Phantastes, A Faerie Romance

"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.