th blood to Wigan three days."

It was during one of the brief intervals of rest that sometimes occurred
in the prosecution of these achievements that the following incident is
reported to have happened. Being a passage of some note, and the
earliest tradition of the county upon record, we have chosen it as the
commencement of a work principally derived from traditionary history.

Sir Tarquin, a cruel and treacherous knight of gigantic stature and
prodigious strength, had, as the story is currently told, his dwelling
in a well-fortified castle nigh to Manchester, on the site of what is
yet known by the name of Castle-field. It was a place of great strength,
surrounded by vast ramparts, and flanked at the corners with high and
stately towers.

He had by treachery gained possession of the fortress, treating the
owner, who was a British knight of no mean condition, with great cruelty
and rigour. This doughty Saxon, Sir Tarquin, had, along with many of his
nation, been invited over in aid of the Britons against their neighbours
the Picts and Scots. These being driven back, their false allies
treacherously made war upon their friends, laying waste the country with
fire and sword. Then arose that noble brotherhood, "The Knights of the
Round Table," who, having sworn to avenge the wrongs of their country,
began to harass the intruders, and to drive them from their ill-gotten
possessions.

The Saxons were no less vigilant; but many of their most puissant
knights were slain or imprisoned during these encounters.

Sir Tarquin could boast of no mean success;--threescore knights and
four, it is said, were held in thrall by this uncourteous chieftain.

Sir Lancelot having, as the ballad quaintly expresses it,

"A mighty giant just pulled down,
Who lived near Shrewsbury's fair town;
With his keen sword his life away did take."

This giant knight was called Sir Carados; and Sir Lancelot, when about
betaking himself to these and similar recreations, did hear doleful
tidings out of Lancashire, how that Sir Tarquin was playing the eagle in
the hawk's eyrie, amongst his brethren and companions. From Winchester
he rode in great haste, succouring not a few distressed damsels and
performing many other notable exploits by the way, "until he came to a
vast desert," "frequented by none save those whom ill fortune had
permitted to wander therein." Sir Tarquin, like the dragon of yore,
entailed a desert round his dwelling: