NOW comes the telling how Aglovale in the great Quest was near destroyed, and how he was tempted to vengeance.
He was come among fens east of the Waste Lands. A youth made up to him, and asked his aid for the love of God, and for his knightly vows; and when Aglovale promised and went with him, lo! naught higher was to do than to take up a poor woman, aged and blind, and carry her across a mile of quag.
"Well," said Aglovale, grim, "I will do my best by you both," and forthwith taught the youth thoroughly he should not to paltry ends so invoke God and his betters; and then he took up the woman, she whimpering.
"There, peace!" panted the youth, sturdily; and with a wry grin, "As I said, one way or another, my back could serve to get you home. So 'tis all one; another way this; but a shorter."
"Good speed," said Aglovale, "to a man worth the making," and the youth stepped out before him at his tallest.
The quaking green let down the feet deep to the roots of the rushes. Then came exchanges of sodden turf and water, black and slimey. Over foul or firm the guide trod confidently his narrow way. Most times, he said, the path held good enough, save here and there; but now a broken dyke above had let down an overcharge. He showed how the path was staked out
at dangerous places, where underfoot, he said, sheaves of cut
rushes were piled and matted against the s**ing mud below,
woven from side to side with growing reeds.
Beyond the quag, where the ground rose firmer, lay a fair sheet of water, closed by a screen of grey willow and poplar. At the tail stood a little mill. Here Aglovale put down his charge, who lowly commended him to Heaven for his reward. The youth, comely behaved, to set him on his way, went by him through the willows to the head of the water. On a raft was the miller, an old man stone deaf, spreading nets below the bank. There Aglovale dismissed him, and turned into a green ride.
A rude shrine hard by drew his heart, that was heavy then beyond custom. Upon crazy posts it was reared from flooding,
and to keep back cattle a wattled fence enclosed it. The damp
of the place had greened the Christ on the rood, the thatch above, and all the planks save patches where foot and knee
had pressed. Aglovale stayed, and mournfully gazed on the
image of his Lord. Cried his heart: Fairest Lord Christ, shall I never be called to any hard thing for the love of Thee!
Came a clank of steel. So loud rained the noise of poplar leaves, he doubted his ears; but soon he could espy under the
boughs two knights at watch, who, upon his sighting, broke
from cover and set forward against him with levelled spears.
Hastily Aglovale made ready, and met the foremost so equally
that both spears flew; and as the second came after, he avoided the spear, caught him by the helm as he pa**ed, and pulled him from the saddle.
"Foul fighters," he cried, and trampled him down without scruple, till the first returned furiously to a**ail him. Soon the
second, mounted again, joined. Aglovale cried shame; they answered never, but gave hard strokes ; and like hunting wolves they kept to him as he spurred and wheeled in vain to take them apart. Up and down the battle drove till under the
poplars by the water they pressed him close, and one caught
his revenge, pulling him down from the saddle and trampling
over him in turn.
He was hard to vanquish yet, and rose fighting to his feet.
"Light down, coward knights, or I hough your beasts."
Neither answered, nor called on him to yield. On foot they came against him together, and gave him no rest. He was wounded and breathless, but fierce and ready still, when a cunning stroke sent his sword leaping in air. It lodged overhead in the boughs. Before he could plead, he was beaten down, stunned.
Spoke one to the other then, " He is not slain. Make we an end quickly."
From the prostrate man he pulled off the helm. "This is not Sir Percivale," he cried, "but black." He turned the face to view, and cursed. "This is Sir Aglovale."
Aglovale, coming to his senses, heard one say, "I began to doubt. His left-hand work was too strong to be Sir Percivale's."
Then the other laughed, "Truly, I was never so loth to end an enemy. His living did all so blemish his house."
Up he started to his feet. "Now I know you. Murderers, felons! You are Lot's sons, Gaheris and Agravaine."
With his empty fists he struck frantically. Suddenly he gripped Agravaine, and staggered him backward some paces. Gaheris cried warning, and sprang to rescue, seeing that the desperate man made for the water, there to take one foe with him to d**h. His stroke was in vain: the struggling pair lost footing on the turf, and fell, locked together on the verge, in such peril that Gaheris put both hands to his brother. Aglovale caught him by the leg, and pulled him down also. Grovelling and sprawling one on another, they turned and heaved, and changed ground. Blows fell, dull blows. It was clownish work; and when it was over and Aglovale lay still, Gaheris himself misliked sight of the disfigurement he had done.
