"Then must I say that you have given your love to the noblest and most renowned knight in the world."
"So it seemed to me; for he carries a noble soul in his face."
"This I may say," said Gawaine. "I have known this knight for more than twenty years, and never knew him before to wear a woman's token at joust or tournament. You owe him thanks, indeed, that he wore yours. Yet I dread greatly that you will never see him again, and it is for this that my heart is heavy."
"Why say you so?" she cried, starting up with pallid face. "Is he hurt?
Is he slain?"
"Not slain; but sadly hurt. This more it is my duty to tell you: he is the noble knight, Sir Lancelot du Lake. I know him by his shield."
"Lancelot! Can this be so? And his hurt--who gave it? Is it really perilous?"
"Had the knight who wounded him known him, he would have been grieved almost to death. As for Sir Lancelot, I can tell you nothing more. On receiving his hurt he left the lists with his comrade, and cannot be found. He is somewhere concealed."
"Then shall I go seek him!" cried Elaine. "Give me leave to do so, dear father, if you would not have me lose my mind. I shall never rest till I find him and my brother, and nurse him back to health."
"Go, daughter, if you will," said her father, "for I am sick at heart to hear such tidings of that noble knight."
In the morning Gawaine rejoined King Arthur, and told him of what he had learned.
"I knew already it was Lancelot," said the king; "but never before knew I him to wear woman's token."
"By my faith, this lily maiden of Astolat loves him deeply," said Gawaine. "What it means I cannot say, but she has set out to seek him, and will break her heart if she fail to find him."
And so they rode on to London, where Gawaine made known to the court that it was Lancelot who wore the red sleeve and won the prize at the tournament.
This tidings made no small trouble in the court. Bors and his kinsmen were heavy at heart when they learned that it was Lancelot whom they had so hotly assailed. And Queen Guenever was beside herself with anger on learning that it was Lancelot who had worn the red sleeve at the tournament.
Meanwhile Elaine journeyed to Camelot in search of the wounded knight, and as she sought far and near about the town, sick at heart, it chanced that she espied her brother Lavaine, as he rode out to give his horse air. She called loudly to him, and when he came up asked him,--
"How does my lord, Sir Lancelot?"
"Who told you, sister, that my lord's name was Lancelot?"
She told him how she had learned this, and they rode together to the hermitage, where Lavaine brought her in to see the wounded knight.
But when she saw him lying there so sick and pale, and with a death-like hue upon his face, she stood gazing upon him with dilated eyes and whitening face, and then suddenly fell to the floor in a deep swoon.
"I pray you, Lavaine, take her up and bring her to me," said Lancelot.
When she was brought near him he kissed her pale face, and at the touch of his lips her cheeks flamed out with red, and life came back to her.
"Fair maiden," said Lancelot, "it pains me to see you so deeply afflicted. Comfort yourself, I pray you. If you come here to my aid you are truly welcome; but let not this little hurt trouble you; I shall soon be well of it."
Then they fell into discourse, and Elaine told Lancelot how Gawaine had seen and known his shield. This gave him no small trouble, for he knew well that the story of the red scarf would get to Queen Guenever's ears, and he feared its effect on her hasty and jealous temper. But Elaine never left Lancelot, but watched him day and night, nursing him back to health.
CHAPTER III.
HOW ELAINE DIED FOR LOVE.
When Sir Bors learned that his unlucky blow had brought Lancelot nearly to death's door, he became sore indeed at heart, and hastened to Camelot in search of his noble kinsman. Here he met Lavaine, who knew him and conducted him to the bedside of the wounded knight.
When he saw the pale and haggard countenance of Lancelot, he fell into a passion of tears, and accused himself bitterly. But Lancelot consoled him as well as he could, declaring that the fault was his own, and that he would bear the blame. Then Bors told him of the anger of the queen, and of his earnest but vain endeavor to overcome it.
"I deserve it not," said Lancelot. "I wore the sleeve only by way of disguise. As for Gawaine, he would have shown more wisdom and friendship had he been less free of speech."
"I told her all this," said Bors, "but she was past listening to reason.
Is this maiden, who is so busy about you, she whom they call the lily of Astolat?"
"She it is," said Lancelot. "I cannot by any means put her from me."
"Why should you?" asked Bors. "She is a beautiful and tender-hearted damsel. Would to God, fair cousin, you could love her, for I see well, by her gentle and close care of you, that she loves you devoutedly."
"That I am sorry for," said Lancelot.
"She will not be the first that has loved you in vain," said Bors; "the more the pity."
Many other things they talked of, and Lancelot found such comfort in the presence of Sir Bors that in a few days he showed great signs of improvement. Then Bors told him of another tournament that King Arthur had ordered, to be held at Camelot on All-hallowmas day, between his party and that of the king of North Wales.
This filled Lancelot with an earnest desire to grow strong, and during the following month, under the kind care of his cousin, and the gentle ministrations of Elaine, he improved greatly in health. For Elaine waited upon him with loving diligence night and day, and never was child or wife more gentle and heedful to father or husband than this fair maid of Astolat to the wounded knight.
At length came a day when Lancelot felt so much stronger, through the healing influence of a bath of herbs which the hermit had gathered in the woods, that he determined to try if he could wear his armor and sit in his saddle. He thereupon armed and had his horse brought out.
Mounting the mettled charger, in the high spirit of new health he spurred it to full speed.
But the courser's long rest in the stable had made it fresh and fierce, and on feeling the spurs it leaped forward so violently that Lancelot's wound burst open in the strain, and the blood gushed out again.
"Bors! Lavaine! help!" he feebly cried. "I am come to my end."
As he spoke he fell from his horse to the earth, and lay there like a corpse.
The two knights hurried up, full of fearful concern, and when Elaine, who had heard the pitiful call, came flying to the spot, she threw herself on the prostrate form, weeping like one beside herself with grief, and kissing the insensible knight as if she hoped thus to recall him to life.
"Traitors you are!" she cried wildly to her brother and Sir Bors. "Why did you let him leave his bed? I hold you guilty of his death."
At this moment the hermit Baldwin appeared. When he saw Lancelot in that plight he grew angry at heart, though he checked the reproachful words that rose to his lips.
"Let us have him in," he said, briefly.
Lancelot was thereupon carried to the hermitage, his armor removed, and the bleeding stanched, but it was long before he could be brought out of his death-like swoon.
"Why did you put your life thus in jeopardy?" asked the hermit, reproachfully, when the knight was again in his senses.
"I was too eager to attend the tournament, now near at hand," he said.