, unlifting,
unchanging, brooded the deadly vapour, bearing the plague in its heavy
folds, and filling the air with a sultry lurid haze.

“There is no sign of change—day copies day,
Green things are dead—the cattle too are dead
Or dying—and on all the vapour hangs
And fattens with disease, and glows with heat.”

Cathleen Heartbroken for her People

Round the castle of the Countess Cathleen there was great stir and bustle,
for her tender heart was wrung with the misery of her people, and her
prayers for them ascended to God unceasingly. So thin she grew and so
worn that the physicians bade her servants bring harp and song to charm
away the sadness that weighed upon her spirit; but all in vain! Neither the
well-loved legends of the ancient gods, nor her harp, nor the voice of her
bards could bring her relief—nothing but the attempt to save her people.
From the earliest days of the famine her house and her stores were ever
ready to supply the wants of the homeless, the poor, the suffering; her
wealth was freely spent for food for the starving while supplies could yet be
bought either near or in distant baronies; and when known supplies failed
her lavish offers tempted the churlish farmers, who still hoarded grain that
they might enrich themselves in the great dearth, to sell some of their
garnered stores. When she could no longer induce them to part with their
grain, her own winter provisions, wine and corn, were distributed
generously to all who asked for relief, and none ever left her castle without
succour.

Her Wide Charity

Thus passed the early months of bitter starvation, and the Countess
Cathleen’s name was borne far and wide through Ireland, accompanied with
the blessings of all the rescued; and round her castle, from every district,
gathered a mighty throng of poor—not only her own clansmen—who all
looked to her for a daily dole of food and drink to keep some life in them
until the pestilential mists should pass away. The wholesome cold of winter
would purify the air and bring new hope and promise of new life in the
coming year. Alas! the winter drew on apace and still the poisonous yellow
vapours hung heavily over the land, and still the deadly famine clutched
each feeble heart and weakened the very springs of life, and the winter
frosts slew more than the summer heats, so feeble were the people and so
weakened.

Lawlessness Breaks Out

At last, even in the Isle of Saints, the bonds of right and wrong were
loosened, all respect for property vanished in the universal desolation, and
men began to rob and plunder, to trust only to the right of might, thinking
that their poor miserable lives were of more value than aught else, than
conscience and pity and honesty. Thus Cathleen lost by barefaced robbery
much of what she still possessed of flocks and herds, of scanty fruit and
corn. Her servants would gladly have pursued the robbers and regained the
spoils, but Cathleen forbade it, for she pitied the miserable thieves, and
thought no evil of them in this bitter dearth. By this time she had distributed
all her winter stores, and had only enough to feed her poor pensioners and
her household with most scanty rations; and she herself shared equally with
them, for the most earnest entreaties of her faithful servants could not
induce her to fare better than they in anything. Soon there would be nothing
left for daily distribution, and her heart almost broke as she saw the misery
of her helpless dependents; they looked to her as an angel of pity and
deliverance, while she knew herself to be as helpless as they. Day by day
Cathleen went among them, with her pitifully scanty doles of food, cheering
them by her words and smiles, and by her very presence; and each day she
went to her chapel, where she could cast aside the mask of cheerfulness she
wore before her people, and prayed to the Blessed Virgin Mary and all the
saints to show her how to save her own tribe and all the land.

“Day by day Cathleen went among them”

Cathleen Has an Inspiration

As the Countess knelt long before the altar one noontide she passed from
her prayers into a deep sleep, and sank down on the altar steps. In the
troubled depths of her mind a thought arose, which came to her as an
inspiration from Heaven itself. She awoke and sprang up joyfully,
exclaiming aloud: “Thanks be to Our Lady and to all the saints! To them
alone the blessed thought is due. Thus can I save my poor until the dearth is
over.”
Then Cathleen left her oratory with such a light heart as she had not felt
since the terrible visitation began, and the gladness in her face was so new
and wonderful that all her servants noticed the change, and her old foster-
mother, who loved the Countess with the utmost devotion, shuddered at the
thought that perhaps her darling had come under the power of the ancient
gods and would be bewitched away to Tir-nan-og, the land of never-dying
youth. Fearfully old Oona watched Cathleen’s face as she passed through
the hall, and Cathleen saw the anxious gaze, and came and laid her hand on
the old woman’s shoulder, saying, “Nay, fear not, nurse; the saints have
heard my prayer and put it into my heart to save all these helpless ones.”
Then she crossed the hall to her own room, and called a servant, saying,
“Send hither quickly Fergus my steward.”

She Summons her Steward

Shortly afterwards the steward came, Fergus the White, an old grey-haired
man, who had been foster-brother to Cathleen’s grandfather. He had seen
three generations pass away, he had watched the change from heathenism to
Christianity, and of all the chief’s family, to which his loyal devotion had
ever clung, there remained but this one young girl, and he loved her as his
own child. Fergus did obeisance to his liege lady, and kissed her hand
kneeling as he asked:
“What would the Countess Cathleen with her steward? Shall I render my
account of lands and wealth?”

Demands to Know what Wealth she Owns

“How much have I in lands?” the Countess asked. And Fergus answered in
surprise: “Your lands are worth one hundred thousand pounds.”
“Of what value is the timber in my forests?” “As much again.”
“What is the worth of my castles and my fair residences?” continued the
Countess Cathleen. And Fergus still replied: “As much more,” though in his
heart he questioned why his lady wished to know now, while the famine
made all riches seem valueless.
“How much gold still unspent lies in thy charge in my treasure-chests?”
“Lady, your stored gold is three hundred thousand pounds, as much as all
your lands and forests and houses are worth.”
The Countess Cathleen thought for an instant, and then, as one who makes a
momentous decision, spoke firmly, though her lips quivered as she gave
utterance to her thought:

“Go Far and Buy Food”

“Then, Fergus, take my bags of coin and go. Leave here my jewels and
some gold, for I may hear of some stores of grain hoarded by niggard
farmers, and may induce them to sell, if not for the love of God, then for the
love of gold. Take, too, authority from me, written and sealed with my seal,
to sell all my lands and timber, and castles, except this one alone where I
must dwell. Send a man, trustworthy and speedy, to the North, to Ulster,
where I hear the famine is less terrible, and let him buy what cattle he can
find, and drive them back as soon as may be.”

“Keeping this house alone, sell all I have;
Go to some distant country, and come again
With many herds of cows and ships of grain.”

The Steward Reluctantly Obeys

The ancient steward, Fergus the White, stood at first speechless with horror
and grief, but after a moment of silence his sorrow found vent in words, and
he besought his dear lady not to sell everything, her ancient home, her
father’s lands, her treasured heirlooms, and leave herself no wealth for
happier times. All his persuasions were useless, for Cathleen would not be
moved; she bade him “Farewell” and hastened his journey, saying, “A cry is
in mine ears; I cannot rest.” So there was no help for it. A trusty man was
despatched to Ulster to buy up all the cattle (weak and famine-stricken as
they would be) in the North Country; while Fergus himself journeyed
swiftly to England, which was still prosperous and fertile, untouched by the
deadly famine, and knowing nothing of the desolation of the sister isle, to
which the English owed so much of their knowledge of the True Faith.

Buys Stores in England

In England Fergus spent all the gold he brought with him, and then sold all
the Countess Cathleen bade him sell—lands, castles, forests, pastures,
timber—all but one lonely castle in the desolate woods, where she dwelt
among her own people, with the dying folk thronging round her gates and
in her halls. Good bargains Fergus made also, for he was a shrewd and loyal
steward, and the saints must have touched the hearts of the English
merchants, so that they gave good prices for all, or perhaps they did not
realize the dire distress that prevailed in Ireland. However that may have
been, Fergus prospered in his trading, and bought grain, and wine, and fat
oxen and sheep, so that he loaded many ships with full freights of
provisions, enough to carry the starving peasantry through the famine year
till the next harvest. At last all his money was spent, all his ships were
laden, everything was ready, and the little fleet lay in harbour, only awaiting
a fair wind, which, unhappily, did not come.

His Return Delayed

First of all Fergus waited through a deadly calm, when the sails hung
motionless, drooping, with no breath of air to stir them, when the fog that
brooded over the shores of England never lifted and all sailing was

impossible; then the winds dispersed the fog, and Fergus, forgetting caution
in his great anxiety to return, hastily set sail for his own land, and there
came fierce tempests and contrary winds, so that his little fleet was driven
back, and one or two ships went down with all their stores of food. Fergus
wept to see his lady’s wealth lost in the wintry sea, but he dared not venture
again, and though he chafed and fretted at the delay, it was nearly two
months after he reached England before he could sail back to his young
mistress and her starving countrymen. The trusty messenger who had been
sent to buy cattle had succeeded beyond his own expectation; he also had
made successful bargains, and had found more cattle than he believed were
still alive in Ireland. He had bought all, and was driving them slowly
towards the Countess Cathleen’s forest dwelling. Their progress was so
slow, because of their weakness and the scanty fodder by the way, that no
news of them came to Cathleen, and she knew not that while corn and cattle
were coming with Fergus across the sea, food was also coming to her
slowly through the barren ways of her own native land. None of this she
knew, and despair would have filled her heart, but for her faith in God and
her belief in the great inspiration that had been given to her.

Deepening Misery in Ireland

Meanwhile terrible things had been happening in Ireland. As in England in
later days, “men said openly that Christ and His saints slept”; they thought
with longing of the mighty old gods, for the new seemed powerless, and
they yearned for the friendly “good people” who had fled from the sound of
the church bell. Thus many minds were ready to revolt from the Christian
faith if they had not feared the life after death and the endless torments of
the Christian Hell. Some few, desperate, even offered secret worship to the
old heathen gods, and true love to the One True God had grown cold.

Two Mysterious Strangers

Now on the very day on which Fergus sailed for England, and his comrade
departed to Ulster, two mysterious and stately strangers suddenly appeared
in Erin. Whence they came no man knew, but they were first seen near the

wild sea-shore of the west, and the few poor inhabitants thought they had
been put ashore by some vessel or wrecked on that dangerous coast. Aliens
they certainly were, for they talked with each other in a tongue that none
understood, and they appeared as if they did not comprehend the questions
asked of them. Thus they passed away from the western coasts, and made
their way inland; but when they next appeared, in a village not far from
Dublin, they had greatly changed: they wore magnificent robes and furs,
with splendid jewelled gloves on their hands, and golden circlets, set with
gleaming rubies, bound their brows; their black steeds showed no trace of
weakness and famine as they rode through the woods and carefully noted
the misery everywhere.

Their Strange Story

At last they alighted at the little lodge, where a forester’s widow gladly
received them; and their royal dress, lofty bearing and strange language
accorded ill with the mean surroundings and the scanty accommodation of
that little hut. The dead forester had been one of the Countess Cathleen’s
most faithful vassals, and his holding was but a short distance from the
castle, so that the strangers could, unobserved, watch the life of the little
village. As time passed they told their hostess they were merchants, simple
traders from a distant country, trafficking in very precious gems; but they
had no wares for exchange, and no gems to show; they made no inquiries or
researches, bargained with no man, seemed to do no business; they were the
most unusual merchants ever seen in Ireland, and the strangeness of their
behaviour troubled men’s minds.

Mysterious Behaviour

Day by day they ate, unquestioning, the coarse food their poor hostess set
before them, and the black bread which was the best food obtainable in
those terrible days, but they added to it wine, rich and red, from their own
private store, and they paid her lavishly in good red gold, so that she
wondered that any men should stay in the famine-stricken country when
they could so easily leave it at their will. Gradually, too, speaking now in

the Irish tongue, they began to ask her cautious questions of the people, of
the land, of the famine, how men lived and how they died, and so they
heard of the exceeding goodness of the Countess Cathleen, whose bounty
had saved so many lives, and was still saving others, though the deadly
pinch of famine grew sorer with the passing days. To their hostess they
admired Cathleen’s goodness, and were loud in her praises, but they looked
askance at one another and their brows were black with discontent.

Professed Errand of Mercy

Then one day the kingly merchants told the poor widow who harboured
them that they too were the friends of the poor and starving; they were
servants of a mighty prince, who in his compassion and mercy had sent
them on a mission to Ireland to help the afflicted peasants to fight against
famine and death. They said that they themselves had no food to give, only
wine and gold in plenty, so that men might exert themselves and search for
food to buy. Their hostess, hearing this, and knowing that there were still
some niggards who refused to part with their mouldering heaps of corn,
setting the price so high that no man could buy, called down the blessing of
God and Mary and all the saints upon their heads, for if they would
distribute their gold to all, or even buy the corn themselves and distribute it,
men need no longer die of hunger.

A New Traffic

When she prayed for a blessing on the two strangers they smiled scornfully
and impatiently; and the elder said, cunningly:

“Alas! we know the evils of mere charity,
And would devise a more considered way.
Let each man bring one piece of merchandise.”

“Ah, sirs!” replied the hostess, “then your compassion, your gold and your
goodwill are of no avail. Think you, after all these weary months, that any
man has merchandise left to sell? They have sold long ago all but the very

clothes they wear, to keep themselves alive till better days come. Such
offers are mockery of our distress.”
“We mock you not,” said the elder merchant. “All men have the one
precious thing we wish to buy, and have come hither to find; none has
already lost or sold it.”
“What precious treasure can you mean? Men in Ireland now have only their
lives, and can barely cherish those,” said the poor woman, wondering
greatly and much afraid.

Buyers of Souls

The elder merchant continued gazing at her with a crafty smile and an eye
ever on the alert for tokens of understanding. “Poor as they are, Irishmen
have still one thing that we will purchase, if they will sell: their souls,
which we have come to obtain for our mighty Prince, and with the great
price that we shall pay in pure gold men can well save their lives till the
starving time is over. Why should men die a cruel, lingering death or drag
through weary months of miserable half-satisfied life when they may live
well and merrily at the cost of a soul, which is no good but to cause fear and
pain? We take men’s souls and liberate them from all pain and care and
remorse, and we give in exchange money, much money, to procure comforts
and ease; we enrol men as vassals of our great lord, and he is no hard
taskmaster to those who own his sway.”

Slow Trade at First

When the poor widow heard these dreadful words she knew that the
strangers were demons come to tempt men’s souls and to lure them to Hell.
She crossed herself, and fled from them in fear, praying to be kept from
temptation; and she would not return to her little cottage in the forest, but
stayed in the village warning men against the evil demons who were
tempting the starving people, till she too died of the famine, and her house
was left wholly to the strangers. Yet the merchants fared ever well, better
than before her departure, and those who ventured to the forest dwelling

found good food and rich wine, which the strangers sometimes gave to their
visitors, with crafty hints of abundance to be easily obtained. Then when
timid individuals asked the way to win these comforts the strangers began
their tempting, and represented the case to be gained by the sale of men’s
souls. One man, bolder than the rest, made a bargain with the demons and
gave them his soul for three hundred crowns of gold, and from that time he
in his turn became a tempter. He boasted of his wealth, of the rich food the
merchants gave him at times, of the potent wine he drank from their
generously opened bottles, and, best of all, he vaunted his freedom from
pity, conscience, or remorse.

Trade Increases

Gradually many people came to the forest dwelling and trafficked with the
demon merchants. The purchase of souls went on busily, and the demons
paid prices varying according to the worth of the soul and the record of its
former sins; but to all who sold they gave food and wine, and in gloating
over their gold and satisfying hunger and thirst, men forgot to ask whence
came this food and wine and the endless stores of coin. Now many people
ventured into the forest to deal with the demons, and the narrow track grew
into a broad beaten way with the numbers of those who came, and all
returned fed and warmed, and bearing bags heavy with coin, and the
promise of abundant food and easy service. Those who had sold their souls
rioted with the money, for the demons gave them food, and they bought
wine from the inexhaustible stores of the evil merchants. The poor, lost
people knew that there was no hope for them after death, and they tried by
all means to keep themselves alive and to enjoy what was yet left to them;
but their mirth was fearful and they durst not stop to think.

Cathleen Hears of the Demon Traders

At first the Countess Cathleen knew nothing of the terrible doings of the
demons, for she never passed beyond her castle gates, but spent her time in
prayer for her people’s safety and for the speedy return of her messengers;
but when the starving throng of pensioners at her gates grew daily less, and

there were fewer claimants for the pitiful allowance which was all she had
to give, she wondered if some other mightier helper had come to Ireland.
But she could hear of none, and soon the shameless rioting and drunkenness
in the village came to her knowledge, and she wondered yet more whence
her clansmen obtained the means for their excesses, for she felt instinctively
that the origin of all this rioting must be evil. Cathleen therefore called to
her an old peasant, whose wife had died of hunger in the early days of the
famine, so that he himself had longed to die and join her; but when he came
to her she was horror-struck by the change in him. Now he came flushed
with wine, with defiant look and insolent bearing, and his face was full of
evil mirth as he tried to answer soberly the Countess’s questions.
“Why do the villagers and strangers no longer come to me for food? I have
but little now to give, but all are welcome to share it with me and my
household.”

The Peasant’s Story

“They do not come, O Countess, because they are no longer starving. They
have better food and wine, and abundance of money to buy more.”

The peasant’s story

“Whence then have they obtained the money, the food, and the wine for the
drinking-bouts, the tumult of which reaches me even in my oratory?”

“Lady, they have received all from the generous merchants who are in the
forest dwelling where old Mairi formerly lived; she is dead now, and these
noble strangers keep open house in her cottage night and day; they are so
wealthy that they need not stint their bounty, and so powerful that they can
find good food, enough for all who go to them. Since Brigit died (your old
servant, lady) her husband and son work no more, but serve the strange
merchants, and urge men to join them; and I, and many others, have done
so, and we are now wealthy” (here he showed the Countess a handful of
gold) “and well fed, and have wine as much as heart can desire.”
“But do you give them nothing in return for all their generosity? Are they so
noble that they ask nothing in requital of their bounty?”

“Good Gold for Souls”

“Oh, yes, we give them something, but nothing of importance, nothing we
cannot spare. They are merchants of souls, and buy them for their king, and
they pay good red gold for the useless, painful things. I have sold my soul
to them, and now I weep no more for my wife; I am gay, and have wine
enough and gold enough to help me through this dearth!”
“Alas!” sighed the Countess, “and what when you too die?” The old peasant
laughed at her grief as he said: “Then, as now, I shall have no soul to
trouble me with remorse or conscience”; and the Countess covered her eyes
with her hand and beckoned silently that he should go. In her oratory,
whither she betook herself immediately, she prayed with all her spirit that
the Virgin and all the saints would inspire her to defeat the demons and to
save her people’s souls.

Cathleen Tries to Check the Traffic

Next day Cathleen called together all the people in the village, her own
tribesmen and strangers. She offered them again a share of all she had, and
the daily rations she could distribute, but told them that all must share alike
and that she had nothing but the barest necessaries to give—scanty portions
of corn and meal, with milk from one or two famine-stricken cows her

servants had managed to keep alive. To this she added that she had sent two
trusty messengers for help, one to Ulster for cattle, and Fergus to England
for corn and wine; they must return soon, she felt sure, with abundant
supplies, if men would patiently await their return.

In Vain

But all was useless. Her messengers had sent no word of their return, and
the abundant supplies at the forest cottage were more easily obtained, and
were less carefully regulated, than those of the Countess Cathleen. The
merchants, too, were ever at hand with their cunning wiles, and their active,
persuasive dupes, who would gladly bring all others into their own soulless
condition. The wine given by the demons warmed the hearts of all who
drank, and the deceived peasants dreamed of happiness when the famine
was over, and so the passionate appeal of the Countess failed, and the sale
of souls continued merrily. The noise of revelry grew daily louder and more
riotous, and the drinkers cared nothing for the death or departure of their
dearest friends; while those who died, died drunken and utterly reckless, or
full of horror and despair, reviling the crafty merchants who had deceived
them with promises of life and happiness. The evil influence clung all about
the country-side, and seemed in league with the pitiless powers of Nature
against the souls of men, till at last the stricken Countess, putting her trust
in God, sought out the forest lodge where the demon merchants dwelt,
trafficking for souls. The way was easy to find now, for a broad beaten track
led to the dwelling, and as the evil spirits saw Cathleen coming slowly
along the path their wicked eyes gleamed and their clawlike hands worked
convulsively in their jewelled gloves, for they hoped she had come to sell
her pure soul.

She Visits the Demons

“What does the Countess Cathleen wish to obtain from two poor stranger
merchants?” said the elder with an evil smile; and the younger, bowing
deeply said: “Lady, you may command us in all things, save what touches
our allegiance to our king.” Cathleen replied: “I have no merchandise to

barter, nothing for trade with you, for you buy such things as I will never
sell: you buy men’s souls for Hell. I come only to beg that you will release
the poor souls whom you have bought for Satan’s kingdom, and will have
mercy on my ignorant people and deceive them no more. I have yet some
gold unspent and jewels unsold: take all there is but let my people go free.”
Then the merchants laughed aloud scornfully, and rejected her offer.
“Would you have us undo our work? Have we toiled, then, for naught to
extend our master’s sway? Have we won for him so many souls to dwell for
ever in his kingdom and do his work, and shall we give them back for your
entreaties? We have gold enough, and food and wine enough, fair lady. The
souls we have bought we keep, for our master gives us honour and rank
proportioned to the number of souls we win for him, and you may see by
the golden circlets round our brows that we are princes of his kingdom, and
have brought him countless souls. Nevertheless, there is one most rare and
precious thing which could redeem these bartered souls of Ireland’s
peasants, things of little worth.”

They Make a Proposal

“Oh, what is that?” said the Countess. “If I have it, or can in any way
procure it, tell me, that I may redeem these deluded people’s souls.”
“You have it now, fair saint. It is one pure soul, precious as multitudes of
more sin-stained souls. Our master would far rather have a perfect and
flawless pearl for his diadem than myriads of these cracked and flawed
crystals. Your soul, most saintly Countess, would redeem the souls of all
your tribe, if you would sell it to our king; it would be the fairest jewel in
his crown. But think not to save your people otherwise, and beguile them no
longer with false promises of help: your messenger to Ulster lies sick of
ague in the Bog of Allen, and no food comes from England.”

False Tidings

“We saw a man
Heavy with sickness in the Bog of Allen

Whom you had bid buy cattle. Near Fair Head
We saw your grain ships lying all becalmed
In the dark night, and not less still than they
Burned all their mirrored lanterns in the sea.”
When Cathleen heard of the failure of her messengers to bring food it
seemed as if all hope were indeed over, and the demons smiled craftily
upon her as she turned silently to go, and laughed joyously to each other
when she had left their presence. Now they had good hope to win her for
their master; but they knew that their time was short, since help was not far
away.

“Last night, closed in the image of an owl,
I hurried to the cliffs of Donegal,
And saw, creeping on the uneasy surge,
Those ships that bring the woman grain and meal;
They are five days from us.
I hurried east,
A grey owl flitting, flitting in the dew,
And saw nine hundred oxen toil through Meath,
Driven on by goads of iron; they too, brother,
Are full five days from us. Five days for traffic.”

Cathleen’s Despair

The Countess then went back in bitter grief to her desolate castle, where
only faithful old servants now waited in the halls, and whispered together in
the dark corners, and, kneeling in her oratory, she prayed far into the night
for light in her darkness. As she prayed before the altar she slept for very
weariness, and was aroused by a sudden furious knocking, and an outcry of
“Thieves! Thieves!” Cathleen rose quickly from the altar steps, and met her
foster-mother, Oona, at the door of the oratory; and Oona cried aloud:
“Thieves have broken into the treasure-chamber, and nothing is left!”
Cathleen asked if this were true, and discovered that not a single coin, not a
single gem was left: the demons had stolen all. And while the servants still
mourned over the lost treasures of the house there came another cry of

“Thieves! Thieves!” and an old peasant rushed in, exclaiming that all the
food was gone. That, alas! was true: the few sacks of meal which supplied
the scanty daily fare were emptied and the bags flung on the floor. Now
indeed the last poor resource was gone.

“Thieves have broken into the treasure-chamber”

A Desperate Decision

When the Countess heard of this last terrible misfortune a great light broke
upon her mind with a blinding flash, and showed her a way to save others,
even at the cost of her own salvation. It seemed God’s answer to her prayer
for guidance, and she resolved to follow the inspiration thus sent into her
mind. She decided now what she would do; her mind was made up, and the
light which shines from extreme sacrifice of self was so bright upon her
face that her old nurse and her servants, wailing around her, were awe-
stricken and durst not question or check her. She returned to her oratory
door, and, standing on the steps, looking down on her weeping domestics,
she cried:

“I am desolate,
For a most sad resolve wakes in my heart;
But always I have faith. Old men and women,
Be silent; God does not forsake the world.
Mary Queen of Angels
And all you clouds and clouds of saints, farewell!”

With one last long gaze at the little altar of her oratory she resolutely closed
the door and turned away.

She Revisits the Demons

The next day the merchants in their forest lodge were still buying souls, and
giving food and wine to the starving peasants who sold. They were buying
men and women, sinful, terrified, afraid to die, eager to live; buying them
more cheaply than before because of the increase of sin and terror. Bargains
were being struck and bartering was in full progress, when suddenly all the
peasants stopped, shamefaced, as one said, “Here comes the Countess
Cathleen,” and down the track she was seen approaching slowly. One by
one the peasants slunk away, and the demon merchants were quite alone
when Cathleen entered the little cottage where they sat, with bags of coin
on the table before them and on the ground beside them. Again they greeted
her with mocking respect, and asked to know her will.

“Merchants, do you still buy souls for Hell?”
“Lady, our traffic prospers, for the famine lies long on the land, and men
would fain live till better days come again. Besides, we can give them food
and wine and wealth for future years; and all in exchange for a mere soul, a
little breath of wind.”
“Perhaps the Countess Cathleen has come to deal with us,” said the
younger.
“Merchant, you are right; I have come to bring you merchandise. I have a
soul to sell, so costly that perhaps the price is beyond your means.”
The elder merchant replied joyfully: “No price is beyond our means, if only
the soul be worth the price; if it be a pure and stainless soul, fit to join the
angels and saints in Paradise, our master will gladly pay all you ask. Whose
is the soul, and what is the price?”

