The Canterbury Pilgrims | Page 8

in arms, such skill in riding, such knightly bearing,
and to crown all, such beauty!
And now the companies enter the lists and are lined up two deep,
facing one another. The heralds' trumpets sound, the names of the
combatants are read and the gates closed.
Once more the trumpets blare, the heralds call "To your places,
knights," and the fight begins. The combatants rush together. Swords
flash, spears are set in rest. Here one is borne from his horse, here
another is pierced through the breast. Here a knight swings his mace
and crashes through helm and bone. Nor armour nor skill can ward off
such mighty blows, and horses and their riders fall. One is taken
captive to the stake. Another shares his fate. Thick rises the dust, loud
rings the battle din, and on all sides fierce confusion reigns and cruel
war.
Throughout the mêlé rage Palamon and Arcite; Arcite like a tiger that
has lost her whelp, Palamon like a ravening lion athirst for blood.
Through the long day they fight, until at last Palamon is set upon by
Arcite and the Indian king at once, with twenty more knights to help
them. Then, not all the great strength of his arm and sword can avail
him, but, o'erborne by the weight of numbers, he is dragged, resisting
still, to the shameful stake.
When Theseus saw this he stopped the fight.
"Ho--no more," he said. "All is done. Emily is the bride of Arcite of
Thebes." Sad was Palamon, but Arcite, with helm unlaced, rode

proudly on his courser towards Emily. All the trumpets sang loud of his
victory. Thousands of voices acclaimed him. Mars had fulfilled his
prophecy. What then could Venus be doing, for had she not promised
success to Palamon?
A moment! My story is not ended. As Arcite rode thus joyously to
claim his prize, it chanced that an adder suddenly started from the
ground before the horse's feet; The charger reared and swerved, and
Arcite was thrown against the pommel of his saddle with such violence
that his breast-bone was broken, and he fell down in a swoon. He was
carried quickly away; but all that night, while feasting and
merry-making reigned in the palace, poor Arcite lay dying. "Alas!" he
cried. "Farewell to you, my lady, my love, my wife won by my prowess.
Farewell to the world and merry company. I go where man must be
alone and cold. Farewell again, my fairest Emily!" And so with his
lady's name on his lips, he died.
Great was the mourning throughout Athens for so noble a warrior and
so true a lover. His funeral pyre was heaped high with all sweet woods
and spices. All famous Greeks came thither to play in his funeral
games.
Men mourned for Arcite for many a long year. But at last their sorrow
spent itself,--one day Palamon came again to the court of Theseus.
There, with gentle patient wooing, he won at length the hand of Emily,
and gained thus his heart's desire and the reward of his true love of her.
They lived long in richness and health. Never was fairer wife than
Emily; never was knight more faithful than Palamon. There I leave
them. God bless them, and grant His grace and loving-kindness to this
fair company. Amen.
* * * * *
When the Knight had finished his tale, the whole company, young and
old, praised it. The Host was delighted; he burst out laughing. "The
play goes finely," he cried. "Now we have started the ball rolling, who
will tell the next tale? Will you, Sir Monk, give us a worthy follower to
the Knight?" Before the Monk had time to answer, the Miller
interrupted. He was a broad, thick-set fellow with a red beard, a great
wide mouth, and a wart on his nose. He wore a white coat and blue
hood, and was armed with a sword and buckler. By this time he was so
overcome by riding and drinking that he could hardly sit his horse, and

what manners he possessed had left him. "I can tell a fine tale," he
shouted, "a good match for the Knight's." The Host saw that he was in
no fit state to tell a tale. "Good friend Robin, take thy turn," he said.
"Let a better man than thee speak first." "Not I," said the Miller. "I tell
my tale when I like, or leave the party." "Well," said the Host, "tell if
thou must, but thou art making a fool of thyself."
"Now hearken!" began the Miller. "I begin my tale with a declaration. I
am drunk. I know it, and I bid you excuse any mistakes I make for that
very reason. It's the fault of Southwark ale, not mine,