Part 12

They first took out of their ship the table of silver and the holy vessel, and Sir Percival and Sir Bors went before, and Sir Galahad behind. At the city gate they saw a crooked old man. Then Sir Galahad called him and bade him help bear the heavy table.

“Truly,” said the old man, “for ten years I have not been able to walk without crutches.”

“Care not,” said Sir Galahad. “Rise up and show thy good will.”

On getting up he found himself whole as he ever was; so he ran and took hold with Sir Galahad. At once the report spread that a cripple had been cured by a strange knight that had entered the city.

The three knights then returned to the water and brought Sir Percival’s sister into the spiritual place, and buried her richly as a king’s daughter ought to be.

When the king of the city, who was called Estorause, saw the three comrades he asked them who they were and what they brought upon the table of silver, and they told him the truth of the Holy Grail. Now the king was a tyrant of heathen birth, and he took them and put them in prison in a deep hole.

At the year’s end King Estorause fell sick and knew that he would die; then he sent for the three knights and asked pardon for what he had done, and they forgave him freely, and so he died.

When the king was dead all the city was disheartened and knew not who might be their king. As they were in council there came a voice that bade them choose the youngest of the three knights. So they made Sir Galahad king with the assent of all the people of the city.

His first act was to have made a chest of gold and precious stones to cover the holy vessel, and every morning the three comrades came to the palace where it was kept and said their devotions.

_The Passing of Sir Galahad, The End of Sir Percival, and the Return of Sir Bors to Camelot_

Now, after Sir Galahad had been king a year, the three friends rose early, as was their custom, and came to the palace and saw the holy vessel and a man kneeling there, who had about him a great company of angels.

He called Sir Galahad and said, “Come forth, good and faithful servant, and thou shalt see what thou hast much desired to see.”

Then Sir Galahad began to tremble greatly, for he knew his time had come.

“Now,” said the good man, “knowest thou who I am?”

“Nay,” said Sir Galahad.

“I am Joseph of Arimathea, whom our Lord sent here to bear thee fellowship; for thou art like me more than any other in two things. One is, thou hast seen the Holy Grail; and the other is, thou hast been a blameless knight as I am.”

When he had said these words, Sir Galahad went to Sir Percival and Sir Bors and kissed them and commended them to God, and said, “Salute me to my father, Sir Launcelot, as soon as ye see him and bid him remember this unstable world.”

He then kneeled before the table and prayed, and suddenly his soul departed and a great company of angels bore his soul up to heaven. And his two friends saw a hand take the holy vessel and bear it up to heaven. Since then no man has ever been so bold as to say that he had seen the Holy Grail.

* * * * *

When Sir Percival and Sir Bors saw Sir Galahad dead, they sorrowed as much as ever did two men, and if they had not been good men they might easily have fallen into despair; and the people of the city sorrowed with them.

As soon as Sir Galahad was buried, Sir Percival retired to a hermitage outside the city and Sir Bors was always with him. Thus Sir Percival lived a year and two months, and then passed out of this world, and Sir Bors buried him by his sister and Sir Galahad in the spiritual place.

Now, when Sir Bors saw that he was alone in a far country, as far away as Babylon, he took his armor and departed from Sarras and entered a ship, and so at last came to the realm of Britain and to Camelot where King Arthur was. On his return there was great rejoicing at the court, for they thought that he was dead, he had been so long out of the country.

Then King Arthur sent for the best clerks to make a chronicle of the adventures of the good knights. Sir Bors told of Sir Percival and his sister, and of Sir Galahad and the Holy Grail. Sir Launcelot told what he had seen; and all the tales were written in great books and put in the armory at Salisbury.

Sir Bors said to Sir Launcelot, “Sir Galahad, your son, saluted you by me, and after you, King Arthur and all the court, and so did Sir Percival; for I buried them with mine own hands in the far city of Sarras. Also, Sir Launcelot, Sir Galahad bids you remember this unstable world, as ye promised when ye were together more than half a year.”

“That is true,” said Sir Launcelot; “now I trust to God his prayer shall avail me.”