Her Terms

“The people starve, therefore the people go
Thronging to you. I hear a cry come from them,
And it is in my ears by night and day:
And I would have five hundred thousand crowns,
To find food for them till the dearth go by;
And have the wretched spirits you have bought
For your gold crowns, released, and sent to God.
The soul that I would barter is my soul.”

The Bond Signed

When the demons heard this, and knew that Cathleen was willing to give
her own soul as ransom for the souls of others, they were overjoyed, their
eyes flashed, the rubies of their golden crowns shot out fiery gleams, and
their fingers clutched the air as if they already held her stainless soul. This
would be a great triumph to their master, and they would win great honour

in Hell when they brought him a soul worth far, far more than large
abundance of ordinary sinful souls. Very carefully they watched while the
trembling Countess signed the bond which gave her soul to Hell, very
gladly they paid down the money for which she had stipulated, and very
joyously they saw the signs of speedy death in her face, knowing, as they
did, how soon the coming relief would show her sacrifice to have been
unnecessary, though now it was irrevocable.

“Cathleen signed the bond”

General Lamentation

Sadly but resolutely she turned away, followed by her servants bearing the
bags of gold, and as she passed through the village a rumour ran before her
of what she had done. All men were sobered by the terrible tidings, and the
redeemed people waited for her coming, and followed her weeping and
lamenting, for now their souls were free again, and they recognised the
great sacrifice she had made for them; but it was too late to save her, though
now all would have died for her. Cathleen passed on into her castle, and
there in the courtyard she distributed the money to all her people, and bade
them dwell quietly in obedience till her steward returned. She herself, she
said, could not stay; she must go on a long and dark journey, for her
people’s need had broken her heart and conquered her; she was no longer
her own, but belonged to the dark lord of Hell; she could not bid them pray
for her, nor could she pray for herself.

Cathleen Fades Away

Her people, who knew the great price at which she had redeemed them,
besought the Blessed Virgin and all the saints to have mercy on her; and all
the souls she had released, on earth and in Heaven, prayed for her night and
day, and the blessed saints interceded for her. Yet from day to day the
Countess Cathleen faded, and the demons, ceasing all other traffic, lurked in
waiting to catch her soul as she died. Night and day her heart-broken foster-
mother Oona tended her; but she grew feebler, till it seemed that she would
die before Fergus returned.

The Steward Returns

On the fifth day, however, glad tidings came. Fergus had landed, and sent
word that he was bringing corn and meal as quickly as possible; also a
wandering peasant brought a message that nine hundred oxen were within
one day’s journey of her castle; and when the gentle Cathleen heard this,
and knew that her people were safe, she died with a smile on her lips and
thanks to God for her people on her tongue. That same night a great tempest
broke over the land, which drove away the pestilential mists, and left the
country free from evil influences, for with the morning men found the forest
lodge crushed beneath the fallen trees, and the two demon merchants
vanished. All gathered round the castle and mourned for the Countess
Cathleen, for none knew how it would go with her spirit; they feared that
the evil demons had borne her soul to Hell. All had prayed for her, but there
had been no sign, no token of forgiveness. Nevertheless their prayers were
heard and answered.

The Demons Cheated

In the next night, when the great storm had passed away and the vapours no
longer filled the air, when Fergus had distributed food and wine, and the
oxen had been apportioned to every family, so that plenty reigned in every
house, when only Cathleen’s castle lay desolate, shrouded in gloom, the
faithful old nurse Oona, watching by the body of her darling, had a glorious
vision. She saw the splendid armies of the angels who guard mankind from
evil, she saw the saints who had suffered and overcome, and amid them was
the Countess Cathleen, happy with saints and angels in the bliss of Paradise;
for her love had redeemed her own soul as well as the souls of others, and
God had pardoned her sin because of her self-sacrifice.

“The light beats down: the gates of pearl are wide,
And she is passing to the floor of peace,
And Mary of the seven times wounded heart
Has kissed her lips, and the long blessed hair
Has fallen on her face; the Light of Lights
Looks always on the motive, not the deed,
The Shadow of Shadows on the deed alone.”

FOOTNOTES:

[15] C. Kingsley.
[16] The poetical quotations throughout this story are taken, by permission, from
Mr. W. B. Yeats’s play “The Countess Cathleen.”

CHAPTER IX: CUCHULAIN, THE CHAMPION
OF IRELAND

Introduction

A MONG all the early literatures of Europe, there are two which, at
exactly opposite corners of the continent, display most strikingly
similar characteristics, characteristics which apparently point to some
racial affinity in the peoples who produced them. These literatures are the
Greek and the Irish. It has been maintained with much ingenuity that the
Greeks of Homer, the early Britons, and the Irish Celts were all of one
stock, as shown by the many points they had in common. It is certain that in
customs, manner of life, ethics, ideas of religion, and methods of warfare a
striking similarity may be seen between the Greeks as described by Homer
and the Britons as Julius Cæsar knew them, or the Irish as their own legends
reveal them. We must expect to find in their myths and legends a certain
resemblance of Celtic ideas to Greek ideas; and if the great Achilles sulks in
his tent because he is unjustly deprived of his captive, the fair Briseis, we
shall not be surprised to find the Champion of Erin quarrelling over his
claim to precedence. The contest between the heroes for the armour of dead
Achilles is paralleled by this contest between the three greatest warriors of
Ireland for the special dish of honour called the “Champion’s Portion,” a
distinction which also recalls Greek life.

Cuchulain, the Irish Achilles

The resemblance of the Cuchulain legend to the story of Achilles is so
strong that Cuchulain is often called “the Irish Achilles,” but there are
elements of humour and pathos in his story which the tale of Achilles
cannot show, and in reckless courage, power of inspiring dread, sense of
personal merit, and frankness of speech the Irish hero is not inferior to the
mighty Greek. The way in which Cuchulain established his claim to be

regarded as Chief Champion of Erin is related in the following story, which
shows some primitive Celtic features found again in Welsh legends and
other national folk-tales.

The Youth of Cuchulain

Cuchulain was the nephew of King Conor of Ulster, son of his sister
Dechtire, and men say his father was no mortal man, but the great god Lugh
of the Long Hand. When Cuchulain was born he was brought up by King
Conor himself and the wisest men of Ireland; when five years old, he beat
all the other boys in games and warlike exercises, and on the day on which
he was seven he assumed the arms of a warrior, so much greater was he
than the sons of mortal men. Cuchulain had overheard his tutor, Cathbad the
Druid, say to the older youths, “If any young man take arms to-day, his
name will be greater than any other name in Ireland, but his span of life will
be short,” and as he loved fame above long life, he persuaded his uncle,
King Conor, to invest him with the weapons of manhood. His fame soon
spread all over Ireland, for his warlike deeds were those of a proved
warrior, not of a child of nursery age, and by the time Cuchulain was
seventeen he was in reality without peer among the champions of Ulster, or
of all Ireland.

Cuchulain’s Marriage

When the men of Ulster remembered Cuchulain’s divine origin, they would
fain have him married, so that he might not die childless; and for a year
they searched all Erin for a fit bride for so great a champion. Cuchulain,
however, went wooing for himself, to the dun of Forgall the Wily, a Druid
of great power. Forgall had two daughters, of whom the younger, Emer, was
the most lovely and virtuous maiden to be found in the country, and she
became Cuchulain’s chosen bride. Gallant was his wooing, and merry and
jesting were her answers to his suit, for though Emer loved Cuchulain at
first sight she would not accept him at once, and long they talked together.
Finally Emer consented to wed Cuchulain when he had undergone certain
trials and adventures for a year, and had accomplished certain feats, a test

which she imposed on her lover, partly as a trial of his worthiness and
constancy and partly to satisfy her father Forgall, who would not agree to
the marriage. When Cuchulain returned triumphant at the end of the year,
he rescued Emer from the confinement in which her father had placed her,
and won her at the sword’s point; they were wedded, and dwelt at Armagh,
the capital of Ulster, under the protection of King Conor.

Bricriu’s Feast

It happened that at Conor’s court was one chief who delighted in making
mischief, as Thersites among the Grecian leaders. This man, Bricriu of the
Bitter Tongue, came to King Conor and invited him and all the heroes of the
Red Branch, the royal bodyguard of Ulster, to a feast at his new dwelling,
for he felt sure he could find some occasion to stir up strife at a feast. King
Conor, however, and the Red Branch heroes, distrusted Bricriu so much that
they refused to accept the invitation, unless Bricriu would give sureties that,
having received his guests, he would leave the hall before the feasting
began. Bricriu, who had expected some such condition, readily agreed, and
before going home to prepare his feast took measures for stirring up strife
among the heroes of Ulster.

Bricriu’s Falsehood

Before Bricriu left Armagh he went to the mighty Laegaire and with many
words of praise said: “All good be with you, O Laegaire, winner of battles!
Why should you not be Champion of Ireland for ever?”
“I can be, if I will,” said Laegaire.
“Follow my advice, and you shall be head of all the champions of Ireland,”
said cunning Bricriu.
“What is your counsel?” asked Laegaire.
“King Conor is coming to a feast in my house,” said Bricriu, “and the
Champion’s Bit will be a splendid portion for any hero. That warrior who

obtains it at this feast will be acclaimed Chief Champion of Erin. When the
banquet begins do you bid your chariot-driver rise and claim the hero’s
portion for you, for you are indeed worthy of it, and I hope that you may get
what you so well deserve!”
“Some men shall die if my right is taken from me,” quoth Laegaire; but
Bricriu only laughed and turned away.

Bricriu Meets Conall Cearnach

Bricriu next met Conall Cearnach, Cuchulain’s cousin, one of the chiefs of
the Red Branch.
“May all good be with you, Conall the Victorious,” quoth he. “You are our
defence and shield, and no foe dare face you in battle. Why should you not
be Chief Champion of Ulster?”
“It only depends on my will,” said Conall; and then Bricriu continued his
flattery and insidious suggestions until he had stirred up Conall to command
his charioteer to claim the Champion’s Portion at Bricriu’s feast. Very
joyous was Bricriu, and very evilly he smiled as he turned away when he
had roused the ambition of Conall Cearnach, for he revelled in the prospect
of coming strife.

Bricriu Meets Cuchulain

“May all good be with you, Cuchulain,” said Bricriu, as he met the youthful
hero. “You are the chief defence of Erin, our bulwark against the foe, our
joy and darling, the hero of Ulster, the favourite of all the maidens of
Ireland, the greatest warrior of our land! We all live in safety under the
protection of your mighty hand, so why should you not be the Chief
Champion of Ulster? Why will you leave the Hero’s Portion to some less
worthy warrior?”
“By the god of my people, I will have it, or slay any bold man who dares to
deprive me of it,” said Cuchulain.

Thereupon Bricriu left Cuchulain and travelled to his home, where he made
his preparations for receiving the king, as if nothing were further from his
thoughts than mischief-making and guile.

The Feast and the Quarrel

When King Conor and his court had entered Bricriu’s house at Dundrum,
and were sitting at the feast, Bricriu was forced by his sureties to leave the
hall, for men feared his malicious tongue, and as he went to his watch-tower
he turned and cried:
“The Champion’s Portion at my feast is worth having; let it be given to the
best hero in Ulster.”
The carving and distribution of the viands began, and when the Champion’s
Portion was brought forward it was claimed by three chariot-drivers,
Laegaire’s, Conall’s, and Cuchulain’s, each on behalf of his master; and
when no decision was made by King Conor the three heroes claimed it,
each for himself. But Laegaire and Conall united in defying Cuchulain and
ridiculing his claim, and a great fight began in the hall, till all men shook
for fear; and at last King Conor intervened, before any man had been
wounded.
“Put up your swords,” he said. “The Champion’s Portion at this feast shall
be divided among the three, and we will ask King Ailill and Queen Meave
of Connaught to say who is the greatest champion.” This plan pleased every
one but Bricriu, who saw his hopes of fomenting strife disappear.

The Women’s Quarrel

Just at that moment the women rose and quitted the hall to breathe the fresh
air, and Bricriu spied his opportunity. Going down from his watch-tower, he
met Fedelm, the wife of Laegaire, with her fifty maidens, and said to her:
“All good be with you to-night, Fedelm of the Fresh Heart! Truly in beauty,
in birth, in dignity, no woman in Ulster is your equal. If you enter my hall

first to-night, you will be queen of the Ulster women.”
Fedelm walked on merrily enough, but determined that she would soon re-
enter the hall, and certainly before any other woman. Bricriu next met
Lendabair the Favourite, Conall’s wife, and gave her similar flattery and a
similar prophecy, and Lendabair also determined to be first back at the
house and first to enter the hall.
Then Bricriu waited till he saw Emer, Cuchulain’s fair wife. “Health be
with you, Emer, wife of the best man in Ireland! As the sun outshines the
stars, so do you outshine all other women! You should of right enter the
house first, for whoever does so will be queen of the women of Ulster, and
none has a better claim to be their queen than Cuchulain’s wife, Forgall’s
fair daughter.”

