WHEN Aglovale came to himself he was resting in a world too bright and fair for him to remember. He knew not that where he fell there he still lay, nor that the night he woke from was some days long.
In mild lucent shade he lay, for the place was all tented in from eaves to wattling; soft he lay upon dried clover, with pillow of hops and covering of scarlet; like a child he lay, helpless and untroubled, content to perceive without understanding.
Overhead ran a rustle and patter of falling leaves, and light shadows went dancing down the slant of sun-soaked cover. The shadow of a bird perched sharp and small, and sharp and small to hear he trimmed his bill. Came a swell of wind, and burst open to him a vivid world, sun-struck and merry, with yellow leaves racing and spinning in gusts. Across the field moved a lady fair and slender, bending to cull simples as she went.
His eyes closed to rest, and opened to another day. He beheld the lady beside him, and she seemed to him like an habitant of a purer world than ours. Shadowless under the translucent cover she stood; blond hair set a lightness about her head; her quiet, serious eyes shed peace upon him; with the sign of the cross she gave salutation, naming him Knight Misericors. Then she took and served him with a fragrant bitter drink, strong of fennel. Purple flowers, the crocus of autumn, lay amid grey folds, dropping on his pillow as she gave him to drink. There was no recognition in her eyes, yet faintly some memory of her stirred. He closed his eyes to better it, and sank again to profound sleep.
King Bagdemagus' daughter, looking upon that visage all bruised and disfigured, with the hawk likeness battered out, and pondering the achievement of signal goodness, knew not
here Sir Aglovale de Galis, that worst friend of Sir Meliagraunce, her wild, unhappy brother, him she had almost hated in her gentle heart. So, her ministration accomplished, she blessed him to God as he slept, and traced the holy sign
upon his scarred brow, and kissed him thereupon as simply
and purely as may the blessed in fellowship. Then she departed to go bury her slain father. That story is not here.
When Aglovale woke it was to evening sunlight, and there beside the tressel that propped his bed sat Hew on the crazy green steps; and there at large in the open went Favel browsing. Time and space closed in, and he knew himself still in the lap of the old world.
The miracle of grace remained to him without amazement; profound peace kept his heart. He was not ashamed any more, nor hated the mercy he had done, nor cared though men should scorn. And as in contemplation, rapt above process of thought, he was satisfied, soft and dear stole in more perfect understanding of his brother. Like the tender, tremulous point of Hesperus breasting the glow of heaven, stood Percivale, amid his peace, constant, diffident, sure to approve him. The hymn of the child and the prayer of Percivale drifted from the past. "Fairest Lord Jesu, Ruler of all nature, take Thou my heart! Thou who hast called me to forsake my brother, Thee do I worship, fairer than all lights that heaven can boast."
Verily, in the spirit he unawares had followed after Percivale, and nighing the feet of our fair Lord Jesu God, in the spirit there found him. Like Percivale, renouncing the claims of blood and affection, obedient in faith, he had turned and not done that which was right in his own eyes. His reward was with him in this world. For the miracle of grace remained sure to him, though all delusion wrought of natural accidence pa**ed; the literal marvel fell away lightly, as falls from the growing bud the sheath that has served its turn.
For right so came the boy Hew, timid and eager, and with his simple prate he by degrees filled out the blank overpast to the best of his knowledge. Of the noble lady he told, her goodness and charity, how Heaven-sent she appeared and a**ured his recovery from deep trance, and purveyed that fair cover in place of rotten rick-cloth. How by the mercy of God he had been knocked senseless through the giving of a rust-eaten spike, and so had lain dark till after the night of fire. Yea so! how there was now no roof to lay him under; for that same night fire took hold on the mill and swept off the thatch, and he therein might have come to perish had not God taken keep of his head otherwise.
Then as Sir Aglovale held still saying nothing, the boy, weeping, spoke for the old man in his unhappiness, who was
too sorry and ashamed to come near unbidden.
"Go bring him," said Aglovale; and lying alone he saw above his head the carven rood replaced, and meditated on the miracle of grace within his heart pa**ing sweet and sure.
Came the old man in crazy extremes of remorse. Sir Aglovale spoke peace and touched him; still he maundered pitifully; now saying that the wrath of God burnt his roof from him since he denied it to such an one; now saying that sure his poor roof had been spared of God had but such an one rested beneath it; for he was not as knights are, bloody and vengeable, but meek and merciful out of reason.
"Cease," said Sir Aglovale, "for you charge God foolishly." Then he sighed, and said, "With all our foolish presumptions may Heaven have patience."
In due time he came to hear how Sir Agravaine also presumed foolishly; for the youth confessed how he had sped the deceit as to aid above mortal means. He chafed and rebuked.
"I charge you speak not again on a matter that concerns you not, lest haply you speak lies unaware. And I counsel you if ever you meet these knights again, clear your deceit; but take heed you name me not."
"Sir, I know not their names."
"Well!" said Aglovale; "if that be so, well! I leave you your excuse." Then he asked, "Who told you my name?"
"Sir, have I uttered your name?" stammered Hew.
"Who told you my name?"