"Hold your hand, brother," said Agravaine. "By God! he shall drown. Give him that he chose with a stone at his neck to boot."
"Well, well," said Gaheris, "get him out of sight," and he turned his back.
They made too sure of their foe. As Agravaine hefted a stone, quick rose Aglovale and ran. Swift to the open ride he fled, and as swift pursued the murderers. Favel left grazing and came to him as with something of human understanding.
The saddle he gained, but no stirrup hold, when Gaheris slashed at the reins. Wounded in the neck, the poor beast reared, snorting, bolt upright, and Aglovale, flung to earth, heard his last hope thud away.
They bound him then; with his own girdles they bound down his arms, and haled him back for his sworn d**h. He did not ask a better, sure he might ask in vain. But pa**ing again the shrine, he hung back.
"You murderers," he said, "as you be Christian men, grant me a little space here to take my leave of this world."
Lightly they showed how truly Christian men they were; for they led him and handed him up the crazy steps, and there they bowed themselves meetly in thanks to Heaven that no hurt was theirs from the battle.
Shocked with wonder and disgust, they knew that Aglovale was weeping. Leaning his battered head to rest on the wooden Christ, he wept, so heavily that he hardly could stay upright.
"This I cannot abide," muttered Gaheris, and claimed the pitious wretch for his end. On the image he saw as it were the wounded side bleeding afresh. He knew the same blood was on his gauntlet. Strangely that rubbed a conscience hard as stone.
Aglovale yielded like a sheep to their leading. Foul of face with bruises, blood, and weeping, as sorry a spectacle he gave his enemies as any they ever had put from the light of the sun. He spoke no more at all, either for curse or prayer, and he cast not any looks of fear or defiance. Only when he was brought to the water, one quick turn he made, and lifted his eyes on all creation round. Then his murderers thrust him down to his knees, and buckled a great stone fast about his neck by the slings of his shield. Half strangled he was as down to the water they launched him to d**h.
Gaheris and Agravaine stood to see the bubbles of life rise and break.
"Enough come hence!" said Gaheris, and took his way hastily. "Would to God," he cried, "we had done this business more cleanly."
Said Agravaine, "Like a wild beast he fought; like a very tame beast he died."
Lo! how the body of Aglovale had not reached its destined grave, nor his soul gone down to Hell!
Two scared watchers, perdue among the rushes, soon as the murderers withdrew, sped out their raft and slunk round to resume their nets, praying for a take great and marvellous. So
as they prayed and drew, the drawlines strained tight, and the
net stakes bent to a heavy weight, and back into light and air came the new sunk body huddled and limp. So quick was the
work that one heard the murderers' voices as he cut away the
stone; and full in sight they rode when a covered bale that was not corn swung aloft for storage in the mill.
Now, on stripping the body for life or d**h, the cilice upon it brought wonder.
"Mercy," shivered the youth, "is here that dreadful body again!" He bared the side, and beheld the wound fresh broken.
Said the deaf miller, "Now leave these dumps! He is yet alive; for see, blood creeps from his wounds."
The first of life that Aglovale knew again, was pain that greatly exceeded what he knew of dying. Sound was unfamiliar; it was the big droning of the wheel below. What human kindness tended him?
"Brose!" he said. Unfamiliar objects rocked his brain, and a figure that was not Brose. "Bennet!" he muttered. "Is it Bennet here?"
"Sir, my name is Hew, he that you taught so hard to-day."
So he knew himself yet in the teeth of the old world.
Now, when Aglovale came to hear how he had been recovered from d**h by these two simple folk, and how they had watched all the villainous work, for false worldly pride he repented hard that any should have seen him weep like a woman in the face of d**h. Alas and fie! his deadly enemies had it to tell among themselves, how, body and soul, one son
of King Pellinore was so lost and overcome.
"Sir," entreated Hew, "be content to lie as you are. This is poor lodging, but safe when we take up the ladder. And for your horse, I have brought it again, and stowed it safe in a covert; so if those murderers repa** they can know nothing."