The Husbands Intervene

The three fair women, each with her train of fifty maidens, watched one
another carefully, and when one turned back towards the house the others
accompanied her, step for step; and the noise of their returning footsteps as
they raced along alarmed their husbands. Sencha, the king’s wise
counsellor, reassured them, saying, “It is only a woman’s quarrel; Bricriu
has stirred up enmity among the wives of the heroes”; and as he spoke
Emer reached the hall, having suddenly outrun the others; but the doors
were shut. Then followed bitter complaints from Fedelm and Lendabair,
both united against Emer, as their husbands had been against Cuchulain.
Again King Conor was forced to call for silence, since each hero was
supporting his own wife’s claims to be queen of the Ulster women. The
strife was only calmed by the promise that the claim to the highest place
should be settled by Ailill and Meave of Connaught, who would be
impartial judges.

The Heroes Journey to Connaught

Bricriu’s feast lasted for three days longer, and then King Conor and the
Red Branch heroes returned to Armagh. There the dispute about the

Championship began again, and Conor sent the heroes to Cruachan, in
Connaught, to obtain a judgment from King Ailill. “If he does not decide,
go to Curoi of Munster, who is a just and wise man, and will find out the
best hero by wizardry and enchantments.” When Conor had decided thus,
Laegaire and Conall, after some disputation as to who should start first, had
their chariots got ready and drove towards Cruachan, but Cuchulain stayed
amusing himself and the women in Armagh. When his chariot-driver
reproached him with losing the Champion’s Portion through laziness
Cuchulain replied: “I never thought about it, but there is still time to win it.
Yoke my steeds to the chariot.” By this time, however, the other two heroes
were far, very far, in advance, with the chief men of Ulster following them.

Cuchulain’s Steeds

Cuchulain had quite lately won two mighty magic steeds, which arose from
two lonely lakes—the Grey of Macha, his best-beloved horse, and the Black
Sainglain. The struggle between the hero and these magic steeds had been
terrible before he had been able to tame them and reduce them to
submission; now he had them yoked to his chariot, and when he had once
started he soon came up with the other two heroes, and all three drove
furiously towards Cruachan, with all the warriors of Ulster behind them.

“All three drove furiously towards Cruachan”

Queen Meave Watches the Heroes

The noise of the advancing war-chariots reached Queen Meave at
Cruachan, and she wondered greatly to hear thunder from a clear sky; but
her fair daughter, looking from her window, said: “Mother, I see chariots
coming.”
“Who comes in the first?” asked Queen Meave.
“I see a big stout man, with reddish gold hair and long forked beard,
dressed in purple with gold adornments; and his shield is bronze edged with
gold; he bears a javelin in his hand.”
“That man I know well,” answered her mother. “He is mighty Laegaire, the
Storm of War, the Knife of Victory; he will slay us all, unless he comes in
peace.”
“I see another chariot,” quoth the princess, “bearing a fair man with long
wavy hair, a man of clear red and white complexion, wearing a white vest
and a cloak of blue and crimson. His shield is brown, with yellow bosses
and a bronze edge.”
“That is valiant Conall the Victorious,” quoth Meave. “Small chance shall
we have if he comes in anger.”
“Yet a third chariot comes, wherein stands a dark, sad youth, most
handsome of all the men of Erin; he wears a crimson tunic, brooched with
gold, a long white linen cloak, and a white, gold-embroidered hood. His
hair is black, his look draws love, his glance shoots fire, and the hero-light
gleams around him. His shield is crimson, with a silver rim, and images of
beasts shine on it in gold.”

Terror in Connaught

“Alas! that is the hero Cuchulain,” said Meave. “He is more to be feared
than all others. His voice in anger tells the doom of men; his wrath is fatal.
Truly we are but dead if we have aroused Cuchulain’s wrath.” After a
pause: “Tell me, daughter, are there yet other chariots?”

“The men of Ulster follow in chariots so numerous that the earth quakes
beneath them, and their sound is as thunder, or the dashing waves of the
sea.”
Now Queen Meave was terrified in good earnest, but hoped by a hearty
welcome to turn aside the wrath of the heroes of Ulster; thus when they
arrived at the dun of Cruachan they found the best of receptions, and all the
Red Branch warriors were feasted for three days and nights.

Conor Explains the Matter

After three days Ailill of Connaught asked their business, and King Conor
related to him everything as it had occurred—the feast, the dispute for the
Champion’s Portion, the women’s quarrel, and the decision to be judged by
King Ailill. This angered Ailill, who was a peaceable man.
“It was no friend of mine who referred you to me, for I shall surely incur
the hatred of two heroes,” quoth he.
“You are the best judge of all,” replied King Conor.
“Then I must have time—three days and nights—to decide,” said Ailill.
“We can spare our heroes so long,” quoth Conor, and therewith the Ulster
men returned to Armagh, leaving the three claimants to the Championship
at Cruachan.

The First Test

That night Ailill put them to an unexpected test. Their feast was served to
them in a separate room, and the king went to his protectors, the Fairy
People of the Hills, in the Good People’s Hill at Cruachan, and begged
some help in his judgment. They willingly aided him, and three magic
beasts, in the shape of monstrous cats, were let into the room where the
heroes feasted. When they saw them Laegaire and Conall rose up from their
meal, clambered up among the rafters, and stayed there all night. Cuchulain
waited till one attacked him, and then drawing his sword, struck the

monster. It showed no further sign of fight, and Cuchulain kept watch all
night, till the magic beasts disappeared at daybreak. When Ailill came into
the room and saw the heroes as they had spent the night he laughed as he
said:
“Are you not content to yield the Championship to Cuchulain?”

“Three monstrous cats were let into the room”

“Indeed no,” said Conall and Laegaire. “We are used to fighting men, not
monstrous beasts.”

The Second Test

The next day King Ailill sent the heroes to his own foster-father, Ercol, to
spend a night with him, that he also might test them. When they arrived,
and had feasted, Laegaire was sent out that night to fight the witches of the
valley. Fierce and terrible were these witches, and they beat Laegaire, and
took his arms and armour.
When Conall went to fight them the witches beat him and took his spear,
but he kept his sword and brought it back with honour. Cuchulain, who was
the youngest, went last, and he too was being beaten, when the taunts of his
chariot-driver, who was watching, aroused him, and he beat the witches,
and bore off in triumph their cloaks of battle. Yet even after this the other
two heroes would not acknowledge Cuchulain’s superiority.

Ercol’s Defeat

The next day Ercol fought with each champion separately, and conquered
both Laegaire and Conall, terrifying the former so much that he fled to
Cruachan and told Meave and Ailill that Ercol had killed the other two.
When Cuchulain arrived victorious, with Ercol tied captive at his chariot-
wheels, he found all men mourning for him and Conall as for the dead.

Meave’s Plan to Avoid Strife in Cruachan

Now indeed Ailill was in great perplexity, for he durst not delay his
decision, and he dreaded the wrath of the two disappointed heroes. He and

Queen Meave consulted long together, and at length Meave promised to
relieve him of the responsibility of judgment. Summoning Laegaire to the
king’s room, she said:
“Welcome, O Laegaire! You are greatest of the warriors of Ulster. To you
we give the headship of the heroes of Ireland and the Champion’s Portion,
and to your wife the right to walk first of all the women of Ulster. In token
thereof we give you this cup of bronze with a silver bird embossed, to be
seen by no man till you be come to King Conor in the Red Branch House at
Armagh. Then show your cup and claim your right, and none will dispute it
with you.”
So Laegaire went away well pleased, and they sent for Conall. To him they
gave a silver cup, with a bird embossed in gold, and to him they pretended
to adjudge the Championship, and Conall left them well content.
Cuchulain, who was playing chess, refused to attend the King of Connaught
when he was summoned, and Queen Meave had to entreat him to come to
their private room. There they gave him a golden cup, with a bird designed
in precious gems, with many words of flattery for Cuchulain and his fair
and noble wife, Emer.

The Return of the Champions

Now the heroes, each well content, bade farewell to the court at Cruachan,
and drove back to Armagh, but none durst ask how they had sped. That
evening, at the banquet, when the Champion’s Portion was set aside,
Laegaire arose and claimed it, showing as proof that his claim was just the
bronze cup he brought from Queen Meave.
But alas! Conall the Victorious had a silver cup, and while he was exulting
in this proof of his rightful claim to the championship Cuchulain produced
his golden cup, and the dispute began all over again. King Conor would
have allowed Cuchulain’s claim, but Laegaire vowed that his rival had
bribed Ailill and Meave with great treasures to give him the golden cup, and
neither Laegaire nor Conall would yield him the victory or accept the

judgment as final. “Then you must go to Curoi,” said the king, and to that
they all agreed.

The Champions Visit Curoi

The next day the three champions drove to Kerry where Curoi dwelt in a
magic dun. He was away from home planning enchantments to test them,
for he knew they were coming, but his wife welcomed them, and bade them
watch the dun for one night each, beginning with Laegaire, as the eldest.
Laegaire took up his sentinel’s post outside the dun, and Curoi’s wife
worked the charm which prevented entrance after nightfall. The night was
long and silent, and Laegaire thought he would have a quiet watch, when he
saw a great shadow arise from the sea.

The Giant Fights Laegaire and Conall

This shadow took the shape of a huge giant, whose spears were mighty
branch-stripped oaks, which he hurled at Laegaire. They did not touch him,
however, and Laegaire made some show of fight; but the giant took him up,
squeezed him so tightly as nearly to slay him, and then threw him over the
magic wall of the dun, where the others found him lying half dead. All men
thought that he had sprung with a mighty leap over the wall, since no other
entrance was to be found, and Laegaire kept silence and did not explain to
them.
Conall, who took the watch the second night, fared exactly as Laegaire had
done, and likewise did not confess how he had been thrown over the wall of
the dun, nor what became of the giant in the dawn.

Cuchulain’s Trials

The third night was Cuchulain’s watch, and he took his post outside the
dun, and the gates and wall were secured by magic spells, so that none

could enter. Vainly he watched till midnight, and then he thought he saw
nine grey shadowy forms creeping towards him.
“Who goes there?” he cried. “If you be friends, stop; if foes, come on!”
Then the nine shadowy foes raised a shout, and fell upon the hero; but he
fought hard and slew them, and beheaded them. A second and a third time
similar groups of vague, shadowy foemen rushed at him, and he slew them
all in like manner, and then, wearied out, sat down to rest.

The Dragon

Later on in the night, as he was still watching, he heard a heavy sound, like
waves surging in the lake, and when he roused himself to see what it was he
beheld a monstrous dragon. It was rising from the water and flying towards
the dun, and seemed ready to devour everything in its way. When the
dragon perceived him it soared swiftly into the air, and then gradually sank
towards him, opening its terrible jaws. Cuchulain sprang up, giving his
wonderful hero-leap, and thrust his arm into the dragon’s mouth and down
its throat; he found its heart, tore it out, and saw the monster fall dead on
the ground. He then cut off its scaly head, which he added to those of his
former enemies.

“The dragon sank towards him, opening its terrible jaws”

The Giant Worsted by Cuchulain

Towards daybreak, when feeling quite worn out and very sleepy, he became
slowly aware of a great shadow coming to him westward from the sea. The
shadow, as before, became a giant, who greeted him in a surly tone with,
“This is a bad night.” “It will be worse yet for you,” said Cuchulain. The
giant, as he had done with the other heroes, threw oaks, but just missed him;
and when he tried to grapple with him the hero leaped up with drawn
sword. In his anger the hero-light shone round him, and he sprang as high
as the giant’s head, and gave him a stroke that brought him to his knees.
“Life for life, Cuchulain,” said the giant, and vanished at once, leaving no
trace.

Cuchulain Re-enters the Dun

Now Cuchulain would gladly have returned to the fort to rest, but there
seemed no way of entrance, and the hero was vexed at his own
helplessness, for he thought his comrades had jumped over the magic walls.
Twice he boldly essayed to leap the lofty wall, and twice he failed; then in
his wrath his great strength came upon him, the hero-light shone round him,
and he took a little run and, leaning on his spear, leaped so high and so far
that he alighted in the middle of the court, just before the door of the hall.
As he sighed heavily and wearily, Curoi’s wife said: “That is the sigh of a
weary conqueror, not of a beaten man”; and Cuchulain went in and sat
down to rest.

The Decision

The next morning Curoi’s wife asked the champions: “Are you content that
the Championship should go to Cuchulain? I know by my magic skill what
he has endured in the past night, and you must see that you are not equal to
him.”
“Nay, that we will not allow,” quoth they. “It was one of Cuchulain’s friends
among the People of the Hills who came to conquer us and to give him the
Championship. We are not content, and we will not give up our claim, for
the fight was not fair.”

“Go home now to Armagh, is Curoi’s word, and wait there until he himself
brings his decision,” said Curoi’s wife. So they bade her farewell, and went
back to the Red Branch House in Armagh, with the dispute still unsettled;
but they agreed to await peaceably Curoi’s decision, and abide by it when
he should bring it.

Uath, the Stranger

Some time after this, when Curoi had made no sign of giving judgment, it
happened that all the Ulster heroes were in their places in the Red Branch
House, except Cuchulain and his cousin Conall. As they sat in order of rank
in the hall they saw a terrible stranger coming into the room. He was
gigantic in stature, hideous of aspect, with ravening yellow eyes. He wore a
skin roughly sewn together, and a grey cloak over it, and he sheltered
himself from the light with a spreading tree torn up by the roots. In his hand
he bore an enormous axe, with keen and shining edge. This hideous
apparition strode up the hall and leant against a carved pillar beside the fire.
“Who are you?” asked one chieftain in sport. “Are you come to be our
candlestick, or would you burn the house down? Is this the place for such as
you? Go farther down the hall!”
“My name is Uath, the Stranger, and for neither of those things am I come. I
seek that which I cannot find in the whole world, and that is a man to keep
the agreement he makes with me.”

