IT happened that on a day King Arthur, wandering from his court, had fought and vanquished a valiant knight, but he himself had been sore wounded. Merlin, coming to his aid, had taken him to a hermit’s cave, and there with many marvellous salves had searched his wounds, so that in three days the king was whole again.
Riding forth together, Merlin led the king deeper and deeper into a wild and desolate country where he had never been before, and where there were no pathways. Arthur looked to and fro over the waste, but saw no sign of man or beast, and no bird flitted or piped. Great gaunt stones stood upright on the hillsides, solitary or in long lines as if they marched, or else they leaned together as if conspiring; while great heaps or cairns of stone rose here and there from the lichen-covered and rocky soil, in which the grass grew weakly in small crevices.
The mists now rose and drifted before them as they rode, the light was low and sallow, and the wind began to whisper shrilly among the great stones, and in the crannies of the cairns.
The king crossed himself, and looked at the white, old, and wrinkled face of Merlin; but the wizard seemed sunk in thought. Then Arthur bethought him that, in case some fiend-shape or wizard-knight should assail him in that desolate waste, he could not defend himself, inasmuch as his sword—the sword he had drawn from the stone—had snapped when he fought the knight, and he had no other weapon with him.
‘Merlin,’ he said, ‘this is a place of ancient death and terror, and if aught should assail us of evil, I have no sword.’
‘For that reason I bring thee here,’ replied Merlin, and would not utter another word.
Then, through the mists, which writhed and twisted as if they were fell shapes that would tear down the passing riders, Arthur became aware that their way was leading downwards, and soon the smell of water rose up to him.
He heard the beat and suck of waves upon a shore, and in a little while the mists cleared as if at a word, and there before him Arthur saw a lonely lake or sea, hedged round with salt-rimed reeds and sedges, and stretching out its waters, dull and leaden-hued, to so great a distance that his eye could see no end.
‘What is this place?’ he asked of Merlin.
‘It is the Lake of the Endless Waters,’ said the wizard.
‘Why bring ye me to this desolate lake in the wilderness?’
‘You shall visit it once more—ere you die!’ replied Merlin. ‘But look you there in the midmost of the lake.’
Looking to where the wizard pointed, Arthur saw a great hand, clothed in white samite, stretched above the lapsing waves, and in its grasp was a long two-handed sword in a rich scabbard.
With that they saw a barge riding over the water, and it came without oars or any sail, and in the prow sat a woman, tall and comely, with a face lovely but sad. A frontlet of gold and pearls was bound about her rich red hair, and her robes, of green samite, fell about her as if they were reeds of the shore.
‘What lady is that?’ said the king.
‘It is the Lady of the Lake,’ said Merlin, ‘and she comes to you. Now, therefore, speak fair to her, and ask that she will give you that sword.’
Then the barge rasped among the reeds where Arthur sat on his horse, and the lady said:
‘Greeting to you, O king!’
‘Greeting, fair damsel!’ replied Arthur. ‘What sword is that which the arm holdeth above the water? I would it were mine, for I have none.’
‘Sir king,’ said the lady, ‘that sword is mine; but if ye will give me a gift when I ask it of you, and will swear an oath to give me back the sword when ye shall be dying, then shall ye have it.’
‘By my faith, I will give ye the gift when ye shall desire, and when I am dying I will truly give back the sword.’
‘Then do you step into this barge and row yourself unto the hand and take from it the sword. And know ye that the name of that sword is Excalibur, and while you keep the scabbard by your side, ye shall lose no blood, be ye never so sore wounded.’
So King Arthur and Merlin alighted, tied their horses to two stunted trees, and went into the barge. The king turned to look to where the tall green lady had stood but a moment before, and marvelled to see that she had vanished.
When they came to the sword which the hand held, King Arthur saw that the water where the hand rose forth was all troubled, and he could see naught. He took the sword by the handle, and the great fingers of the hand opened and then sank. So they came afterwards to the land, and rode on their way to Camelot, and reached it after many days.
When King Arthur entered his hall, and had been welcomed by his knights, the seneschal brought forth a messenger, who had come from King Rience of North Wales, and the man with insolent looks uttered this message:
‘My lord, King Rience, hath but now discomfited and overwhelmed seven kings, and each hath done him homage, and given him for a sign of their subjection their beard clean cut from their chins. And my lord hath caused a rich mantle to be hemmed with these kings’ beards, and there yet lacketh one place. Wherefore my lord hath sent me to demand that ye give him homage and send him thy beard also. Or else he will enter thy lands, and burn and slay and lay waste, and will not cease until he hath thy head as well as thy beard.’
‘Now this is the most shameful message that any man sent to a king!’ said Arthur, ‘and thy king shall rue his villainous words.’ Then he laughed a little grimly. ‘Thou seest, fellow, that my beard is full young yet to make a hem. So take this message back to thy master. If he will have it, he must wait until I grow older; but yet he shall not wait long before he sees me, and then shall he lose his head, by the faith of my body, unless he do homage to me.’
So the messenger departed, and King Arthur set about the ordering of his army to invade the land of Rience.
Later, on a day when the king sat in council with his barons and knights, there came a damsel into the hall, richly beseen and of a fair countenance. She knelt at the feet of the king, and said humbly:
‘O king, I crave a boon of ye, and by your promise ye shall grant it me.’
‘Who are ye, damsel?’ asked the king.
‘My lord, my lady mother hath sent me, and she is the Lady of the Lake.’
‘I remember me,’ said Arthur, ‘and thou shalt have thy boon.’
Whereat the damsel rose and let her mantle fall, that was richly furred, and then they saw that she was girded about the waist with a great sword.
Marvelling, the king asked, ‘Damsel, for what cause are ye girded with that sword?’
‘My lord,’ said the damsel, in distress and sadness, ‘this sword that I am girded withal, doth me great sorrow and remembrance. For it was the sword of him I loved most tenderly in all the world, and he hath been slain by falsest treachery by a foul knight, Sir Garlon, and nevermore shall I be joyful. But I would that my dear love be avenged by his own good sword, which my lady mother hath endowed with great enchantment. And the knight of thine that shall draw this sword shall be he who shall avenge my dead love. But he must be a clean knight, a good man of his hands and of his deeds, and without guile or treachery. If I may find such a knight, he shall deliver me of this sword, out of the scabbard, and with it do vengeance for me.’
‘This is a great marvel,’ said King Arthur, ‘and while I presume not to be such a knight as thou sayest, yet for ensample to my knights will I essay to draw the sword.’
Therewith the king took the scabbard and drew at the sword with all his strength, but in no wise could he make it come forth.
‘Sir,’ said the damsel, ‘ye need not draw half so hard, for lightly shall it come into the hands of him who shall draw it.’
Then the king bade all his knights to attempt this feat, and all tried their best, but it was of no avail.
‘Alas!’ said the damsel in great sadness. ‘And shall my dear love go unavenged, because there is no knight here who shall achieve this sword?’
She turned away through the crowd of knights who stood abashed about her, and went towards the door.
It happened that there was a poor knight in the court of King Arthur, who had been a prisoner for a year and a day, by reason of his having slain a kinsman of the king’s. His name was Sir Balin the Hardy, and he was a good man of his hands, though needy. He had been but lately released from durance, and was standing privily in the hall and saw the adventure of the damsel with the sword. Whereat his heart rose, both to do the deed for the sorrowing maid and because of her beauty and sadness. Yet, being poor and meanly arrayed, he pushed not forward in the press.
But as the damsel went towards the door, she passed him, and he said:
‘Damsel, I pray you of your courtesy to suffer me as well to essay as these knights, for though I be poorly clothed, my heart seemeth fully assured that I may draw the sword, and thy sorrow moveth me.’