"I knew you again, Sir Aglovale. Not at first. But seeing that shirt next your skin, and under your shirt what I saw, then I knew you. Yea, sir, I am that unlucky wight that you cursed so, that was witness would to God I had never seen."
Sir Aglovale turned away his head, and Hew crept away disheartened, for his worship and his dread were equal and very great. The blind woman came to serve in his stead. She ventured a humble petition: Would the noble knight put his hand on the child and bless him for his comfort.
"Good woman, small comfort lies in blessing of mine."
"Sir, he complains that once you did curse him horribly; and sooth he has gone amiss sadly since."
She took up tale from the beginning. When her man turned his life, he vowed that this grandchild, the last of his stock, should be put young to a religious life; and when the boy was but ten years of age, he was taken and given up to God; and maintenance for old age was also bestowed away with him their natural prop. Alas! she said, some of his worldly wits her good man left behind him in the quag. Yearly the boy visited them again, but this year he returned out of season and refused return.
"Came he without licence?"
She began to whimper: said she made bold to think he ought not to be enforced to religious life against his will; said he was hardly used for no fault; he was young, tender, soft-hearted, open to horror; and horror had come upon him in such sort that his mind was possessed in dreams with terrors of Hell, so that he could not sleep peaceably. And the Prior, a hard man, ordained whipping for his cure, till he could endure no longer, but privily forsook his place and came away.
"Good woman," said Sir Aglovale, "I think as you do, this is some concern of mine. I promise you to do what I can for remedy."
So the fond woman, deeming he meant intercession with the stern Prior, took lightly his bidding to Hew, who, taking up that presumption, came and readily proffered and promised to amend his fault as Sir Aglovale should order.
But the kindness of Sir Aglovale looked another way. Plain he read the lack of honesty in the poor youth's admission of his folly and cowardice.
Said he: "I will well to aid you. There is but one way, and that you should know as well as I can tell you: go hence straightway, return again and submit yourself to the Prior."
"But, sir," panted Hew, "he will have me whipped without mercy."
Said Sir Aglovale, grim, "I do hope so, as you deserve it. And I do know you are stout enough, for so I found you."
Said Hew presently, "Yea so he was, but that was no remedy to cure him to peace."
"You say sooth," said Sir Aglovale. "It is no remedy to a spirit diseased. But thus shall you do for your own cure: pray you nightly for us whom Maker God has the heart to damn that He make us also heart to be damned in His worship. An you pray so, honestly and perfectly, that craven spirit which is devil's scum will no more trouble your rest."
But Hew, even as he stood there considering this saying, was dimly aware of the source and stand of this counsel; and he knew that then and there that craven spirit was stricken out of him.
"I go," he said.
Then Sir Aglovale taught him a message to the Prior: that he purposed here to set up a religious house, and prayed and required his immediate presence for counsel and order. Then he bade him mount Favel and be speedy.
So Hew departed; and by the time he came again with the Prior, Sir Aglovale was mended of wounds, bruises, and disjointing. But the hawk-look was gone from his face, and he fought left-handed never more.
The Prior rode his mule, but Hew came afoot, for Breuse Saunce Pitie had met them by the way and had taken Favel.
Said Hew ruefully, "Indeed, I could not then lightly avoid him and flee, being, sir, in no good case for riding at that time by your favour." And that good hard man the Prior confirmed his excuse.
Now hereby shortly Sir Aglovale came to be stinted of further quest.
So soon as he had ordained and authorized all as he would
with the Prior, he made for Breuse Saunce Pitie to recover Favel, and by him was shamefully taken and imprisoned. For he overcame Sir Breuse, who lightly yielded, and, like the fox he was, promised to make good his loss of Favel, saying that good horse was done for, broken-backed of a recent encounter. So, with a show of straight dealing and of deference, he brought Sir Aglovale to choose from his stables,
where fed the best horses in the realm of Logris. There sound in hide and limb stood Favel. Sir Aglovale turned upon the cheat, set foot on a trap prepared, and fell down a shaft into a cave underground.
There he wore out all the rest of the year sworn to the Holy Quest, and many a day on. Cut off from the light of day, from sun and rain and all that grows, from human fellowship, alone with himself, with life past to brood upon, with no present hope, no pleasant play of the senses to shutter the issue from this life to another, thus for a year he lived entombed. The measure of a day went by the pangs of hunger; the run of the seasons he told by cold more or less rigorous.
Yet even in these conditions the miracle of grace remained to him; the devils of solitude did him no harm; the blessing of untroubled sleep never forsook him; he could lift his heart in contemplation; he could spread his mind to the wonder of great truths; resignation quickened and rose ardent as an homage rendered; and ever fields of rare remembrance, sweet
and fresh, were close about him; and dear and constant held his belief in communion of heart with Percivale.
Far off in the city of Sarras, Percivale and his two fellows were in like case; they, too, lay imprisoned in a dark hole. But such grace had they of our Lord that He sent them there the Holy Grail to sustain them, and so were they fed and made glad. And at the end of that imprisonment they came forth to glory and worship, as my most dear Master tells.
Not so Sir Aglovale. At the end of his imprisonment he came forth to another lot.