The Agreement

“What is the agreement?” asked King Conor.
“Behold my axe!” quoth the stranger. “The man who will grasp it to-day
may cut my head off with it, provided that I may, in like manner, cut off his
head to-morrow. Now you men of Ulster, heroes of the Red Branch, have
won the palm through the wide world for courage, honour, strength, truth,
and generosity; do you, therefore, find me a man to keep this agreement.
King Conor is excepted, because of his royal dignity, but no other. And if

you have no champion who dare face me, I will say that Ulster has lost her
courage and is dishonoured.”
“It is not right for a whole province to be disgraced for lack of a man to
keep his word,” said King Conor, “but I fear we have no such champions
here.”

Laegaire Accepts the Challenge

“By my word,” said Laegaire, who had listened attentively to the whole
conversation, “there will be a champion this very moment. Stoop down,
fellow, and let me cut off your head, that you may take mine to-morrow.”
Then Uath chanted magic spells over the axe as he stroked the edge, and
laid his neck on a block, and Laegaire hewed so hard that the axe severed
the head from the body and struck deep into the block. Then the body of
Uath arose, took up the head and the axe, and strode away down the hall, all
people shrinking out of its way, and so it passed out into the night.

“The body of Uath arose”

“If this terrible stranger returns to-morrow he will slay us all,” they
whispered, as they looked pityingly at Laegaire, who was trying in vain to
show no signs of apprehension.

Laegaire and Conall Disgraced

When the next evening came, and men sat in the Red Branch House, talking
little and waiting for what would happen, in came Uath, the Stranger, as
well and sound as before the terrible blow, bearing his axe, and eager to
return the stroke. Alas! Laegaire’s heart had failed him and he did not come,
and the stranger jeered at the men of Ulster because their great champion
durst not keep his agreement, nor face the blow he should receive in return
for one he gave.
The men of Ulster were utterly ashamed, but Conall Cearnach, the
Victorious, was present that night, and he made a new agreement with Uath.
Conall gave a blow which beheaded Uath, but again, when the stranger
returned whole and sound on the following evening, the champion was not
to be found: Conall would not face the blow.

Cuchulain Accepts the Challenge

When Uath found that a second hero of Ulster had failed him he again
taunted them all with cowardice and promise-breaking.
“What! is there not one man of courage among you Ulstermen? You would
fain have a great name, but have no courage to earn it! Great heroes are you
all! Not one among you has bravery enough to face me! Where is that
childish youth Cuchulain! A poor miserable fellow he is, but I would like to
see if his word is better to be relied on than the word of these two great
heroes.”
“A youth I may be,” said Cuchulain, “but I will keep my word without any
agreement.”
Uath laughed aloud. “Yes! that is likely, is it not? And you with so great a
fear of death!”
Thereupon the youth leapt up, caught the deadly axe, and severed the
giant’s head as he stood with one stroke.

Cuchulain Stands the Test

The next day the Red Branch heroes watched Cuchulain to see what he
would do. They would not have been surprised if he had failed like the
others, who now were present. The champion, however, showed no signs of
failing or retreat. He sat sorrowfully in his place waiting for the certain
death that must come, and regretting his rashness, but with no thought of
breaking his word.
With a sigh he said to King Conor as they waited: “Do not leave this place
till all is over. Death is coming to me very surely, but I must fulfil my
agreement, for I would rather die than break my word.”
Towards the close of day Uath strode into the hall exultant.
“Where is Cuchulain?” he cried.
“Here I am,” was the reply.
“Ah, poor boy! your speech is sad to-night, and the fear of death lies heavy
on you; but at least you have redeemed your word and have not failed me.”
The youth rose from his seat and went towards Uath, as he stood with the
great axe ready, and knelt to receive the blow.

Curoi’s Decision and Cuchulain’s Victory

The hero of Ulster laid his head on the block; but Uath was not satisfied.
“Stretch out your neck better,” said he.
“You are playing with me, to torment me,” said Cuchulain. “Slay me now
speedily, for I did not keep you waiting last night.”
However, he stretched out his neck as Uath bade, and the stranger raised his
axe till it crashed upwards through the rafters of the hall, like the crash of
trees falling in a storm. When the axe came down with a terrific sound all
men looked fearfully at Cuchulain. The descending axe had not even
touched him; it had come down with the blunt side on the ground, and the
youth knelt there unharmed. Smiling at him, and leaning on his axe, stood

no terrible and hideous stranger, but Curoi of Kerry, come to give his
decision at last.
“Rise up, Cuchulain,” said Curoi. “There is none among all the heroes of
Ulster to equal you in courage and loyalty and truth. The Championship of
the Heroes of Ireland is yours from this day forth, and the Champion’s
Portion at all feasts; and to your wife I adjudge the first place among all the
women of Ulster. Woe to him who dares to dispute this decision!”
Thereupon Curoi vanished, and the Red Branch warriors gathered around
Cuchulain, and all with one voice acclaimed him the Champion of the
Heroes of all Ireland—a title which has clung to him until this day.

CHAPTER X: THE TALE OF GAMELYN

The “Wicked Brothers” Theme

T HE tale of “Gamelyn” is a variant of the old fairy-tale subject of the
Wicked Elder Brothers, one of the oldest and most interesting
versions of which may still be read in the Biblical story of Joseph and
his brethren. Usually a father dies leaving three sons, of whom the two elder
are worthless and the youngest rises to high honour, whereupon the elder
brothers try to kill the youngest from envy at his good fortune. A similar
root-idea is found in “Cinderella” and other fairy-tales of girls, but in these
there may usually be found a cruel stepmother and two contemptuous
stepsisters—a noteworthy variation which seems to point to some deep-
rooted idea that the ties of blood are stronger among women than among
men.

Literary Influence of the “Gamelyn” Story

The story of “Gamelyn” has two great claims to our attention: it is, through
Lodge’s “Euphues’ Golden Legacy,” the ultimate source of Shakespeare’s
As You Like It, and it seems to be the earliest presentment in English
literature of the figure of “the noble outlaw.” In fact, Gamelyn is probably
the literary ancestor of “bold Robin Hood,” and stands for an English ideal
of justice and equity, against legal oppression and wickedness in high
places. He shows, too, the love of free life, of the merry greenwood and the
open road, which reappears after so many centuries in the work of Robert
Louis Stevenson.

The Story

In the reign of King Edward I. there dwelt in Lincolnshire, near the vast
expanse of the Fens, a noble gentleman, Sir John of the Marches. He was
now old, but was still a model of all courtesy and a “very perfect gentle
knight.” He had three sons, of whom the youngest, Gamelyn, was born in
his father’s old age, and was greatly beloved by the old man; the other two
were much older than he, and John, the eldest, had already developed a
vicious and malignant character. Gamelyn and his second brother, Otho,
reverenced their father, but John had no respect or obedience for the good
gentleman, and was the chief trouble of his declining years, as Gamelyn
was his chief joy.

The Father Feels his End Approaching

At last old age and weakness overcame the worthy old Sir John, and he was
forced to take to his bed, where he lay sadly meditating on his children’s
future, and wondering how to divide his possessions justly among the three.
There was no difficulty of inheritance or primogeniture, for all the knight’s
lands were held in fee-simple, and not in entail, so that he might bequeath
them as he would. Sir John of the Marches, fearing lest he should commit
an injustice, sent throughout the district for wise knights, begging them to
come hastily, if they wished to see him alive, and help him. When the
country squires and lords, his near neighbours, heard of his grave condition,
they hurried to the castle, and gathered in the bedchamber, where the dying
knight greeted them thus: “Lords and gentlemen, I warn you in truth that I
may no longer live; by the will of God death lays his hand upon me.” When
they heard this they tried to encourage him, by bidding him remember that
God can provide a remedy for every disease, and the good knight received
their kindly words without dispute. “That God can send remedy for an ill I
will never deny; but I beseech you, for my sake, to divide my lands among
my three sons. For the love of God deal justly, and forget not my youngest,
Gamelyn. Seldom does any heir to an estate help his brothers after his
father’s death.”

How Shall he Dispose of his Estate?

The friends whom Sir John had summoned deliberated long over the
disposal of the estate. The majority wished to give all to the eldest son, but
a strong minority urged the claims of the second, but all agreed that
Gamelyn might wait till his eldest brother chose to give him a share of his
father’s lands. At last it was decided to divide the inheritance between the
two elder sons, and the knights returned to the chamber where the brave old
knight lay dying, and told him their decision. He summoned up strength
enough to protest against their plan of distribution, and said:

“‘Nay, by St. Martin, I can yet bequeath
My lands to whom I wish: they still are mine.
Then hearken, neighbours, while I make my will.
To John, my eldest son, and heir, I leave
Five ploughlands, my dead father’s heritage;
My second, Otho, ploughlands five shall hold,
Which my good right hand won in valiant strife;
All else I own, in lands and goods and wealth,
To Gamelyn, my youngest, I devise;
And I beseech you, for the love of God,
Forsake him not, but guard his helpless youth
And let him not be plundered of his wealth.’”

Then Sir John, satisfied with having proclaimed his will, died with
Christian resignation, leaving his little son Gamelyn in the power of the
cruel eldest brother, now, in his turn, Sir John.

The Cruel Eldest Son

Since the boy was a minor, the new knight, as natural guardian, assumed the
control of Gamelyn’s land, vassals, education, and nurture; and full evilly
he discharged his duties, for he clothed and fed him badly, and neglected his
lands, so that his parks and houses, his farms and villages, fell into ruinous
decay. The boy, when he grew older, noticed this and resented it, but did not
realize the power in his own broad limbs and mighty sinews to redress his
wrongs, though by the time he fully understood his injuries no man would

dare to face him in fight when he was angry, so strong a youth had he
become.

Gamelyn Resists

While Gamelyn, one day, walking in the hall, mused on the ruin of all his
inheritance, Sir John came blustering in, and, seeing him, called out: “How
now: is dinner ready?” Enraged at being addressed as if he were a mere
servant, he replied angrily: “Go and do your own baking; I am not your
cook.”

“Go and do your own baking!”

Sir John almost doubted the evidence of his ears. “What, my dear brother, is
that the way to answer? Thou hast never addressed me so before!”

“No,” replied Gamelyn; “until now I have never considered all the wrong
you have done me. My parks are broken open, my deer are driven off; you
have deprived me of my armour and my steeds; all that my father
bequeathed to me is falling into ruin and decay. God’s curse upon you, false
brother!”
Sir John was now enraged beyond all measure, and shouted: “Stand still,
vagabond, and hold thy peace! What right hast thou to speak of land or
vassals? Thou shalt learn to be grateful for food and raiment.”
“A curse upon him that calls me vagabond! I am no worse than yourself; I
am the son of a lady and a good knight.”

Gamelyn Terrifies the Household

In spite of all his anger, Sir John was a cautious man, with a prudent regard
for his own safety. He would not risk an encounter with Gamelyn, but
summoned his servants and bade them beat him well, till he should learn
better manners. But when the boy understood his brother’s intention he
vowed that he would not be beaten alone—others should suffer too, and Sir
John not the least. Thereupon, leaping on to the wall, he seized a pestle
which lay there, and so boldly attacked the timid servants, though they were
armed with staves, that he drove them in flight, and laid on furious strokes
which quenched the small spark of courage in them. Sir John had not even
that small amount of bravery: he fled to a loft and barred the door, while
Gamelyn cleared the hall with his pestle, and scoffed at the cowardly
grooms who fled so soon from the strife they had begun. When he sought
for his brother he could not see him at first, but afterwards perceived his
sorry countenance peeping from a window. “Brother,” said Gamelyn,
“come a little nearer, and I will teach you how to play with staff and
buckler.”
“Nay, by St. Richard, I will not descend till thou hast put down that pestle.
Brother, be no more enraged, and I will make peace with thee. I swear it by
the grace of God!”

“I was forced to defend myself,” said Gamelyn, “or your menials would
have injured and degraded me: I could not let grooms beat a good knight’s
son; but now grant me one boon, and we shall soon be reconciled.”

Sir John’s Guile

“Yes, certainly, brother; ask thy boon, and I will grant it readily. But indeed
I was only testing thee, for thou art so young that I doubted thy strength and
manliness. It was only a pretence of beating that I meant.”
“This is my request,” said the boy: “if there is to be peace between us you
must surrender to me all that my father bequeathed me while he was alive.”
To this Sir John consented with apparent willingness, and even promised to
repair the decayed mansions and restore the lands and farms to their former
prosperity; but though he feigned content with the agreement and kissed his
brother with outward affection yet he was inwardly meditating plans of
treachery against the unsuspecting youth.