Then Sir Launcelot put his arms about Sir Bors and said, “Gentle cousin, you are welcome to me, and all that ever I may do for you and yours, you shall find me ready at all times, while I have life, and this I promise you faithfully, and never to fail you: and know well, gentle cousin, Sir Bors, that you and I will never separate while our lives shall last.”

“Sir,” said he, “I will as ye will.”

* * * * *

“Sir Galahad was not the only knight who found the Holy Grail,” added the Story Lady after a pause.

“But I thought from the story,” said Mary Frances, “that Sir Galahad and his two comrades were the only ones who were permitted to find it.”

“No, there were others,” said the Story Lady. “Your own American poet, James Russell Lowell, tells of another, Sir Launfal, who found the Grail in a place he had never thought to look.”

The Story People listened eagerly, for they liked the tale of Sir Galahad so much that they were ready for more; so the Story Lady told the tale of a fourth knight who succeeded.

XXVI

HOW SIR LAUNFAL ACHIEVED THE HOLY GRAIL

ONCE upon a time there was a young knight, Sir Launfal, who had read of the success of Sir Galahad, and of the failure of many of the knights of the Round Table. This made him very eager to try his fortune; so he vowed that some day he too would set out in quest of the Holy Grail.

Now, Sir Launfal lived in a cold gray castle in the North Country, whose gates were never opened save to knights or ladies of high degree, who were as proud and haughty as himself.

One beautiful June day, Sir Launfal was in the happy mood which often comes to people after the passing of a cold, bleak winter; a day when it seems easy for the grass to be green, the sky to be blue, and the heart to be brave.

On this lovely day Sir Launfal remembered his vow and called his squire, and said, “Bring me my best armor and my golden spurs and get my horse ready, for to-morrow I shall set out over land and sea in quest of the Holy Grail.”

When the squire brought his shining armor, the knight put it on, and said to himself, “I will never sleep in a bed nor lay my head on a soft pillow till I have performed my vow.”

With that he lay down in the tall grasses by the brook, his golden spurs by his side, to think and plan what he would do. Slowly his eyelids closed; slowly sleep came upon him and he dreamed, and this was his dream.

It is summer. The crows flap their wings and fly by twos and threes overhead in the deep blue sky. The cattle stand in the shallow brook, and the water runs along with a sweet gurgling music. The little birds sing in the branches of the trees as if trying to burst their throats telling of the joy of living. Even the leaves seem to sing on the trees, the earth is so beautiful and gay. But the castle stands encircled by its high walls and deep ditch full of water, proud, haughty and forbidding, untouched by the loveliness round about it.

The drawbridge drops over the water with a surly clang, and through the dark arch across the bridge springs a charger, bearing Sir Launfal, dressed in his gilded armor which gleams brightly in the sun. He is setting forth wherever adventure may lead him in quest of the Holy Grail.

Just as he passes out, he is aware of a beggar who sits crouching by the dark gate. The beggar is a leper; he holds out his hands and begs an alms. The sight of so much misery fills the young knight with loathing, but he scornfully tosses him a piece of gold and rides on.

Strange to say, the beggar leaves the gold on the ground and says, “Better turn away empty from the rich man’s door, and take the poor man’s crust and his blessing, than such a worthless gift as that.”

Now the scene changes; it is winter. There are no leaves on the bushes and trees. The bare boughs rattle shudderingly as the winds sweep through them. The brook is frozen over and the cattle are huddled in their stalls. A single crow sits high up in a tree-top in the wintry sunlight, and the cold snow covers the ground.

At the castle gate stands a bent old man, worn out and frail. The wind rustles through his wiry gray hair, and blows through his ragged clothing. He peers eagerly through the window slits at the joyous scene within, for it is Christmas time, and then turns away.

The bent old man is Sir Launfal. After many weary years he has returned to his castle disappointed, for he has not found the Holy Grail, and another heir who thinks him long dead rules in his place. He sinks down by the gate and his mind wanders. He sees again the scenes of the desert, the camels as they pass over the hot sands, the vain search of the caravan for water, and then the slender necklace of grass about the little spring as it leaps and laughs in the shade.

Suddenly he hears a voice. “For Christ’s sweet sake I beg an alms.”

Sir Launfal is startled and looks around him. There at his side he sees the leper cowering, more wretched, more miserable, more loathsome than before. But he does not look at him in scorn this time. Instead, he says, “I will share with you the little that I have, for in giving to you I shall be giving to Him who has given so much for me.”

So he divides his crust of coarse bread and gives half to the beggar, and he goes to the brook, breaks open the ice, and gives him a drink of water from his wooden bowl.

Then suddenly a light shines round about the place, and the leper no longer crouches at his side, but stands a glorified figure who says:

“Lo, it is I, be not afraid! In many climes, without avail, Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail; Behold, it is here--this cup which thou Did’st fill at the streamlet for me but now; This crust is my body broken for thee, This water His blood that died on the tree.

* * * * *

Not what we give, but what we share, For the gift without the giver is bare; Who gives himself with his alms feeds three, Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me.”

Sir Launfal awoke, sat up and rubbed his eyes, and looked about him. Here were the tall grasses, the brook, the cattle, just as he had left them when he went to sleep and dreamed. He was not in rags and tatters, but was a young knight clad in gleaming armor, his spurs at his feet. It was not winter, but a beautiful June day, with birds flying about, singing songs of gladness, and cattle browsing in the meadows.

Sir Launfal quickly arose and made his way into the great hall of the castle where every one met him with surprise.

“Why, sir knight,” said his sister, “we thought by now you would be far on your journey in quest of the Holy Grail.”

“I have found it,” cried Sir Launfal, “here at my castle gate!”

Then he laid aside his arms and said to his squire, “Hang these idle weapons upon the walls and let the spiders weave their webs about them. Whoever would find the Holy Grail must wear another sort of armor--the armor of unselfish kindness.”

Now, the castle gates stand wide open and those in need are as welcome there as the birds in the elm-tree’s branches. No matter what the weather outside, it is summer in the castle the year round, for hearts are happy in giving and sharing the great blessings there bestowed; and the happiest of all is the good knight himself.

* * * * *

“So you see, Sir Launfal found the Holy Grail, and he did something even better,” said the Story Lady as she finished the tale; “he showed others how to find it.”

THE STORIES OF THE FOURTH DAY

MUSIC BEWITCHED.--ANN CATCHES A THIEF.--JOHN AND MARGARET PATON AMONG SAVAGES.--THE STRANGE GUEST.--ROBERT OF SICILY.--THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY.--YOUR FLAG AND MY FLAG.

THE STORIES OF THE FOURTH DAY

XXVII

MUSIC BEWITCHED

WHEN all the Story People were assembled, the Story King in his place, Mary Frances in the blue velvet chair beside the Story Queen, the Ready Writer with pen upraised, the Story Lady began:

“To-day we have six short stories. The first is about a school boy named Bob, and how he conquered his worst enemies.”

* * * * *

_Bob’s Three Foes_

Thud! thud! thud! “Hit him in the eye!” “Knock the pipe out of his mouth!” “Ha! ha! there goes his nose! I hit him that time!”

These dreadful sounds seemed to say that some barbarous piece of cruelty was going on; but the victim was only a snow-man, which the boys of Strappington School had set up in their playground. Truth to tell, the snow-man did not like it much, but boys cannot be expected to understand the feelings of a snow-man, so he bore it very patiently, and when one snowball came in each eye, and a third in his mouth, he never spoke a word or flinched a muscle.

But how was the schoolmaster to know that it was only a snow-man? And what was more natural than that he should peep over the playground wall to see what was going on? And how was little Ralph Ruddy to know that the schoolmaster was there? And how was he to know that the snowball which was meant for the snow-man’s pipe would land itself on the schoolmaster’s nose? Oh, the horror that seized upon the school at that dire event! and the dead silence that reigned in that playground! For those were the good old times of long ago when anything that went wrong was set right with a birch rod. Little Ralph Ruddy knew only too well what was coming when the angry schoolmaster ordered him into the schoolroom.