Yes, he said further, he dreaded their return; for on the flats the water rose, so he knew the dyke had given once more, and by the way they had gone, must they come again.
Often he looked out, and with the last of the daylight saw, far off across the quag, the pair upon horses, white and black.
He told Sir Aglovale, quavering, "So as I said, they do come, but not as they went. Oh, sir, they come in peril of their lives, and know it not."
At that, Aglovale stood up and came to the window; and as he looked out into twilight grey, and saw how his two enemies stood in the treacherous place, for very hate and exultation his heart beat so thick that his knees failed under him and knocked the ground.
"Now the water stands higher than when we crossed," said Hew, low; "and night comes, and they have no guide."
"Think not to go," said Aglovale, and grasped him hard.
"I dare not," he faltered.
A tiny point of blue flame shone as the dusk deepened.
"Look, look! The demon is up for their guide."
In came the old miller. A lighted candle was in his hand, and he came solemn and set it in a socket over the sill, and, kneeling down, prayed aloud on the mercy of God for all poor sinners who went benighted by foul ways. Aglovale started up, and stood away. All the window frame and the shutters, he saw, were rudely blotted with black and white, meant to show the good and the wicked going to their end, and above was the Lamb Almighty. His prayer ended, the old man rose and went thence, indifferent.
Said Hew, "He knows not how fitly he prays. This is according to his custom and his vow. Once he was belated with drink, and yonder demon with the light rose to have him body and soul. In mortal terror then he called on his Maker; and by chance one set a light here in this window, and so by that mark he bore and came alive. And thereafter he altered his life goodly; and thus nightly he lights and pays his devotions. God help us all," said Hew, "from so horrible a life's end."
"Deliver me from hearing such prayers!" said Aglovale, and cursed hard.
"God knows what cause you have so to speak," faltered the youth; "but for no cause will I hear. Were those the wickedest alive, I would I could help their poor bodies in so hideous a strait, for the love of God who died even for the sake of wicked souls."
Then he went. Aglovale staggered to the head of the ladder, softly closed and fastened the trap after him, and came again to the window.
The shades had quite lost him the sight of his enemies, and nothing showed on the blank expanse save the flicker of blue flame, now brisk and clear. Somewhere below he could hear the youth bawling to deaf ears; then outgoings; then a thin, high note that was ceaseless as the old woman wailed prayers.
In him was no grain of pity at all; but cruel hate burnt in him like lust, and he shivered and ached with the pa**ion of it. Had father and brethren not died, himself had cause enough. Gaheris had counselled to hang him, had exacted a grievous penance in lieu. Agravaine had been forward above all, as he knew, with laugh and jest speaking to his discredit, that it might live and not diminish. And him that was a King's son they had pounded, and strangled, and drowned like a churl. And him they had seen weep before d**h. Why had he so wept?
On the sill, under his hands, all black were draughted the devils of the pit. Up the posts ranged black and white, the good and evil, on their ways to the white symbol overhead.
Came a sound out of the night, very faint from a distance. It was the voice of his enemies' distress, a rapture to hear. He reached out, took the candle from its socket, threw it far, and laughed.
Crouched in the darkness, Aglovale groaned and weltered, and bit the wooden sill, as with all his will he tried to forget how he had cried: Ah! fair Lord Christ, shall I never be called to any hard thing for the love of Thee? To cover remembrance, he prayed on the names of father and brothers slain. By villainous murder had they died; their bodies were hacked and pierced on every side. He never had doubted who were the murderers; now, by the practice of these two upon himself, was their way known.
Now and again he heard calls lift, faint and afar. Once a horse squealed.
Lamorak! Lamorak! Durnor! Ah, heart of gold, Durnor!
Ah, fair Lord Christ, this is too hard for me!
Yet after no great while he stood up from his knees, and, pausing neither to look nor listen, hastily made for the ladder.
Groping, he found sacking that he did on for clothing, for he was nearly naked. At the ladder's foot the shocked face of Hew fronted him.
"Haste!" he said, "follow me out with a light!" And quickly Hew, with a flaming pine, overtook him, breathless and amazed. He took the torch, and stepped down to the quag.