A Wrestling Match

Shortly after this quarrel between the brothers a wrestling competition was
announced, the winner of which would become the owner of a fine ram and
a ring of gold, and Gamelyn determined to try his powers. Accordingly he
begged the loan of “a little courser” from Sir John, who offered him his
choice of all the steeds in the stable, and then curiously questioned him as
to his errand. The lad explained that he wished to compete in the wrestling
match, hoping to win honour by bearing away the prize; then, springing on
the beautiful courser that was brought him ready saddled, he spurred his
horse and rode away merrily, while the false Sir John locked the gate
behind him, praying that he might get his neck broken in the contest. The
boy rode along, rejoicing in his youth and strength, singing as he went, till
he drew near the appointed place, and then he suddenly heard a man’s voice
lamenting aloud and crying, “Wellaway! Alas!” and saw a venerable
yeoman wringing his hands. “Good man,” said Gamelyn, “why art thou in
such distress? Can no man help thee?”

A Dreaded Champion

“Alas!” said the yeoman. “Woe to the day on which I was born! The
champion wrestler here has overthrown my two stalwart sons, and unless
God help them they must die of their grievous hurts. I would give ten
pounds to find a man to avenge on him the injuries done to my dear sons.”
“Good man, hold my horse while my groom takes my coat and shoes, and I
will try my luck and strength against this doughty champion.”
“Thank God!” said the yeoman. “I will do it at once; I will guard thy coat
and shoes and good steed safely—and may Jesus Christ speed thee well!”

Gamelyn Enters

When Gamelyn entered the ring, barefooted and stripped for wrestling, all
men gazed curiously at the rash youth who dared to challenge the stalwart
champion, and the great man himself, rising from the ground, strolled
across to meet Gamelyn and said haughtily: “Who is thy father, and what is
thy name? Thou art, forsooth, a young fool to come here!”
Gamelyn answered equally haughtily: “Thou knewest well my father while
he lived: he was Sir John of the Marches, and I am his youngest son,
Gamelyn.”
The champion replied: “Boy, I knew thy father well in his lifetime, and I
have heard of thee, and nothing good: thou hast always been in mischief.”
“Now I am older thou shalt know me better,” said Gamelyn.

Defeats the Champion

The wrestling had lasted till late in the evening, and the moon was shining
on the scene when Gamelyn and the champion began their struggle. The
wrestler tried many wily tricks, but the boy was ready for them all, and
stood steady against all that his opponent could do. Then, in his turn, he

took the offensive, grasped his adversary round the waist, and cast him so
heavily to the ground that three ribs were broken, and his left arm. Then the
victor said mockingly:
“Shall we count that a cast, or not reckon it?”
“By heaven! whether it be one or no, any man in thy hand will never
thrive,” said the champion painfully.
The yeoman, who had watched the match with great anxiety, now broke out
with blessings: “Blessed be thou, young sir, that ever thou wert born!” and
now taunting the fallen champion, said: “It was young ‘Mischief’ who
taught thee this game.”
“He is master of us all,” said the champion. “In all my years of wrestling I
have never been mishandled so cruelly.”
Now the victor stood in the ring, ready for more wrestling, but no man
would venture to compete with him, and the two judges who kept order and
awarded the prizes bade him retire, for no other competitor could be found
to face him.
But he was a little disappointed at this easy victory. “Is the fair over? Why, I
have not half sold my wares,” he said.
The champion was still capable of grim jesting. “Now, as I value my life,
any purchaser of your wares is a fool; you sell so dearly.”
“Not at all,” broke in the yeoman; “you have bought your share full cheap,
and made a good bargain.”

He Wins the Prizes

While this short conversation had been going on the judges had returned to
their seats, and formally awarded the prize to Gamelyn, and now came to
him, bearing the ram and the ring for his acceptance.
Gamelyn took them gladly, and went home the next morning, followed by a
cheering crowd of admirers; but when the cowardly Sir John saw the people

he bolted the castle doors against his more favourite and successful brother.

He Overcomes his Brother’s Servants

The porter, obeying his master’s commands, refused Gamelyn entrance; and
the youth, enraged at this insult, broke down the door with one blow, caught
the fleeing porter, and flung him down the well in the courtyard. His
brother’s servants fled from his anger, and the crowd that had accompanied
him swarmed into courtyard and hall, while the knight took refuge in a little
turret.
“Welcome to you all,” said Gamelyn. “We will be masters here and ask no
man’s leave. Yesterday I left five tuns of wine in the cellar; we will drain
them dry before you go. If my brother objects (as he well may, for he is a
miser) I will be butler and caterer and manage the whole feast. Any person
who dares to object may join the porter in the well.”
Naturally no objections were raised, and Gamelyn and his friends held high
revel for a week, while Sir John lay hidden in his turret, terrified at the
noise and revelry, and dreading what his brother might do to him now he
had so great a following.

A Reckoning with Sir John

However, the guests departed quietly on the eighth day, leaving Gamelyn
alone, and very sorrowful, in the hall where he had held high revel. As he
stood there, musing sadly, he heard a timid footstep, and saw his brother
creeping towards him. When he had attracted Gamelyn’s attention he spoke
out loudly: “Who made thee so bold as to destroy all my household stores?”
“Nay, brother, be not wroth,” said the youth quietly. “If I have used
anything I have paid for it fully beforehand. For these sixteen years you
have had full use and profit of fifteen good ploughlands which my father
left me; you have also the use and increase of all my cattle and horses; and
now all this past profit I abandon to you, in return for the expense of this
feast of mine.”

Then said the treacherous Sir John: “Hearken, my dear brother: I have no
son, and thou shalt be my heir—I swear by the holy St. John.”
“In faith,” said Gamelyn, “if that be the case, and if this offer be made in all
sincerity, may God reward you!” for it was impossible for his generous
disposition to suspect his brother of treachery and to fathom the wiles of a
crafty nature; hence it happened that he was so soon and easily beguiled.

Gamelyn Allows Himself to be Chained

Sir John hesitated a moment, and then said doubtfully: “There is one thing I
must tell you, Gamelyn. When you threw my porter into the well I swore in
my wrath that I would have you bound hand and foot. That is impossible
now without your consent, and I must be forsworn unless you will let
yourself be bound for a moment, as a mere form, just to save me from the
sin of perjury.”
So sincere Sir John seemed, and so simple did the whole thing appear, that
Gamelyn consented at once. “Why, certainly, brother, you shall not be
forsworn for my sake.” So he sat down, and the servants bound him hand
and foot; and then Sir John looked mockingly at him as he said: “So now,
my fine brother, I have you caught at last.” Then he bade them bring fetters
and rivet them on Gamelyn’s limbs, and chain him fast to a post in the
centre of the hall. Then he was placed on his feet with his back to the post
and his hands manacled behind him, and as he stood there the false brother
told every person who entered that Gamelyn had suddenly gone mad, and
was chained for safety’s sake, lest he should do himself or others some
deadly hurt. For two long days and nights he stood there bound, with no
food or drink, and grew faint with hunger and weariness, for his fetters were
so tight that he could not sit or lie down; bitterly he lamented the
carelessness which made him fall such an easy prey to his treacherous
brother’s designs.

Adam Spencer to the Rescue

When all others had left the hall Gamelyn appealed to old Adam Spencer,
the steward of the household, a loyal old servant who had known Sir John
of the Marches, and had watched the boy grow up. “Adam Spencer,” quoth
he, “unless my brother is minded to slay me, I am kept fasting too long. I
beseech thee, for the great love my father bore thee, get the keys and release
me from my bonds. I will share all my free land with thee if thou wilt help
me in this distress.”
The poor old servant was greatly perplexed. He knew not how to reconcile
his grateful loyalty to his dead master with the loyalty due to his present
lord, and he said doubtfully: “I have served thy brother for sixteen years,
and if I release thee now he will rightly call me a traitor.” “Ah, Adam! thou
wilt find him a false rogue at the last, as I have done. Release me, dear
friend Adam, and I will be true to my agreement, and will keep my
covenant to share my land with thee.” By these earnest words the steward
was persuaded, and, waiting till Sir John was safely in bed, managed to
obtain possession of the keys and release Gamelyn, who stretched his arms
and legs and thanked God for his liberty. “Now,” said he, “if I were but well
fed no one in this house should bind me again to-night.” So Adam took him
to a private room and set food before him; eagerly he ate and drank till his
hunger was satisfied and he began to think of revenge. “What is your
advice, Adam? Shall I go to my brother and strike off his head? He well
merits it.”

A Plan of Escape

“No,” answered Adam, “I know a better plan than that. Sir John is to give a
great feast on Sunday to many Churchmen and prelates; there will be
present a great number of abbots and priors and other holy men. Do you
stand as if bound by your post in the hall, and beseech them to release you.
If they will be surety for you, your liberty will be gained with no blame to
me; if they all refuse, you shall cast aside the unlocked chains, and you and
I, with two good staves, can soon win your freedom. Christ’s curse on him
who fails his comrade!”
“Yes,” quoth Gamelyn, “evil may I thrive if I fail in my part of the bargain!
But if we must needs help them to do penance for their sins, you must warn

me, brother Adam, when to begin.”
“By St. Charity, master, I will give you good warning. When I wink at you
be ready to cast away your fetters at once and come to me.”
“This is good advice of yours, Adam, and blessings on your head. If these
haughty Churchmen refuse to be surety for me I will give them good
strokes in payment.”

A Great Feast

Sunday came, and after mass many guests thronged to the feast in the great
hall; they all stared curiously at Gamelyn as he stood with his hands behind
him, apparently chained to his post, and Sir John explained sadly that he,
after slaying the porter and wasting the household stores, had gone mad,
and was obliged to be chained, for his fury was dangerous. The servants
carried dainty dishes round the table, and beakers of rich wines, but though
Gamelyn cried aloud that he was fasting no food was brought to him. Then
he spoke pitifully and humbly to the noble guests: “Lords, for Christ’s sake
help a poor captive out of prison.” But the guests were hard-hearted, and
answered cruelly, especially the abbots and priors, who had been deceived
by Sir John’s false tales. So harshly did they reply to the youth’s humble
petition that he grew angry. “Oh,” said he, “that is all the answer I am to
have to my prayer! Now I see that I have no friends. Cursed be he that ever
does good to abbot or prior!”

“Lords, for Christ’s sake help poor Gamelyn out of prison!”

The Banquet Disturbed

Adam Spencer, busied about the removal of the cloth, looked anxiously at
Gamelyn, and saw how angry he grew. He thought little more of his service,
but, making a pretext to go to the pantry, brought two good oak staves, and
stood them beside the hall door. Then he winked meaningly at Gamelyn,
who with a sudden shout flung off his chains, rushed to the hall door, seized
a staff, and began to lay about him lustily, whirling his weapon as lightly as
if it had been a holy water sprinkler. There was a dreadful commotion in the
hall, for the portly Churchmen tried to escape, but the mere laymen loved
Gamelyn, and drew aside to give him free play, so that he was able to
scatter the prelates. Now he had no pity on these cruel Churchmen, as they
had been without pity for him; he knocked them over, battered them, broke
their arms and legs, and wrought terrible havoc among them; and during
this time Adam Spencer kept the door so that none might escape. He called
aloud to Gamelyn to respect the sanctity of men of Holy Church and shed
no blood, but if he should by chance break arms and legs there would be no
sacrilege, because no blood need be shed.

Sir John in Chains

Thus Gamelyn worked his will, laying hands on monks and friars, and sent
them home wounded in carts and waggons, while some of them muttered:
“We were better at home, with mere bread and water, than here where we
have had such a sorry feast!” Then Gamelyn turned his attention to his false
brother, who had been unable to escape, seized him by the neck, broke his
backbone with one blow from his staff, and thrust him, sitting, into the
fetters that yet hung from the post where Gamelyn had stood. “Sit there,
brother, and cool thy blood,” said Gamelyn, as he and Adam sat down to a
feast, at which the servants waited on them eagerly, partly from love and
partly from fear.

The Sheriff’s Men Appear

Now the sheriff happened to be only five miles away, and soon heard the
news of this disturbance, and how Gamelyn and Adam had broken the
king’s peace; and, as his duty was, he determined to arrest the law-breakers.

Twenty-four of his best men were sent to the castle to gain admittance and
arrest Gamelyn and his steward; but the new porter, a devoted adherent of
Gamelyn, denied them entrance till he knew their errand; when they refused
to tell it, he sent a servant to rouse Gamelyn and warn him that the sheriff’s
men stood before the gate.

“Then answered Gamelyn: ‘Good porter, go;
Delay my foes with fair speech at the gate
Till I relieve thee with some cunning wile.
If I o’erlive this strait, I will requite
Thy truth and loyalty. Adam,’ quoth he,
‘Our foes are on us, and we have no friend—
The sheriff’s men surround us, and have sworn
A mighty oath to take us: we must go
Whither our safety calls us.’ He replied:
‘Go where thou wilt, I follow to the last
Or die forlorn: but this proud sheriffs troop
Will flee before our onset, to the fens.’”

The Sheriff Arrives

As Gamelyn and Adam looked round for weapons the former saw a cart-
staff, a stout post used for propping up the shafts; this he seized, and ran out
at the little postern gate, followed by Adam with another staff. They caught
the sheriff’s twenty-four bold men in the rear, and when Gamelyn had felled
three, and Adam two, the rest took to their heels. “What!” said Adam as
they fled. “Drink a draught of my good wine! I am steward here.” “Nay,”
they shouted back; “such wine as yours scatters a man’s brains far too
thoroughly.” Now this little fray was hardly ended before the sheriff came
in person with a great troop. Gamelyn knew not what to do, but Adam again
had a plan ready. “Let us stay no longer, but go to the greenwood: there we
shall at least be at liberty.” The advice suited Gamelyn, and each drank a
draught of wine, mounted his steed, and lightly rode away, leaving the
empty nest for the sheriff, with no eggs therein. However, that officer
dismounted, entered the hall, and found Sir John fettered and nearly dying.

