So by wildsome ways in strange countries and through many
waters and valleys rode Martimor forty days, but adventure met
him none, blow the wind never so fierce or fickle. Neither
dragons, nor giants, nor false knights, nor distressed ladies,
nor fays, nor kings imprisoned could he find.

"These are ill times for adventure," said he, "the world
is full of meat and sleepy. Now must I ride farther afield
and undertake some ancient, famous quest wherein other knights
have failed and fallen. Either I shall follow the Questing
Beast with Sir Palamides, or I shall find Merlin at the great
stone whereunder the Lady of the Lake enchanted him and
deliver him from that enchantment, or I shall assay the
cleansing of the Forest Perilous, or I shall win the favour of
La Belle Dame Sans Merci, or mayhap I shall adventure the
quest of the Sangreal. One or other of these will I achieve,
or bleed the best blood of my body." Thus pondering and
dreaming he came by the road down a gentle hill with close
woods on either hand; and so into a valley with a swift river
flowing through it; and on the river a Mill.

So white it stood among the trees, and so merrily whirred
the wheel as the water turned it, and so bright blossomed the
flowers in the garden, that Martimor had joy of the sight, for
it minded him of his own country. "But here is no adventure,"
thought he, and made to ride by.

Even then came a young maid suddenly through the garden
crying and wringing her hands. And when she saw him she cried