The damsel lifted her large sad eyes to him, and she saw he was goodly of form and noble of look, and her heart was stirred.
‘Though ye be poor, worthiness and manhood are not in a man’s rich raiment, and therefore,’ she said with a sorrowful smile, ‘do you essay the sword also, good knight, and God speed you.’
Balin took the sword by the scabbard, and drew it out easily, and when he looked upon the sword it pleased him well.
Then had the king and barons great marvel, but some of the knights had great spite against Balin.
‘Truly,’ said the damsel, ‘this is a passing good knight, and the best man of ye all, and many marvels shall he achieve. But now, gentle and courteous knight,’ she said, ‘give me the sword again.’
‘Nay, this sword will I keep,’ said Balin.
‘Ye are not wise,’ said the maiden sorrowfully. ‘My lady mother sent the sword to find which was the knight the most worthy to rid the world of an evil knight that doeth his foul treacheries and murders by wizardry, but if ye keep the sword it shall work great bane on you and on one you love most in this world.’
‘I shall take the adventure God shall ordain for me,’ said Balin, ‘be it good or ill.’
The damsel looked sadly into his eyes and wept.
‘I am passing heavy for your sake,’ she said. ‘I repent that I have brought this to you, for I see you lying wounded unto death, and I shall not be near to comfort you.’
With that the damsel departed in great sorrow.
Anon Balin sent for his horse and armour, and took his leave of King Arthur, who was almost wroth that he should depart upon a quest that promised but misfortune. He would have him stay with him in his court, but Balin would not, and so departed.
For many days, by lonely ways and through forest drives, Sir Balin fared, seeking for the felon knight Sir Garlon, but nowhere could he get word of him. At length one night, as he made his way to a hermitage by the edge of a thick wood, he saw the arms of his younger brother, Sir Balan, hung upon a thorn before the holy man’s door. Just then Sir Balan came out and saw him, and when he looked on Balin’s shield, which had two crossed swords, he recognised his brother’s device, and ran to him, and they met and kissed each other, and that night they were happy together, for it had been long since that they had parted; and each told the other his adventures.
‘It seemeth, then, that this King Arthur is a right worshipful lord,’ said Balan, when his brother had told him the adventure of the damsel and the sword, ‘but I doubt me he will not withstand King Rience and his host. Already that king hath come into this land and is harrying and burning.’
‘That were great pity,’ said Balin, ‘and I would that I could do some deed to stay the power of Rience, who is evil-minded and of an arrogant nature. I would put my life in any danger to win the love of the great Arthur, and to punish King Rience for his shameful message.’
‘Let us go then to-morrow,’ said Balan, ‘and try our prowess. King Rience lieth at the siege of the castle Terabil, within ten leagues of this place.’
‘I will well,’ said Balin, ‘and if we slay King Rience, his people will go astray and King Arthur shall easily make them yield.’
Next morning early they rode away through the gay woods, drenched with dew, which sparkled where the sunlight lit upon it. Long and lonely was the way, until towards the evening they met with a poor old man on foot, ragged, lame, and dirty, and bearing a great burden. It was in a narrow ride of the forest, and there was but room for one person to pass, and though the brothers were making great speed, since they doubted they had lost their way, they would not ride down the poor man, as many knights would do.
But Balin, with a cheery call, said: ‘Old man, give me thy pack, and do thou climb up and sit behind me. For it is late and lonely that such poor old bones as thine should be abroad.’
The old man, either from fear of the two great knights in their black armour, or from suspicion, mumbled out a few words and refused the offer, while yet he would not budge from the narrow path.
‘Well, then, tell us thy name, old man,’ said Balin, laughing at his obstinacy.
‘At this time I will not tell you,’ croaked the old fellow, stumbling under his pack.
‘I doubt that great pack hath many rich things that never owned thee master,’ said Balan with a laugh.
‘It is full evil seen,’ said Balin, ‘that thou art a true honest man, when thou wilt not tell thy name.’