The snow-man, of course, was left in the playground all alone. He saw the boys troop indoors and heard some angry words and some cries of pain and saw poor little Ralph thrust into the cold playground, and heard the door slam behind him, and stared without once turning his head or blinking his eyes, while the little fellow sat on the snowy doorstep, with a knuckle screwed into each eye; and indeed the good snow-man himself felt half inclined to cry, only the tears froze inside before they got out of his eyes. So he couldn’t.

When the bell rang at four o’clock, the boys came out, and among them Bob Hardy, the son of a poor farm laborer.

“A cruel shame I call it,” muttered Bob, “to whip a little chap like that, and then shut him out in the cold. I told him Ralph Ruddy never meant to do it, and then he caned me as well. A real brute I call him, and I’ll pay him out, too. I declare I’ll break his bedroom windows this very night, and let him try how he likes the winter wind!”

And Bob meant to do it, too. He climbed out of the cottage window when all were asleep, and made his way down to the schoolhouse by moonlight, with a pocketfull of stones, and climbed the wall of the playground, and stood there all ready to open fire, when a voice startled him, a sort of shivering whisper.

“Better not, Bob! Better wait a bit!” said the voice.

Bob dropped the stone and looked about, but there was no one near except the snow-man shining weirdly in the pale moonlight. However, the words, whoever spoke them, set Bob a thinking, and instead of breaking the schoolmaster’s windows, he went home again and got into bed.

That was in January, and when January was done February came, as happens in most years. February brought good fortune--at least Bob’s mother said so, for she got a job as charwoman at the squire’s, for which she was well paid.

It did not turn out so very well, though, after all, for the butler said she stole a silver spoon, and told the squire so; and if the butler could have proved what he said, the squire would have sent her to prison; only he could not, so she got off, and Bob’s mother declared that she had no doubt the butler took the spoon himself.

“All right,” said Bob to himself, “I’ll try the strength of my new oaken stick across that butler’s back.”

And he meant it, too, for that very evening he shouldered his cudgel and tramped away to the big house. And when he got there the door stood wide open, so in he walked.

Now there hung in the hall the portrait of a queer old lady in a stiff frill and a long waist, and an old-fashioned hoop petticoat; and when Bob entered the house what should this old lady do but shake her head at him! To be sure there was only a flickering lamp in the entry, and Bob thought at first it must have been the dim light and his own fancy, so he went striding through the hall with his cudgel in his hand.

“Better not, Bob!” said the old lady. “Better wait a bit!”

“Why, they won’t let me do anything!” grumbled Bob; but he went home without thrashing the butler, all the same.

That was in February, you know. Well, when February was done, March came, and with it came greater ill-fortune than ever; for Bob’s father was driving his master’s horse and cart to market, when, what should jump out of the ditch but old Nanny Jones’s donkey, an ugly beast at the best of times, and enough to frighten any horse; but what must the brute do on this occasion but set up a terrific braying, which sent Farmer Thornycroft’s new horse nearly out of his wits, so that he backed the cart and all that was in it--including Bob’s father--into the ditch. A pretty sight they looked there, for the horse was sitting where the driver ought to be, and Bob’s father was seated, much against his wish, in a large basket full of eggs, with his legs sticking out one side and his head the other.

Of course Farmer Thornycroft did not like to lose his eggs--who would?--for even the most obliging hens cannot be persuaded to lay an extra number in order to make up for those that are broken; but for all that Farmer Thornycroft had no right to lay all the blame on Bob’s father, and stop two shillings out of his week’s wage. So Bob’s father protested, and that made Farmer Thornycroft angry, and then, since fire kindles fire, Bob’s father grew angry too, and called the farmer a cruel brute; so the farmer dismissed him, and gave him no wages at all.

We can hardly be surprised that when Bob heard of all this he felt a trifle out of sorts, but the desire for vengeance which he felt could hardly be justified. He went pelting over the fields, and all the way he went he muttered to himself:

“A cruel shame I call it, but I’ll pay him out; I mean to let his sheep out of the pen, and then I will just go and tell him that I’ve done it.”