"Ah! sir, let be," cried Hew. "Are you possessed? One devil out there is enough."
He dared to cross his path and snatch at the light; failing, he held him with all his might. So weak was Aglovale he could not break away.
"Child, let go," he said. "Let see if I may yet save."
"In the name of God! Save! This cannot be!"
"In the name of God this may be."
Hew kneeled, and held him by the knees.
"Oh, Sir Aglovale, it is vain. You cannot. See how the water lies high. You will perish. Sir, you have escaped d**h that man did contrive; but yonder will a demon contrive your d**h; yonder, dead men rise by night and seek for fellows. Not for all this world would I dare there by night-time."
But Aglovale only cried, "Off! off! In the name of God I go!" and left the youth sobbing and worshipping to the ground.
"To his murderers! What a deed. Oh, mighty goodness! Oh, mighty heart!"
Cried Agravaine in extremity, "A hand! Oh, brother, now or never reach to me. Quick, I am gone."
"Be strong and strive. Heaven grants us help. A light moves hither."
"A demon light. Trust not again."
"Keep heart; a good ruddy light."
"God help you, brother! I cannot last."
"We live or perish both," cried Gaheris, and quitted his floundering horse to make for Agravaine's voice. At every step the quagmire s**ed on him harder. He touched a sunken pile.
"Give voice. I am near with good hold."
"Here. To the neck. Help, help! What draws at my feet! Gaheris, oh, brother, I perish."
Desperate, Gaheris loosed his stay and struggled out. He reached Agravaine's hand, but what force he took to draw him
only served to sink himself the deeper.
So they were, helpless, as the light came near. They could see him that bore it cowled like a monk.
"Haste! For the love of God, help soon, or we are dead men."
How could one save, so weak and drained by the hurts they had given him.
"For the love of God essay," cried Gaheris, "as I shall warn you, to keep your life and ours."
So Aglovale felt for the stakes where Hew had showed them, fixed his pine to flare secure, pushed on to the deeper mire, and soon, by word from Gaheris, put hand on the sunken pile, having but to reach a man's length to meet the other's grasp. There one hand he bound fast to the wood, since all he could lend was a body void of strength. He stretched himself out to the murderers of his house. Gaheris caught his fingers.
Void of strength, in spirit he was utterly ashamed, as overtaken in the practice of treason. With averted head he left the use of his members to them. Their great weight wrung him, his joints started, his wounds gaped and bled at the strain. Body and mind were in dolorous accord. From his hand to his neck they reached their way in turn; with dreadful embraces they reached their way.
Gaheris groped to unbind his left hand. "Mercy! the pains we have cost; this is out of joint. Now, God aid my poor sk**," he said, and deliverly shot home the socket.
Firm standing they made together. No word did Aglovale speak, while the brothers gasped thankings and praise to God,
to him, and to each other.
Said Gaheris distressed, "Credit me that I knew not how hard we used you. I am sorry beyond words. Give here your hand."
He had to get it by force. Gently he handled it and bound it well. He bound it with what he found in his hand a length of stained linen. In wonder he scanned the man hard. No monk; his hood was the doubled corners of a sack, his clothing a beggarly tabard of sackcloth. He made no moan nor answer, and his visage he kept turned to the dark. How he did tremble!
Gaheris, with humid eyes and a troubled voice, complained. "At this expense," he said, "we two have our lives. Begrudge us not so much. God reward your good deed, and show us means to requite you as well."
He could get no answer.
Aglovale took up his torch, and, as the brothers prayed him, lighted them, while with much ado and some risk they went about and recovered their horses. With much ado and some risk then they toiled after him, on the most evil path ever they had traversed.
At the end where the ground rose, suddenly Aglovale quenched the light and took himself away in the darkness. They called after him in vain. One with a boyish voice came in his stead.
"Who calls? Are you men alive?"
Where had gone their guide? they questioned fast.
"I will be your guide," said Hew, "as there is no other."
"What is this! Saw you no man go past? He that carried a light before us over the quag?"
"Over the quag! God forbid that I should see any such. Sirs, what tale is here? Those that go with lights upon the quag are none but demons and dead men."
