"Touching this little business--don"t answer if it"s a delicate question, but I _should_ like to know--I suppose you didn"t try the schedule. What? More the Market Thingummy method, eh? The one you described to me?"
"Market b.u.mpstead, sir?" said Wilson. "On those lines."
Rollo nodded thoughtfully.
"It seems to me," he said, "they know a thing or two down in Market b.u.mpstead."
"A very rising little place, sir," a.s.sented Wilson.
SIR AGRAVAINE A TALE OF KING ARTHUR"S ROUND TABLE
Some time ago, when spending a delightful week-end at the ancestral castle of my dear old friend, the Duke of Weatherstonhope (p.r.o.nounced Wop), I came across an old black-letter MS. It is on this that the story which follows is based.
I have found it necessary to touch the thing up a little here and there, for writers in those days were weak in construction. Their idea of telling a story was to take a long breath and start droning away without any stops or dialogue till the thing was over.
I have also condensed the t.i.tle. In the original it ran, ""How it came about that ye good Knight Sir Agravaine ye Dolorous of ye Table Round did fare forth to succour a damsel in distress and after divers journeyings and perils by flood and by field did win her for his bride and right happily did they twain live ever afterwards," by Ambrose ye monk."
It was a pretty snappy t.i.tle for those days, but we have such a high standard in t.i.tles nowadays that I have felt compelled to omit a few yards of it.
We may now proceed to the story.
The great tournament was in full swing. All through the afternoon boiler-plated knights on mettlesome chargers had hurled themselves on each other"s spears, to the vast contentment of all. Bright eyes shone; handkerchiefs fluttered; musical voices urged chosen champions to knock the cover off their brawny adversaries. The cheap seats had long since become hoa.r.s.e with emotion. All round the arena rose the cries of itinerant merchants: "Iced malvoisie," "Score-cards; ye cannot tell the jousters without a score-card." All was revelry and excitement.
A hush fell on the throng. From either end of the arena a mounted knight in armour had entered.
The herald raised his hand.
"Ladeez"n gemmen! Battling Galahad and Agravaine the Dolorous. Galahad on my right, Agravaine on my left. Squires out of the ring. Time!"
A speculator among the crowd offered six to one on Galahad, but found no takers. Nor was the public"s caution without reason.
A moment later the two had met in a cloud of dust, and Agravaine, shooting over his horse"s crupper, had fallen with a metallic clang.
He picked himself up, and limped slowly from the arena. He was not unused to this sort of thing. Indeed, nothing else had happened to him in his whole jousting career.
The truth was that Sir Agravaine the Dolorous was out of his element at King Arthur"s court, and he knew it. It was this knowledge that had given him that settled air of melancholy from which he derived his t.i.tle.
Until I came upon this black-letter MS. I had been under the impression, like, I presume, everybody else, that every Knight of the Round Table was a model of physical strength and beauty. Malory says nothing to suggest the contrary. Nor does Tennyson. But apparently there were exceptions, of whom Sir Agravaine the Dolorous must have been the chief.
There was, it seems, nothing to mitigate this unfortunate man"s physical deficiencies. There is a place in the world for the strong, ugly man, and there is a place for the weak, handsome man. But to fall short both in features and in muscle is to stake your all on brain. And in the days of King Arthur you did not find the populace turning out to do homage to brain. It was a drug on the market. Agravaine was a good deal better equipped than his contemporaries with grey matter, but his height in his socks was but five feet four; and his muscles, though he had taken three correspondence courses in physical culture, remained distressingly flaccid. His eyes were pale and mild, his nose snub, and his chin receded sharply from his lower lip, as if Nature, designing him, had had to leave off in a hurry and finish the job anyhow. The upper teeth, protruding, completed the resemblance to a nervous rabbit.
Handicapped in this manner, it is no wonder that he should feel sad and lonely in King Arthur"s court. At heart he ached for romance; but romance pa.s.sed him by. The ladies of the court ignored his existence, while, as for those wandering damsels who came periodically to Camelot to complain of the behaviour of dragons, giants, and the like, and to ask permission of the king to take a knight back with them to fight their cause (just as, nowadays, one goes out and calls a policeman), he simply had no chance. The choice always fell on Lancelot or some other popular favourite.
The tournament was followed by a feast. In those brave days almost everything was followed by a feast. The scene was gay and animated.
Fair ladies, brave knights, churls, varlets, squires, scurvy knaves, men-at-arms, malapert rogues--all were merry. All save Agravaine. He sat silent and moody. To the jests of Dagonet he turned a deaf ear. And when his neighbour, Sir Kay, arguing with Sir Percivale on current form, appealed to him to back up his statement that Sir Gawain, though a workman-like middle-weight, lacked the punch, he did not answer, though the subject was one on which he held strong views. He sat on, brooding.
As he sat there, a man-at-arms entered the hall.
"Your majesty," he cried, "a damsel in distress waits without."
There was a murmur of excitement and interest.
"Show her in," said the king, beaming.
The man-at-arms retired. Around the table the knights were struggling into an upright position in their seats and twirling their moustaches.
Agravaine alone made no movement. He had been through this sort of thing so often. What were distressed damsels to him? His whole demeanour said, as plainly as if he had spoken the words, "What"s the use?"
The crowd at the door parted, and through the opening came a figure at the sight of whom the expectant faces of the knights turned pale with consternation. For the new-comer was quite the plainest girl those stately halls had ever seen. Possibly the only plain girl they had ever seen, for no instance is recorded in our authorities of the existence at that period of any such.
The knights gazed at her blankly. Those were the grand old days of chivalry, when a thousand swords would leap from their scabbards to protect defenceless woman, if she were beautiful. The present seemed something in the nature of a special case, and n.o.body was quite certain as to the correct procedure.
An awkward silence was broken by the king.
"Er--yes?" he said.
The damsel halted.
"Your majesty," she cried, "I am in distress. I crave help!"
"Just so," said the king, uneasily, flashing an apprehensive glance at the rows of perturbed faces before him. "Just _so_. What--er--what is the exact nature of the--ah--trouble? Any a.s.sistance these gallant knights can render will, I am sure, be--ah--eagerly rendered."
He looked imploringly at the silent warriors. As a rule, this speech was the signal for roars of applause. But now there was not even a murmur.
"I may say enthusiastically," he added.
Not a sound.
"Precisely," said the king, ever tactful. "And now--you were saying?"
"I am Yvonne, the daughter of Earl Dorm of the Hills," said the damsel, "and my father has sent me to ask protection from a gallant knight against a fiery dragon that ravages the country-side."
"A dragon, gentlemen," said the king, aside. It was usually a safe draw. Nothing pleased the knight of that time more than a brisk bout with a dragon. But now the tempting word was received in silence.
"Fiery," said the king.
Some more silence.
The king had recourse to the direct appeal. "Sir Gawain, this Court would be greatly indebted to you if--"
Sir Gawain said he had strained a muscle at the last tournament.