Each one drew, and whether it was by chance or whether the wily landlord had so arranged it, the fact is that the lot fell to the knight. Of course he would not break his agreement, and he said, "So I am to begin the game and tell the first story, am I? Let us ride on, then; and see to it that you listen well to every word."

So the pilgrims started up their horses, and the knight began his story. This is the tale that he told.

Just there the road made a turn, and behold, full in the way of the bridal procession was a company of ladies, all robed in sombre black and kneeling two by two. Not a word did they say, but they wept and wailed and caught hold of the Duke's bridle rein with such lamenting as was never heard in the world before.

"Who are you that disturb my feast with your crying? Are you so envious of my happiness? Speak out, and if anyone has done you a wrong, tell me what I shall do to avenge you." So said the Duke.

Then spoke the oldest of the ladies, her face as white as death. "Have mercy upon us," she pleaded. "Pity us and help us. For fourteen long days we have awaited your coming to beg for your aid; for we are naught but beggars now, though once every one of us was either a queen or a duchess."

Then Duke Theseus and the Queen Hippolita and the men-at-arms and all the long procession stopped and listened to the sorrowful tale of the ladies in black. It seemed that at the siege of Thebes their husbands had all been slain, and Creon, lord of Thebes, had declared that the bodies should be given to the dogs and should receive none of the honors of burial.

Duke Theseus was so sorry for the poor ladies that he felt as if his own heart would break. He leaped down from his horse and raised them from the dust, and comforted them as best be could. "I swear to you," he said, "as I am a faithful knight, that your wrongs shall be avenged. Not one half day will I tarry even to celebrate my wedding; and before long it shall be told from end to end of Greece how Theseus put to death the wicked Creon. Do you keep watch and ward over my bride," he bade his chamberlains, "and lead her safely into Athens." There was not time for another word; the Duke had already flung out his great white war banner, whereon was a blood-red figure of Mars with glittering spear and shield. Beside the banner waved a pennon of richest gold, into which was beaten the image of the Minotaur that once he slew in Crete.

So it was that Duke Theseus and the noblest of his army rode onto the walls of Thebes and called the king forth to battle. The Duke slew the wicked Creon and put his men to flight. He even took the city by assault and tore down the wall, beam and rafter. To the mourning women he gave the bodies of their husbands, that the rites of burial might be bestowed. Then he pitched his tent on the battlefield for the night and made himself ready to return on the following morning to Athens and his bride Hippolita.

All that night the pillagers did their work on the field of battle, and stripped the dead bodies of mail, weapons, and garments. And it chanced that, lying in a heap of the slain, they came upon two young knights on whose tabards the same device was richly embroidered. By this device the heralds knew well that the young men were the sons of two sisters of the blood royal of Thebes. "It may be that the Duke will take ransom for them," thought the pillagers, and they carried them gently to the tent of Theseus, for the life was not yet fully gone from them. Theseus would accept no ransom. He sent the two knights straightway to Athens to be flung into prison. Then he and his army rode homeward, and he wore a crown of laurel as a victor. In his castle he dwelt in joy and honor; but closely guarded in a tower of stone abode Palamon and Arcite, for those were the names of the two young men, and they dwelt in suffering and misery.

Now when Hippolita came to Athens, she brought in her train her young sister Emily, who was fairer than the lily upon its stalk of green and fresher than the May time with its new-blown flowers, for truly her bloom was like that of the rose. It came to pass one bright May morning that she arose from her sleep and went out into the garden. Her dress was dainty and pretty, and adown her back fell her braid of golden hair a full yard long. Up and down the paths she strolled, picking here and there a flower of white or red to make herself a wreath. She was singing softly; and, truly, her voice was like that of an angel.

