in frensshe dyvers and many noble volumes of his actes and
also of his knyghtes.'[39] Which looks rather as if Edward the Fourth
(who had no reason to love the Welsh--you will remember that he had
beheaded Owen Tudor, Richmond's grandfather) had heard of or read
Malory's work, and was anxious to possess it in print, though unwilling
to credit it to a follower of the Lancastrian party. It is a pleasant
field for surmise, and, however wrongly, it is good to picture old Sir
Thomas strolling along those pleasant meads beside the river, weaving his
immortal cycle of tales.

There is a connection somewhere between Malory and Caxton too. In 1469
Malory finished his book, and in March of that year Caxton began to
translate le Fevre's 'Recueil des Histoires de Troyes.' Where and when
did Malory meet Caxton, who lived for some years about that time at
Bruges, discovering that they possessed the same literary tastes? Did
Malory hand the manuscript of his work to Caxton, in the service of the
Duchess of Burgundy, sister of Edward the Fourth, and did the great
printer (or the Duchess) show it to that king? We shall never know, and
only Imagination can fill the gap.

But to continue. It was Whitsunday, and as the last notes of the
voluntary echoed away among those 'antick pillars massy proof' of the
great church, our book-hunter's thoughts turned once more to King Arthur
and his knights. For was it not upon this very day that the vision of the
Holy Grail was vouchsafed to them as they sat at meat within the castle
hall?

'And thenne the kynge and al estates wente home unto Camelot, and soo
wente to evensonge to the grete mynster. And soo after upon that to
souper. . . . Thenne anone they herd crakynge and cryenge of thonder,
that hem thought the place shold alle to dryve. . . . Not for thenne
there was no knyght myghte speke one word a grete whyle. . . . Thenne
ther entred in to the halle the holy graile coverd with whyte samyte, but
ther was none myghte see hit,[40] nor who bare hit. . . . And whan the
holy grayle had be borne thurgh the halle thenne the holy vessel departed
sodenly, that they wyste not where hit becam: thenne had they alle brethe
to speke.'

So the man of books climbed the hill and presently stood within the
beautiful hall with its glorious black marble pillars, sole remnant of
the ancient stronghold. The round table (barbarously painted) now hangs
upon the western wall, but it needed little imagination to pic