‘Be that as it may,’ snarled the old man, ‘but I know your name, my lordlings, and why you ride this way.’
‘By the faith of my body, but ye are some wizard if ye know that,’ said Balan mockingly.
‘And who may we be?’ asked Balin. ‘And whither do we ride?’
‘Ye are brothers, my Lords Balin and Balan,’ answered the old man. ‘And ye ride to pull King Rience’s beard. But that ye shall not do, unless ye take my counsel.’
‘Ah!’ cried Balin, ‘I know thee, Merlin! We would fain be ruled by thy counsel, old magician.’
So it came about, with Merlin’s aid, that Balin and Balan came upon King Rience that night with but a small band of his knights, and with a sudden attack out of the dark wood the two brothers seized the king and slew many of his men that tried to save him. And when they had ridden some way towards Camelot with the king, wounded and bound, between them, Merlin vanished from beside them.
Then they rode to Camelot at the dawning, and delivered Rience to the porter at the gate, to be led to King Arthur when he should sit in hall, and the two knights rode away. So, by the capture of King Rience, his host was put to naught, and the king paid his homage to King Arthur, and swore on the sacred relics of the Abbey of Camelot to be his true man while he should live.
At that time Balin could not meet with the felon knight, Sir Garlon, who wrought evil by wizardry, and he and his brother went their different ways seeking adventure. Sir Balin returned to King Arthur and became one of his most valiant knights.
It happened on a day that King Arthur journeyed with his knights from Camelot to London, and he lay in his pavilion in the heat of the day. As he rested he heard the noise of a horse, and looking out of the flap of his tent, he saw a strange knight passing, making great complaint and sorrowing, and with him was a damsel.
‘Abide, fair sir,’ said Arthur, ‘and tell me wherefore you are troubled.’
‘Ye may little amend it,’ answered the knight, and passed on.
Later came Sir Balin and saluted the king, who told him of the strange knight sorrowing as he rode, and the king bade him follow and bring back the knight to him, ‘for,’ said he, ‘the sorrows of that knight were so piercing that I would fain know his grief.’
Sir Balin took horse and lance and rode many miles through the forest, and by evening he came upon the knight and the lady.
‘Sir knight,’ said Balin, ‘ye must come with me unto my lord, King Arthur, for to tell him the cause of your sorrow.’
‘That will I not,’ answered the knight, ‘for it would do me none avail.’
‘Sir, make ready,’ replied Balin, ‘for ye must needs go with me, or else I will fight with you and take you by force.’
‘No heart have I to fight, for all joy of life is dead with me,’ said the knight, ‘but I am on a fierce quest, and ye must be my warrant if I go with you that I be not kept from my quest.’
‘I will gladly warrant you,’ said Balin, and together with the lady they turned back.
‘I fear not to tell you my sorrow,’ said the knight as they rode. ‘I but lately returned from fighting the pagans in the north, and when I came to my father’s hall, men told me that the lady that I loved most tenderly had been robbed away by a villain knight. And as I sorrowed and went forth to seek the knight to slay him, lo, there I saw my lady, who had escaped unscathed from his evil hold. And much joy we made of each other, for we loved each other tenderly. But even as we kissed, there came an arrow through the air and pierced my dear lady to the heart, so that she fell dead in my arms. And there was none to see who shot the arrow, but men said it was the felon knight who had taken my lady, and he had killed her by black magic. So now with this damsel, my dear sister, who was her friend, do I go through the world seeking the invisible knight. And when I find him, with God’s help I will surely slay him.’
The good knight Balin was much moved by the sad story.
‘Ah!’ said he, ‘it is the same fell knight whose death I seek by this good sword. And we will fare together, you and I, and take his evil life when God leads us to him.’
Even as Sir Balin spoke, out of a dark glade by their side came a lance hurtling, as if held in rest by an invisible rider, and while they turned their heads at the sound of its hissing through the air, it pierced the side of the sorrowing knight and stood deep in the wound.
