“Alas!” cries Arthur, “my end draws near. Carry me to the edge of the water.” The knight does so, and there, awaiting the dying king, is a black barge, his destined bier. On the deck are three queens, with black hoods and crowns of gold. “Now, put me in the barge,” says Arthur; and when this is done, the queens receive him with great mourning and wailing, and one of them cries, “Ah, my dear brother, why hast thou tarried so long?” Then Arthur bids the knight farewell, and the barge slowly moves across the water. Sad and lonely, the knight watches it disappear “Down that long water, opening on the deep, Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go From less to less, and vanish into light, And the new sun rose bringing the new year.” So fades Arthur from our view, a dim and mystical figure in life, a vision of undying splendour in death. Let the historians say what they will, men will still believe in him; they will still see the wearer of his mantle in every true knight, and still hold him a shining example to all who “bear without abuse the grand old name of gentleman.” [Illustration: =Sir Tristram at the Court of Arthur.= (_From the fresco by William Dyer, R.A., in the King’s Robing-Room in the Houses of Parliament._)] [Illustration: Hengist & Horsa] “_The blue-eyed race_ _Whose force rough-handed should renew the world._” What warriors be these who now pass by? Tall, big-boned, blue-eyed men they are, with long yellow hair falling upon their shoulders from beneath their winged helmets. Their home is a sad, barren, overcrowded country, and their poverty drives them to a life of plunder on the seas and to the shores of more favoured lands. They love fighting as the breath of their nostrils; and now, in their long ships, these dreaded pirates harry Britain at a hundred points. Death frights them not, for he who falls gloriously in battle rides Odin’s horse to Valhalla, where his days will be spent in cleaving the helmets and hacking the limbs of like heroes with himself, and his nights in feasting on a great boar whose flesh never grows less and in drinking great draughts of mead out of the skulls of his enemies. For the “niddering” coward who dies ingloriously in his bed these English pirates have nothing but scorn and contempt. To avoid the shame of a peaceful death they will hurl themselves from the cliffs, or push out in a frail craft into tempestuous seas, and perishing amidst the wind and the waves, win the right to enter Odin’s halls. A Roman poet says of them: “Fierce are they beyond other foes; the sea is their school of war and the storm their friend; they are sea-wolves that live on the plunder of the world.” Such are the foes against whom Arthur fights and falls.