"Oh me, brother!" said Agravaine. "I begin to doubt. He might not speak nor show his face; and now, I think, the shine of him was part redder than of torchlight.
Said Hew, "Then this is God's truth; he that you saw was none other than a murdered man."
"He was not dead," said Gaheris. "I held him with my arms, and felt him breathe hard. I held his hand, and set his bones. Bodies that rise from the dead cannot be subject to hurt and disjointing."
At that Hew without pretence was excited to weeping.
"What ails the little fool?"
"Ah sir, I am afraid. Here is a miracle of such a sort, I am afraid. Sir, I swear as all of this: country-side will tell you, there is none among them who would go so far to help you as you say one has done."
"Sooth, and no reproach to them," said Agravaine.
While so they argued Aglovale had reached the ladder unseen, and mounted, weary, weak, and confused, to take refuge in quiet and darkness.
He came into light, and there faced him the old miller in a craze of anger.
"Whose dastard trick was this to make darkness? Was it yours?"
He nodded.
"Out, out you go! Ah, villain knight! This day, by the order of God's mercy, you escaped d**h marvellously, and lo! here is spite without mercy in return. Out you go! Wag not at me your head and your hand so! I pity you not, nor fear you. Able enough are you to go to and fro on your own foul mischief. I want no quittance more of you than that you quit this roof. Go gnash your teeth in darkness as the preachers bode. Ah, base knight! those steel casings are the best part of such knighthood as yours. Out, out, I say. This place is mine, and I will have none of you, nor of your gear. There, helm of a damned head! There, shield of a black heart!"
Shield, helm, harness of all pieces, he cast out of window as he railed; and as Aglovale, defenceless, confounded, turned and went, railing he followed him, down to the outer door, and shut it upon him.
Sick and stunned, Aglovale crept away. Sound of distant going came faint, as Hew wiled the knights from his retreat. Then grew up the quiet of night, and all was hush. The willows scarcely stirred overhead as the unhappy outcast dragged on
his painful way, he knew not where. Even the poplars were light at their whispers. Not a ripple lapped. Low down the moon shone, round and large, under a height of motionless
cloud. This was the place of murder.
He began to rock and to mutter, "Ashamed, ashamed. I am utterly ashamed."
The ways of nature and man he had abandoned, and done mercy outrageously. All the world might despise him. Alas, alas! who did countenance him? Nothing but abject shame
answered from within.
He stumbled on a little way, finding his ground. "Here did Sir Gaheris smite me barefaced;" and a little further, "Here did they both together beat me down unarmed;" and still further, "Here did Sir Agravaine trample me." From the poplar shadows he crept along to the open, now glistening misty-white, moon-struck, and dewy. "Here along they brought me again bound me weeping." And no further. "O Lord Christ Jesu look upon me, as Thou knowest my cause for weeping!"
He was come to the poor shrine, and as he tried to mount, near swooning for pain and weakness, his footing slipped and
he pitched to the ground below. There he lay weeping for anguish and despair. Yet Nacien had told him, Dread not that He should turn away and refuse.
"Ah, fair Lord Christ! show me Thy face, even me. It was a hard thing to do. It was hard. Dost Thou not know how hard, and how to serve Thee I did it? Lo, the blood of father and brothers called on me for vengeance. Didst not Thou, bleeding from the rood, bid me to mercy? Lord, look upon me. I am confounded with shame who meant to please Thee. So hard it was to do. Though I be of the lost, show once Thy face to my heart."
Weeping and supplicating, he leaned and kneeled from stair to stair, and came before the holy rood. All dark it hung in shade, denied to his eyes that were dazzled and blind with moonshine and wet.
"Rue on me, O blessed Lover of poor man! Rue on me on me who do love!"
In his pa**ion of despair and desire he started up; he touched the image with head and hand, stronger to importune than to stand.
"Dear God, approve me this once. Comfort me. My Lord, my God!"
Heaven descended as with miracle. In his hold the image moved; the outstretched arm of it parted from the cross, and
from shade extended above him the head of it inclined into light.
"My Lord, my God!" cried Aglovale, and swooned away for perfect bliss as his heart conceived the embrace of divine Love condescending to approve him.