Now the dungeon tower of the castle rose hard by the garden wall, and Palamon was pacing to and fro in a chamber high up from the ground. There was a little window, closely grated with heavy bars of iron, and through it he could see the city, or, if he looked downward, the castle garden. As the Fates would have it, he caught a glimpse of Emily. Thereupon he turned pale and cried "Ah!" as if he were pierced to the heart. At that Arcite started up and called, "Cousin, cousin, what troubles you? You are white as death. Why did you cry out? For God's sake, be patient, for we can do naught else. Our evil stars have given us this fate and we must endure it."

"O cousin," replied Palamon, "it was not of our prison that I cried out, but because of the beautiful maiden in the garden down below. The love of her has pierced my heart, and it will surely be my death. I know not whether she be woman or goddess. Perchance it is Venus herself." And down upon his knees he fell, and prayed aloud, "O Venus, if it be indeed yourself, help us out of this dungeon. Have pity upon us!"

Then Arcite looked through the iron-barred window and caught a glimpse of the maiden; and he, too, was grievously wounded by her beauty. "Alas," he moaned, "if I may not have her favor, if I may not at the least see her close at hand, I shall surely die."

"What?" demanded Palamon. "Do you say this in jest or in earnest?"

"In earnest," replied Arcite. "May God help me. I am in no mood for jesting."

Then Palamon knit his brows angrily. "I am your cousin and your brother-in-arms," said he; "and we have sworn solemnly never to hinder each other in love or in any other case, but to help each other as most we may. And now, like a false traitor, you dare to love my lady whom I shall love and serve so long as my heart shall beat. I loved her first and told my love to you, and you are in honor bound to help me, or else you are but a false traitor and a treacherous knight."

"You are more likely to prove a false knight than I," Arcite replied proudly, "and, indeed, you are already false. You do not know even now whether she is a woman or a goddess. You love her as one might love a saint, but I love her as a woman, and I told you so as my sworn brother. Even if you had loved her first, don't you know the old saying, 'Who shall give law to a lover?' A man cannot help his love if he die for it. But, my brother, we are prisoners for life; no ransom will set us free. There is small chance that the fair maiden will ever look with favor upon either of us. Love her if you will; but so shall I, and that is the end of it, dear brother. We must stay here in prison, and each of us must bear his fate."

Now it came to pass that a certain noble duke named Perotheus, a childhood's friend of Theseus, came to Athens to visit him; they had known each other in Thebes for many a year, and loved each other most tenderly. Duke Perotheus begged for his freedom, and finally, to give his friend a pleasure, Duke Theseus set the prisoner free. "But beware," he charged "for if ever you are found in any part of my realm, you will lose your head by the sword."

Then was Arcite free, and he went to his own home; but he wept and wailed and groaned and aloud and even sought to take his life. "Alas, that ever I knew Perotheus!" he lamented. "But for him I might have dwelt forever in the prison of Theseus. How blissful should I have been to see her whom I love and serve, even though I might never win her favor. O dear cousin Palamon," he groaned, "the victory is yours. You are in prison, indeed, but it is a paradise, for you may sometimes cast your eyes upon my lady. You are a knight, worthy and skillful, and by some change of fortune you may some day win your heart's desire; but neither earth, air, fire, water, nor any creature made of them can help me or give me comfort. Alas, we know not what we pray for. I thought that if I could only get out of prison, I should be happy indeed; but since I cannot see you, Emily, I might as well be dead."

On the other hand, Palamon, when he knew that Arcite was gone, made the tower echo with his groans and cries. "O my cousin Arcite," he wailed, "little care now for my suffering. You are free and in our own Thebes. It will be easy for you to get our kinsfolk together and make so fierce a war upon this town that by treaty you may have Emily for your wife, while I weep and wail here in this prison tower, and my heart is pierced unto death with the love of her."

["Now tell me," said the knight, "all you who be lovers, which one was in the worse case, Palamon or Arcite? Palamon could see his lady every day, but he could never be free from his prison. Arcite was at liberty to wander whither he would, but never again could he set his eyes upon the love of his heart."]