"I put my life in my hands."--The Book of Judges.
At length, with much toil and equal delight, our armour was finished.
We armed each other, and tested the strength of the defence, with many
blows of loving force. I was inferior in strength to both my brothers,
but a little more agile than either; and upon this agility, joined to
precision in hitting with the point of my weapon, I grounded my hopes of
success in the ensuing combat. I likewise laboured to develop yet more
the keenness of sight with which I was naturally gifted; and, from the
remarks of my companions, I soon learned that my endeavours were not in
vain.
The morning arrived on which we had determined to make the attempt,
and succeed or perish--perhaps both. We had resolved to fight on foot;
knowing that the mishap of many of the knights who had made the attempt,
had resulted from the fright of their horses at the appearance of the
giants; and believing with Sir Gawain, that, though mare's sons might
be false to us, the earth would never prove a traitor. But most of our
preparations were, in their immediate aim at least, frustrated.
We rose, that fatal morning, by daybreak. We had rested from all labour
the day before, and now were fresh as the lark. We bathed in cold
spring water, and dressed ourselves in clean garments, with a sense of
preparation, as for a solemn festivity. When we had broken our fast,
I took an old lyre, which I had found in the tower and had myself
repaired, and sung for the last time the two ballads of which I have
said so much already. I followed them with this, for a closing song:
Oh, well for him who breaks his dream
With the blow that ends the strife
And, waking, knows the peace that flows
Around the pain of life!
We are dead, my brothers! Our bodies clasp,
As an armour, our souls about;
This hand is the battle-axe I grasp,
And this my hammer stout.
Fear not, my brothers, for we are dead;
No noise can break our rest;
The calm of the grave is about the head,
And the heart heaves not the breast.
And our life we throw to our people back,
To live with, a further store;
We leave it them, that there be no lack
In the land where we live no more.
Oh, well for him who breaks his dream
With the blow that ends the strife
And, waking, knows the peace that flows
Around the noise of life!
As the last few tones of the instrument were following, like a
dirge, the death of the song, we all sprang to our feet. For, through
one of the little windows of the tower, towards which I had looked as
I sang, I saw, suddenly rising over the edge of the slope on which our
tower stood, three enormous heads. The brothers knew at once, by my
looks, what caused my sudden movement. We were utterly unarmed, and
there was no time to arm.