‘Alas!’ cried the knight, falling from his horse, ‘I am slain by the traitorous and wizard knight. His punishment is not for me, sir knight, but I charge you, seek him out and slay him for my sake, and for the sake of my dead lady.’
‘That will I do,’ said Balin, sorrowing, ‘and thereof I make a vow to you and this damsel by my knighthood.’
When Balin had told all to his lord, King Arthur, the king made the knight to be buried in a rich tomb, and on it engraved his sad story, together with his name, Sir Herlew, and that of his lady love, Gwenellen.
Balin and the damsel rode forward the next day and for many days, and ever the lady bore the truncheon of the spear with her by which Sir Herlew had been slain.
Then on a day they lodged at the house of a rich knight named Sir Gwydion, an old grey gentleman, of a sad aspect. When night came, Sir Balin lay sleeping in the hall beside the fire, and suddenly he awoke at the sound of one sorrowing quietly near him. He rose up and went to the pallet and saw it was his host, and he asked him why he mourned in the dark.
‘I will tell you,’ said the old sad knight, ‘and the telling will comfort me. I was but late at a jousting, and there I jousted with a knight that is brother to good King Pellam. And a full evil kinsman is this knight of so good a king. I smote the evil man from his horse twice, and he was full of rage that I, an old man, should overcome him. Therefore by treachery he assailed my son, a young and untried knight, and slew him. And I cannot avenge my dear son, for the evil man goeth invisible. But I pray that I may meet him in a little while.’
‘Is not his name Garlon?’ asked Balin.
‘Ye say right,’ said Sir Gwydion.
‘Ah, I know him,’ replied Balin, ‘and I had rather meet with him than have all the gold of this realm.’
‘That shall we both do,’ said his host. ‘For King Pellam, his brother, king of the land of Holy Hallows, hath made a cry in all this country, of a great feast that shall be in twenty days, and that evil knight, your enemy and mine, shall we see there.’
On the morrow they rode all three towards the town of King Pellam, and when they came within the country of Holy Hallows, Sir Balin saw how fair and happy was the land and its joyful people. Their meadows were rich with grass, the cattle were thriving and sleek, the trees were loaded with fruit and the cornfields full with rich ripe corn.
‘Why doth it seem,’ asked Balin, ‘that this country is the fairest and happiest that ever I saw?’
‘It is for this,’ said Sir Gwydion, ‘that in the Castle of Holy Hallows, whither we wend, King Pellam hath some holy relics of a passing marvellous power, and while he keepeth these his land is rich and happy, and plagues cannot enter it nor murrain, nor can pestilence waste the people.’
When they reached the castle they found a great throng of lords and ladies, and because Sir Gwydion had no lady with him he could not sit at the feast. But Balin was well received and brought to a chamber, and they unarmed him. The squires brought him a festal robe to his pleasure, but he would not suffer them to take his sword.
‘Nay,’ said he, ‘it is my vow that never shall I and my sword be parted, and that vow will I keep or depart as I came.’
So they suffered him to wear it under his robe, and he was set in the hall with his lady beside him. Anon, when the meal was ended and the mead horns were set, Sir Balin asked his neighbour whether there was a knight at that court named Garlon.
‘Yonder he goeth,’ said the knight; ‘he with that dark face and piercing eye. He is the most marvellous knight that is now living, and though King Pellam loveth him dearly, because he is his brother, yet he suffers bitterly the evil magic of Sir Garlon. For that knight rideth invisible, and slays so that none may know how they get their death.’
Sir Balin’s heart rose at these words, and he trembled with his great anger.
‘Ah, well,’ said the good knight. ‘And that is he?’
He considered long within himself what he should do.
‘If I slay him here in this crowded hall,’ he said, ‘I shall surely not escape, and if I leave him now, peradventure I shall never meet with him again, and much evil will he do if he be let to live.’