He released him, and summoned a leech, who healed his grievous wound,
and enabled him to do more mischief.

Gamelyn Goes to the Greenwood

Meanwhile Adam wandered with Gamelyn in the greenwood, and found it
very hard work, with little food. He complained aloud to his young lord:

“‘Would I were back in mine old stewardship—
Full blithe were I, the keys to bear and keep!
I like not this wild wood, with wounding thorns,
And nought of food or drink, or restful ease.’
‘Ah! Adam,’ answered Gamelyn, ‘in sooth
Full many a good man’s son feels bitter woe!
Then cheer thee, Adam.’”

“Then cheer thee, Adam”

As they spoke sadly together Gamelyn heard men’s voices near by, and,
looking through the bushes, saw seven score young men, sitting round a
plentiful feast, spread on the green grass. He rejoiced greatly, bidding Adam
remember that “Boot cometh after bale,” and pointing out to him the

abundance of provisions near at hand. Adam longed for a good meal, for
they had found little to eat since they came to the greenwood. At that
moment the master-outlaw saw them in the underwood, and bade his young
men bring to him these new guests whom God had sent: perchance, he said,
there were others besides these two. The seven bold youths who started up
to do his will cried to the two new-comers: “Yield and hand us your bows
and arrows!” “Much sorrow may he have who yields to you,” cried
Gamelyn. “Why, with five more ye would be only twelve, and I could fight
you all.” When the outlaws saw how boldly he bore himself they changed
their tone, and said mildly: “Come to our master, and tell him thy desire.”
“Who is your master?” quoth Gamelyn. “He is the crowned king of the
outlaws,” quoth they; and the two strangers were led away to the chief.
The master-outlaw, sitting on a rustic throne, with a crown of oak-leaves on
his head, asked them their business, and Gamelyn replied: “He must needs
walk in the wood who may not walk in the town. We are hungry and faint,
and will only shoot the deer for food, for we are hard bestead and in great
danger.”

Gamelyn Joins the Outlaws

The outlaw leader had pity on their distress, and gave them food; and as
they ate ravenously the outlaws whispered one to another: “This is
Gamelyn!” “This is Gamelyn!” Understanding all the evils that had befallen
him, their leader soon made Gamelyn his second in command; and when
after three weeks the outlaw king was pardoned and allowed to return
home, Gamelyn was chosen to succeed him and was crowned king of the
outlaws. So he dwelt merrily in the forest, and troubled not himself about
the world outside.

The Law at Work

Meanwhile the treacherous Sir John had recovered, and in due course had
become sheriff, and indicted his brother for felony. As Gamelyn did not
appear to answer the indictment he was proclaimed an outlaw and wolf’s-

head, and a price was set upon his life. Now his bondmen and vassals were
grieved at this, for they feared the cruelty of the wicked sheriff; they
therefore sent messengers to Gamelyn to tell him the ill news, and deprecate
his wrath. The youth’s anger rose at the tidings, and he promised to come
and beard Sir John in his hall and protect his own tenants.

Gamelyn Arrested

It was certainly a stroke of rash daring thus to venture into the county where
his brother was sheriff, but he strode boldly into the moot-hall, with his
hood thrown back, so that all might recognise him, and cried aloud: “God
save all you lordings here present! But, thou broken-backed sheriff, evil
mayst thou thrive! Why hast thou done me such wrong and disgrace as to
have me indicted and proclaimed an outlaw?” Sir John did not hesitate to
use his legal powers, but, seeing his brother was quite alone, had him
arrested and cast into prison, whence it was his intention that only death
should release him.

Otho as Surety

All these years the second brother, Otho, had lived quietly on his own lands
and taken no heed of the quarrels of the two others; but now, when news
came to him of Sir John’s deadly hatred to their youngest brother, and
Gamelyn’s desperate plight, he was deeply grieved, roused himself from his
peaceful life, and rode to see if he could help his brother. First he besought
Sir John’s mercy for the prisoner, for the sake of brotherhood and family
love; but he only replied that Gamelyn must stay imprisoned till the justice
should hold the next assize. Then Otho offered to be bail, if only his young
brother might be released from his bonds and brought from the dismal
dungeon where he lay. To this Sir John finally consented, warning Otho that
if the accused failed to appear before the justice he himself must suffer the
penalty for the breach of bail. “I agree,” said Otho. “Have him released at
once, and deliver him to me.” Then Gamelyn was set free on his brother’s
surety, and the two rode home to Otho’s house, talking sadly of all that had
befallen, and how Gamelyn had become king of the outlaws. The next

morning Gamelyn asked Otho’s permission to go to the greenwood and see
how his young men fared but Otho pointed out so clearly how dreadful
would be the consequences to him if he did not return that the young man
vowed:

“‘I swear by James, the mighty saint of Spain,
That I will not desert thee, nor will fail
To stand my trial on the appointed day,
If God Almighty give me strength and health
And power to keep my vow. I will be there,
That I may show what bitter hate Sir John,
My cruel brother, holds against me.’”

Gamelyn Goes to the Woods

Thereupon Otho bade him go. “God shield thee from shame! Come when
thou seest it is the right time, and save us both from blame and reproach.”
So Gamelyn went gaily to the merry greenwood, and found his company of
outlaws; and so much had they to tell of their work in his absence, and so
much had he to relate of his adventures, that time slipped by, and he soon
fell again into his former mode of life, and his custom of robbing none but
Churchmen, fat abbots and priors, monks and canons, so that all others
spoke good of him, and called him the “courteous outlaw.”

The Term Expires

Gamelyn stood one day looking out over the woods and fields, and it
suddenly came to his mind with a pang of self-reproach that he had
forgotten his promise to Otho, and the day of the assize was very near. He
called his young men (for he had learned not to trust himself to the honour
or loyalty of his brother the sheriff), and bade them prepare to accompany
him to the place of assize, sending Adam on as a scout to learn tidings.
Adam returned in great haste, bringing sad news. The judge was in his
place, a jury empanelled to condemn Gamelyn to death, bribed thereto by
the wicked sheriff, and Otho was fettered in the gaol in place of his brother.

The news enraged Gamelyn, but Adam Spencer was even more infuriated;
he would gladly have held the doors of the moot-hall and slain every person
inside except Otho; but his master’s sense of justice was too strong for that.
“Adam,” he said, “we will not do so, but will slay the guilty and let the
innocent escape. I myself will have some conversation with the justice in
the hall; and meanwhile do ye, my men, hold the doors fast. I will make
myself justice to-day, and thou, Adam, shalt be my clerk. We will give
sentence this day, and God speed our new work!” All his men applauded
this speech and promised him obedience, and the troop of outlaws hastened
to surround the hall.

Gamelyn in the Court

Once again Gamelyn strode into the moot-hall in the midst of his enemies,
and was recognised by all. He released Otho, who said gently: “Brother,
thou hast nearly overstayed the time; the sentence has been given against
me that I shall be hanged.”
“Brother,” said Gamelyn, “this day shall thy foes and mine be hanged: the
sheriff, the justice, and the wicked jurors.” Then Gamelyn turned to the
judge, who sat as if paralysed in his seat of judgment, and said:

“‘Come from the seat of justice: all too oft
Hast thou polluted law’s clear stream with wrong;
Too oft hast taken reward against the poor;
Too oft hast lent thine aid to villainy,
And given judgment ’gainst the innocent.
Come down and meet thine own meed at the bar,
While I, in thy place, give more rightful doom
And see that justice dwells in law for once.’”

“Come from the seat of justice”

A Scene

The justice sat still, dumb with astonishment, and Gamelyn struck him
fiercely, cut his cheek, and threw him over the bar so that his arm broke;
and no man durst withstand the outlaw, for fear of his company standing at
the doors. The youth sat down in the judge’s seat, with Otho beside him,
and Adam in the clerk’s desk; and he placed in the dock the false sheriff, the
justice, and the unjust jurors, and accused them of wrong and attempted
murder. In order to keep up the forms of law, he empanelled a jury of his
own young men, who brought in a verdict of “Guilty,” and the prisoners
were all condemned to death and hanged out of hand, though the false
sheriff attempted to appeal to the brotherly affection of which he had shown
so little.

Honour from the King

After this high-handed punishment of their enemies Gamelyn and his
brother went to lay their case before King Edward, and he forgave them, in
consideration of all the wrongs and injuries Gamelyn had suffered; and
before they returned to their distant county the king made Otho sheriff of
the county, and Gamelyn chief forester of all his free forests; his band of
outlaws were all pardoned, and the king gave them posts according to their
capabilities. Now Gamelyn and his brother settled down to a happy,
peaceful life. Otho, having no son, made Gamelyn his heir, and the latter
married a beauteous lady, and lived with her in joy till his life’s end.

CHAPTER XI: WILLIAM OF CLOUDESLEE

Introduction

T HE outlaw of mediæval England has always possessed a potent charm
for the minds of less rebellious persons. No doubt now the attraction
has somewhat waned, for in the exploration of distant lands and the
study of barbaric tribes men can find that breadth of outlook, that escape
from narrow conventionalities, which they could formerly gain only by the
cult of the “noble outlaw.” The romance of life for many a worthy citizen
must have been found in secret sympathy with Robin Hood and his merry
band of banished men, robbing the purse-proud to help the needy and gaily
defying law and authority.
To the poor, however, the outlaw was something more than an easy entrance
to the realms of romance; he was a real embodiment of the spirit of liberty.
Of all the unjust laws which the Norman conquerors laid upon England,
perhaps the most bitterly resented were the forest laws, and resistance to
them was the most popular form of national independence. Hence it follows
that we find outlaw heroes popular very early in our history—heroes who
stand in the mind of the populace for justice and true liberty against the
oppressive tyranny of subordinate officials, and who are always taken into
favour by the king, the fount of true justice.

Famous Outlaws

There is some slight tinge of the “outlaw hero” in Hereward, but the outlaw
period of that patriot’s life is but an episode in his defence of England
against William the Norman. There is a fully developed outlaw hero, the
ideal of the type, in Robin Hood, but he has been somewhat idealized and
ennobled by being transformed into a banished Earl of Huntingdon. Less
known, but equally heroic, is William of Cloudeslee, the William Tell of

England, whose fame is that of a good yeoman, a good archer, and a good
patriot.

The Outlaws

In the green forest of Englewood, in the “North Countree,” not far from the
fortified town of Carlisle, dwelt a merry band of outlaws. They were not
evildoers, but sturdy archers and yeomen, whose outlawry had been
incurred only for shooting the king’s deer. Indeed, to most men of that time
—that is, to most men who were not in the royal service—the shooting of
deer, and the pursuit of game in general, were not only venial offences, but
the most natural thing in life. The royal claim to exclusive hunting in the
vast forests of Epping, Sherwood, Needwood, Barnesdale, Englewood, and
many others seemed preposterous to the yeomen who lived on the borders
of the forests, and they took their risks and shot the deer and made venison
pasty, convinced that they were wronging no one and risking only their own
lives. They had the help and sympathy of many a man who was himself a
law-abiding citizen, as well as the less understanding help of the town mob
and the labourers in the country.

The Leaders

While the outlaws of merry Sherwood recognised no chief but Robin Hood
and no foe but the Sheriff of Nottingham, the outlaws of Englewood were
under the headship of three famous archers, brothers-in-arms sworn to stand
by each other, but not brothers in blood. Their names were Adam Bell,
William of Cloudeslee, and Clym of the Cleugh; and of the three William of
Cloudeslee alone was married. His wife, fair Alice of Cloudeslee, dwelt in a
strong house within the walls of Carlisle, with her three children, for they
were not included in William’s outlawry. It was possible thus for her to send
her husband warning of any attack planned by the Sheriff of Carlisle on the
outlaws, and she had saved him and his comrades from surprise already.

William Goes to Carlisle

When the blithe spring had come, and the forest was beautiful with its fresh
green leaves, William began to long for his home and family; he had not
ventured into Carlisle for some time, and it was more than six months since
he had seen his wife’s face. Little wonder was it, then, that he announced
his intention of visiting his home, at the risk of capture by his old enemy the
Sheriff. In vain his comrades dissuaded him from the venture. Adam Bell
was especially urgent in his advice that William should remain in the
greenwood.
“You shall not go to Carlisle, brother, by my advice, nor with my consent. If
the sheriff or the justice should know that you are in the town short would
be your shrift and soon your span of life would end. Stay with us, and we
will fetch you tidings of your wife.”
William replied: “Nay, I must go myself; I cannot rest content with tidings
only. If all is well I will return by prime to-morrow, and if I fail you at that
hour you may be sure I am taken or slain; and I pray you guard well my
family, if that be so.”
Taking leave of his brother outlaws, William made his way unobserved into
the town and came to his wife’s dwelling. It was closely shut, with doors
strongly bolted, and he was forced to knock long on the window before his
wife opened the shutter to see who was the importunate visitor.
“Let me in quickly, my own Alice,” he said. “I have come to see you and
my three children. How have you fared this long time?”
“Alas!” she replied, hurriedly admitting him, and bolting the door again,
“why have you come now, risking your dear life to gain news of us? Know
you not that this house has been watched for more than six months, so eager
are the sheriff and the justice to capture and hang you? I would have come
to you in the forest, or sent you word of our welfare. I fear—oh, how I fear!
—lest your coming be known!”