Now, the field just before you come to Farmer Thornycroft’s sheep-pen was sown with spring wheat, and they had put up a scarecrow there to frighten the birds away. The scarecrow was very much down in the world--his coat had no buttons and his hat had no brim, and his trousers had only a leg and a half--his well-to-do relations in the tailors’ windows would not have cared to meet him in the street at all. But even the ragged and unfortunate have their feelings, and the scarecrow was truly sorry to see Bob scouring across the field in such a temper; so just as Bob passed him, he flapped out at him with one sleeve, and the boy turned sharply round to see who it was.

“Only a scarecrow,” said he, “blown about by the wind,” and went on his way. But as he went, strange to say, he heard, or thought he heard, a voice call after him, “Better not, Bob! Better wait a bit!”

So Bob went home again and never let the sheep astray after all, but he thought it very hard that he might not punish either the schoolmaster, or the butler, or the farmer.

_Father Pan’s Revenge_

Now the folk that hide behind the shadows thought well of Bob for his self-restraint, and they determined that they would work for him and make all straight again; so when Bob went down to the river side next day, and took out his knife to cut some reeds for “whistle-pipes,” Father Pan breathed upon the reeds and enchanted them.

“What a breeze!” exclaimed Bob; but he knew nothing at all of what had in reality happened.

Bob finished his pan-pipes, and trudged along and whistled on them to his heart’s content. When he got to the village he was surprised to see a little girl begin to dance to his tune, and then another little girl, and then another. Bob was so astonished that he left off playing and stood looking at them, open-mouthed, with wonder; but so soon as ever he left off playing, the little girls ceased to dance; and as soon as they had recovered their breath they began to beg him not to play again, for the whistle-pipes, they were sure, must be bewitched.

“Ho! ho!” cried Bob, “here’s a pretty game; I’ll just give the schoolmaster a turn. Come, that will not do him any harm, at any rate!”

Strange to say, at that very moment the schoolmaster came along the street.

“Toot! toot! toot! tweedle, tweedle, toot!” went the pan-pipes, and away went the schoolmaster’s legs, cutting such capers as the world never looked upon before. Gayly trudged Bob along the street, and gayly danced the schoolmaster. The people looked out of their windows and laughed, and the poor schoolmaster begged Bob to leave off playing.

“No, no,” answered Bob; “I saw you make poor little Ralph Ruddy dance with pain. It is your turn now.”

Just then the squire’s butler came down the street. Of course he was much puzzled to see the schoolmaster dancing to the sound of a boy’s whistle, but he was presently more surprised to find himself doing the very same thing. He tried with all his might to retain his stately gait; but it was all of no use, his legs flew up in spite of himself, and away he went behind the schoolmaster, following Bob all through the village.

The best sight was still to come; for the tyrannical Farmer Thornycroft was just then walking home from market in a great heat, with a big sample of corn in each of his side-pockets, and turning suddenly round a corner, went right into the middle of the strange procession and caught the infection in a moment. Up flew his great fat legs, and away he went, pitching and tossing, and jumping and twirling, and jigging up and down like an elephant in a fit.

How the people laughed, to be sure, standing in their doorways and viewing this odd trio! It was good for them that they did not come too near, or they would have been seized with the fit as well. The schoolmaster was nearly fainting, the butler was in despair, and the perspiration poured down the farmer’s face; but that mattered not to Bob; he had promised himself to take them for a dance all round the village, and he did it; and, at length, when he had completed the tour, he stopped for just one minute, and asked the schoolmaster whether he would beg Ralph Ruddy’s pardon, and the schoolmaster said he would if only Bob would leave off playing. Then he asked the farmer if he would take his father back and pay him his wages, and the farmer said he would; and finally he asked the butler if he would give up the spoon that he had stolen, and confess to the squire that Bob’s mother had nothing to do with it, but the butler said, “Oh, no, indeed!”