He could not remove his eyes from Sir Garlon where he walked between the tables, proudly talking and laughing with those he knew, and making soft speeches to ladies, though many showed fear of him, and crossed their fingers while he spoke to them, to fend off the evil of his eyes. Very soon Sir Garlon noticed the fixed, stern look of Sir Balin, and came across to him and flicked his gauntlet across his face.
‘This shall make thee remember me when next thou seest me, knight,’ he said. ‘But thou hadst better do what thou camest for, and fill thyself with mead.’
‘Thou sayest sooth,’ said Balin, and clutched the sword under his robe. ‘Too long hast thou done evil and despite, and now will I do that for which I came.’
Rising, he drew his sword fiercely and swiftly, and cleaved the head of Garlon to the shoulders.
‘Give me the truncheon wherewith he slew thy brother!’ said Balin to the damsel beside him.
From beneath her robe the lady brought forth the broken truncheon, and striding to the slain man, Sir Balin thrust it fiercely into his body.
‘Now,’ cried he aloud, ‘with this lance thou didst treacherously slay a good knight, and for that and all thy other cruel murders have I slain thee.’
With that arose a great outcry, and men ran from the tables towards Sir Balin to slay him, and the foremost of them was King Pellam, who rushed towards him, crying:
‘Thou hast slain my brother when he bore no sword, and thou shalt surely die.’
‘Well,’ said Balin, ‘come and do it thyself.’
‘I shall do it,’ said Pellam, ‘and no man shall touch thee but me, for the love of my brother.’
Pellam snatched an axe from the hands of one standing by, and smote eagerly at Balin; but Balin put his sword between his head and the stroke, and the sword was struck from his hand.
Then, weaponless, Balin dashed through the circle of guests towards a door, looking for a weapon while he ran, but none could he find. King Pellam followed closely behind him, and so they ran from chamber to chamber, and up the narrow stair within the wall, until at the last Balin found that he was near the top of the tower, and thought that now he must surely be slain, for no weapon had he found.
Suddenly he came upon a door, and bursting it open he found himself in a large room marvellously bright and richly dight, and with a bed arrayed with cloth of gold, and one old and white and reverend lying therein. And by the side of the bed was a table of virgin gold on pillars of pure silver, and on it stood a spear, strangely wrought.
Balin seized the spear, and turned upon King Pellam, who stood still in the doorway with terror in his eyes. But, marking naught of this, Balin thrust at him with the spear, and struck it in his side, and King Pellam with a great cry fell to the ground.
With that stroke the walls of the castle drove together and fell in ruins to the ground, and a great cry of lamentation beat to and fro from far and near, and Balin lay under the stones as one dead.
After three days Merlin came and drew out Balin from the ruins, and nourished and healed him. He also recovered his sword and got him a good horse, for his own was slain. Then he bade him ride out of that country without delay.
‘And never more shall you have ease,’ said Merlin. ‘For by the stroke of that spear with intent to slay King Pellam thou hast done such a dolorous deed that not for many years shall its evil cease to work.’
‘What have I done?’ said Balin.
‘Thou wouldst have slain a man with the very spear that Longius the Roman thrust into the side of our Lord Jesus when He suffered on the Rood; and by that thou hast defiled it, and caused such ill that never shall its tale be ended until a stainless knight shall come, one of those who shall achieve the Holy Graal.’
‘It repents me,’ said Balin heavily, ‘but the adventure was forced upon me.’
As he rode through the land, he saw how it seemed that a dire pestilence had swept over it; for where he had seen the golden corn waving in miles of smiling fields, he saw it now blackened along the ground; the trees were stripped of their leaves and fruit, the cattle lay dead in the meads, and the fish rotted in the streams, while in the villages lay the people dead or dying in shattered or roofless cottages.
As he passed, those that were alive cursed him, and called down upon him the wrath of Heaven.
‘See, see,’ they cried, ‘thou murderous knight, how the evil stroke thou gavest to King Pellam by that hallowed spear hath destroyed this happy land! Go! thou foul knight, and may the vengeance strike thee soon!’