The Old Woman’s Treachery

“Now that I am here, let us make merry,” quoth William. “No man has seen
me enter, and I would fain enjoy my short stay with you and my children,

for I must be back in the forest by prime to-morrow. Can you not give a
hungry outlaw food and drink?”
Then Dame Alice bustled about and prepared the best she had for her
husband; and when all was ready a very happy little family sat down to the
meal, husband and wife talking cheerily together, while the children
watched in wondering silence the father who had been away so long and
came to them so seldom.
There was one inmate of the house who saw in William’s return a means of
making shameful profit. She was an old bedridden woman, apparently
paralysed, whom he had rescued from utter poverty seven years before.
During all that time she had lain on a bed near the fire, had shared all the
life of the family, and had never once moved from her couch. Now, while
husband and wife talked together and the darkness deepened in the room,
this old impostor slipped from her bed and glided stealthily out of the
house.

News Brought to the Sheriff

It happened that the king’s assize was being held just then in Carlisle, and
the sheriff and his staunch ally the justice were sitting together in the Justice
Hall. Thither this treacherous old woman hurried with all speed and pushed
into the hall, forcing her way through the crowd till she came near the
sheriff. “Ha! what would you, good woman?” asked he, surprised. “Sir, I
bring tidings of great value.” “Tell your tidings, and I shall see if they be of
value or no. If they are I will reward you handsomely.” “Sir, this night
William of Cloudeslee has come into Carlisle, and is even now in his wife’s
house. He is all alone, and you can take him easily. Now what will you pay
me, for I am sure this news is much to you?” “You say truth, good woman.
That bold outlaw is the worst of all who kill the king’s deer in his forest of
Englewood, and if I could but catch him I should be well content. Dame,
you shall not go without a recompense for your journey here and for your
loyalty.” The sheriff then bade his men give the old woman a piece of
scarlet cloth, dyed in grain, enough for a gown, and the treacherous hag hid
the gift under her cloak, hastened away to Alice’s house, and slipped

unperceived into her place again, hiding the scarlet cloth under the bed-
coverings.

The Hue and Cry

Immediately he had heard of Cloudeslee’s presence in Carlisle the sheriff
sent out the hue and cry, and with all speed raised the whole town, for
though none hated the outlaws men dared not refuse to obey the king’s
officer. The justice, too, joined the sheriff in the congenial task of capturing
an outlaw whose condemnation was already pronounced. With all the forces
at their disposal, sheriff and justice took their way towards the house where
William and Alice unconscious of the danger besetting them, still talked
lovingly together.
Suddenly the outlaw’s ears, sharpened by woodcraft and by constant
danger, heard a growing noise coming nearer and nearer. He knew the
sound of the footsteps of many people, and among the casual shuffling of
feet recognised the ominous tramp of soldiers.
“Wife, we are betrayed,” cried William. “Hither comes the sheriff to take
me.”

The Siege of the House

Alice ran quickly up to her bedchamber and opened a window looking to
the back, and saw, to her despair, that soldiers beset the house on every side
and filled all the neighbouring streets. Behind them pressed a great throng
of citizens, who seemed inclined to leave the capture of the outlaw to the
guard. At the same moment William from the front called to his wife that
the sheriff and justice were besieging the house on that side.
“Alas! dear husband, what shall we do?” cried Alice. “Accursed be all
treason! But who can have betrayed you to your foes? Go into my
bedchamber, dear William, and defend yourself there, for it is the strongest
room in the house. The children and I will go with you, and I will guard the
door while you defend the windows.”

The plan was speedily carried out, and while William took his stand by the
window Alice seized a pole-axe and stationed herself by the door. “No man
shall enter this door alive while I live,” said she.

The Attack

From the window Cloudeslee could perceive his mortal enemies the justice
and the sheriff; and drawing his good longbow, he shot with deadly aim fair
at the breast of the justice. It was well for the latter then that he wore a suit
of good chain-mail under his robes; the arrow hit his breast and split in
three on the mail.
“Beshrew the man that clad you with that mail coat! You would have been a
dead man now if your coat had been no thicker than mine,” said William.
“Yield yourself, Cloudeslee, and lay down your bow and arrows,” said the
justice. “You cannot escape, for we have you safe.”
“Never shall my husband yield; it is evil counsel you give,” exclaimed the
brave wife from her post at the door.

The House is Burnt

The sheriff, who grew more angered as the hours passed on and Cloudeslee
was not taken, now cried aloud: “Why do we waste time trifling here? The
man is an outlaw and his life is forfeit. Let us burn him and his house, and if
his wife and children will not leave him they shall all burn together, for it is
their own choice.”
This cruel plan was soon carried out. Fire was set to the door and wooden
shutters, and the flames spread swiftly; the smoke rolled up in thick clouds
into the lofty bedchamber, where the little children, crouching on the
ground, began to weep for fear.
“Alas! must we all die?” cried fair Alice, grieving for her children.

William opened the window and looked out, but there was no chance of
escape; his foes filled every street and lane around the house. “Surely they
will spare my wife and babes,” he thought; and, tearing the sheets from the
bed, he made a rope, with which he let down to the ground his children, and
last of all his weeping wife.
He called aloud to the sheriff: “Sir Sheriff, here have I trusted to you my
chief treasures. For God’s sake do them no harm, but wreak all your wrath
on me!”
Gentle hands received Alice and her babes, and friendly citizens led them
from the press; but Alice went reluctantly, in utter grief, knowing that her
husband must be burnt with his house or taken by his foes; but for her
children she would have stayed with him. William continued his wonderful
archery, never missing his aim, till all his arrows were spent, and the flames
came so close that his bowstring was burnt in two. Great blazing brands
came falling upon him from the burning roof, and the floor was hot beneath
his feet. “An evil death is this!” thought he. “Better it were that I should
take sword and buckler and leap down amid my foes and so die, striking
good blows in the throng of enemies, than stay here and let them see me
burn.”

“William continued his wonderful archery”

Thereupon he leaped lightly down, and fought so fiercely that he nearly
escaped through the throng, for the worthy citizens of Carlisle were not
anxious to capture him; but the soldiers, urged by the sheriff and justice,

threw doors and windows upon him, hampered his blows, and seized and
bound him, and cast him into a deep dungeon.

The Sheriff Gives Sentence

“Now, William of Cloudeslee,” quoth the sheriff, “you shall be hanged with
speed, as soon as I can have a new gallows made. So noted an outlaw merits
no common gibbet; a new one is most fitting. To-morrow at prime you shall
die. There is no hope of rescue, for the gates of the town shall be shut. Your
dear friends, Adam Bell and Clym of the Cleugh, would be helpless to save
you, though they brought a thousand more like themselves, or even all the
devils in Hell.”
Early next morning the justice arose, went to the soldiers who guarded the
gates, and forbade them to open till the execution was over; then he went to
the market-place and superintended the erection of a specially lofty gallows,
beside the pillory.

News is Brought to the Greenwood

Among the crowd who watched the gallows being raised was a little lad, the
town swineherd, who asked a bystander the meaning of the new gibbet.
“It is put up to hang a good yeoman, William of Cloudeslee, more’s the
pity! He has done no wrong but kill the King’s deer, and that merits not
hanging. It is a foul shame that such injustice can be wrought in the king’s
name.”
The little lad had often met William of Cloudeslee in the forest, and had
carried him messages from his wife; William had given the boy many a
dinner of venison, and now he determined to help his friend if he could. The
gates were shut and no man could pass out, but the boy stole along the wall
till he found a crevice, by which he clambered down outside. Then he
hastened to the forest of Englewood, and met Adam Bell and Clym of the
Cleugh.

“Come quickly, good yeomen; ye tarry here too long. While you are at ease
in the greenwood your friend, William of Cloudeslee, is taken, condemned
to death, and ready to be hanged. He needs your help this very hour.”
Adam Bell groaned. “Ah! if he had but taken our advice he would have
been here in safety with us now. In the greenwood there is no sorrow or
care, but when William went to the town he was running into trouble.”
Then, bending his bow, he shot with unerring aim a hart, which he gave to
the lad as recompense for his labour and goodwill.

The Outlaws Go to Carlisle

“Come,” said Clym to Adam Bell, “let us tarry no longer, but take our bows
and arrows and see what we can do. By God’s grace we will rescue our
brother, though we may abide it full dearly ourselves. We will go to Carlisle
without delay.”
The morning was fair as the two yeomen strode from the deep green shades
of Englewood Forest along the hard white road leading to Carlisle Town.
They were in time as yet, but when they drew near the wall they were
amazed to see that no entrance or exit was possible; the gates were shut fast.
Stepping back into the green thickets beside the road, the two outlaws
consulted together. Adam Bell was for a valiant attempt to storm the gate,
but Clym suddenly bethought him of a wiser plan.

Clym’s Stratagem

Said he: “Let us pretend to be messengers from the king, with urgent letters
to the justice. Surely that should win us admission. But alas! I forgot. How
can we bear out our pretence, for I am no learned clerk. I cannot write.”
Quoth Adam Bell: “I can write a good clerkly hand. Wait one instant and I
will speedily have a letter written; then we can say we have the king’s seal.
The plan will do well enough, for I hold the gate-keeper no learned clerk,
and this will deceive him.”

Adam Bell writes the letter

Indeed, the letter which he quickly wrote and folded and sealed was very
well and clearly written, and addressed to the Justice of Carlisle. Then the
two bold outlaws hastened up the road and thundered on the town gates.

They Enter the Town

So long and loud they knocked that the warder came in great wrath,
demanding who dared to make such clamour.
Adam Bell replied: “We are two messengers come straight from our lord the
king.” Clym of the Cleugh added: “We have a letter for the justice which
we must deliver into his own hands. Let us in speedily to perform our
errand, for we must return to the king in haste.”
“No,” the warder replied, “that I cannot do. No man may enter these gates
till a false thief and outlaw be safely hanged. He is William of Cloudeslee,
who has long deserved death.”
Now Clym saw that matters were becoming desperate, and time was
passing too quickly, so he adopted a more violent tone. “Ah, rascal,
scoundrel, madman!” quoth he. “If we be delayed here any longer thou
shalt be hanged for a false thief! To keep the king’s messengers waiting
thus! Canst thou not see the king’s seal? Canst thou not read the address of
the royal letter? Ah, blockhead, thou shalt dearly abide this delay when my
lord knows thereof.”
Thus speaking, he flourished the forged letter, with its false seal, in the
porter’s face; and the man, seeing the seal and the writing, believed what
was told him. Reverently he took off his hood and bent the knee to the
king’s messengers, for whom he opened wide the gates, and they entered,
walking warily.

They Keep the Gates

“At last we are within Carlisle walls, and glad thereof are we,” said Adam
Bell, “but when and how we shall go out again Christ only knows, who
harrowed Hell and brought out its prisoners.”
“Now if we had the keys ourselves we should have a good chance of life,”
said Clym, “for then we could go in and out at our own will.” “Let us call
the warder,” said Adam. When he came running at their call both the
yeomen sprang upon him, flung him to the ground, bound him hand and

foot, and cast him into a dark cell, taking his bunch of keys from his girdle.
Adam laughed and shook the heavy keys. “Now I am gate-ward of merry
Carlisle. See, here are my keys. I think I shall be the worst warder they have
had for three hundred years. Let us bend our bows and hold our arrows
ready, and walk into the town to deliver our brother.”

The Fight in the Market-place

When they came to the market-place they found a dense crowd of
sympathizers watching pityingly the hangman’s cart, in which lay William
of Cloudeslee, bound hand and foot, with a rope round his neck. The sheriff
and the justice stood near the gallows, and Cloudeslee would have been
hanged already, but that the sheriff was hiring a man to measure the outlaw
for his grave. “You shall have the dead man’s clothes, good fellow, if you
make his grave,” said he.
Cloudeslee’s courage was still undaunted. “I have seen as great a marvel ere
now,” quoth he, “as that a man who digs a grave for another may lie in it
himself, in as short a time as from now to prime.”
“You speak proudly, my fine fellow, but hanged you shall be, if I do it with
my own hand,” retorted the sheriff furiously.
Now the cart moved a little nearer to the scaffold, and William was raised
up to be ready for execution. As he looked round the dense mass of faces
his keen sight soon made him aware of his friends. Adam Bell and Clym of
the Cleugh stood at one corner of the market-place with arrow on string,
and their deadly aim bent at the sheriff and justice, whose horses raised
them high above the murmuring throng. Cloudeslee showed no surprise, but
said aloud: “Lo! I see comfort, and hope to fare well in my journey. Yet if I
might have my hands free I would care little what else befell me.”

The Rescue

Now Adam said quietly to Clym: “Brother, do you take the justice, and I
will shoot the sheriff. Let us both loose at once and leave them dying. It is