Balin went on, heavy of mind, for he knew not why he had been caused to do this evil.
For many days he passed through the saddened land, and he felt that in a little while death would meet him.
Then suddenly one day he came upon a castle in a wood, and he heard a horn blow, as it had been at the death of a beast.
‘Here,’ said Balin, ‘shall I meet my death-wound, for that blast was blown for me.’
As he came on the green before the castle, many ladies and knights met him and welcomed him with fair semblance, and gave him good cheer.
‘Now,’ said the lady of the castle, when he had eaten, ‘ye must do a joust for me with a knight hereby who hath won from me a fair island in a stream, and he hath overcome every knight that hath essayed to win it back for me.’
‘Well, as you claim it for your good cheer,’ said Balin, ‘I will e’en joust, though both I and my horse are spent with travelling, and my heart is heavy. Nevertheless, show me the place.’
‘But, sir,’ said a knight, ‘thou shouldst change thy shield for a bigger. For the strange knight is a strong one and a hardy.’
Balin cared not, and so took the shield with a device upon it that was not his own. Then he and his horse were led to a great barge, and so they were poled across the wide stream to an island.
When Balin had landed and mounted his horse, he rode a little way towards a stout tower, and from it a knight issued, his armour all in red, and the trappings of his horse of the same colour. They couched their lances and came marvellously fast together, and smote each other in the midmost of their shields; and the shock of their spears was so great that it bore down both horses and men, and for a little while the knights were dazed.
The stranger rose up first, for Balin was much bruised and wearied; and the red knight drew his sword and came towards Balin, who thereupon got upon his feet, and they fought most fiercely together. So they fought till their breaths failed.
Many were the bouts they fought, and they rested oftentimes, and then to battle again, so that in a little while the grass of the sward where they struggled was red with the blood of their wounds.
But the more wearied they were the fiercer they fought to vanquish each the other, so that their hauberks were in tatters, their helms were broken, and their shields were rived and cracked. At the last the red knight could not lift his shield for weakness, and then he went back a little and fell down.
Balin also sank to the ground, faint with his wounds, and as he lay he cried out:
‘What knight art thou? for ere now I never found a knight that matched me.’
The other answered him faintly:
‘My name is Balan, brother to the good knight Balin!’
‘Alas!’ said Balin, ‘that ever I should see the day!’ And therewith he fell back in a swoon.
Then Balan crawled on all fours, feet and hands, and put off the helm of his brother, and might hardly know him by his face, so hewn and stained it was. Balan wept and kissed his face, and with that Balin awoke.
‘O Balan, my brother, thou hast slain me and I thee!’
‘Alas!’ said Balan, ‘but I knew thee not, my brother. Hadst thou had thine own shield, I would have known thy device of the two swords.’
‘Ah, ’twas part of the evil hap that hath followed me,’ cried Balin. ‘I know not why.’
Then they both swooned, and the lady of the castle came and would have had them taken to a chamber. But Balan awoke and said:
‘Let be! let be! No leech can mend us. And I would not live more, for I have slain my dear brother and he me!’
Balin woke up therewith, and put his hand forth, and his brother clasped it in his, very eagerly.
‘Little brother,’ said Balin, ‘I cannot come to thee—kiss me!’ When they had kissed, they swooned again, and in a little while Balin died, but Balan did not pass until midnight.
‘Alas! alas!’ cried the lady, weeping for very pity, ‘that ever this should be. Two brothers that have played together about their mother’s knees to slay each other unwittingly!’
On the morrow came Merlin, and made them be buried richly in the green place where they had fought, and on their tomb he caused to be written in letters of gold, deep and thick, these words: ‘Here lie Sir Balin and his brother Sir Balan, who, unwittingly, did most pitifully slay each other: and this Sir Balin was, moreover, he that smote the dolorous stroke. Whereof the end is not yet.’