and wonderful was this beast, for she was without spot, and bore antlers upon her head.  The hounds bayed about her, but might not pull her down.  Gugemar bent his bow, and loosed a shaft at the quarry.  He wounded the deer a little above the hoof, so that presently she fell upon her side.  But the arrow glanced away, and returning upon itself, struck Gugemar in the thigh, so grievously, that straightway he fell from his horse upon the ground.  Gugemar lay upon the grass, beside the deer which he had wounded to his hurt.  He heard her sighs and groans, and perceived the bitterness of her pity.  Then with mortal speech the doe spake to the wounded man in such fashion as this, “Alas, my sorrow, for now am I slain.  But thou, Vassal, who hast done me this great wrong, do not think to hide from the vengeance of thy destiny.  Never may surgeon and his medicine heal your hurt.  Neither herb nor root nor potion can ever cure the wound within your flesh:  For that there is no healing.  The only balm to close that sore must be brought by a woman, who for her love will suffer such pain and sorrow as no woman in the world has endured before.  And to the dolorous lady, dolorous knight.  For your part you shall do and suffer so great things for her, that not a lover beneath the sun, or lovers who are dead, or lovers who yet shall have their day, but shall marvel at the tale.  Now, go from hence, and let me die in peace.”

Gugemar was wounded twice over—­by the arrow, and by the words he was dismayed to hear.  He considered within himself to what land he must go to find this healing for his hurt, for he was yet too young to die.  He saw clearly, and told it to his heart, that there was no lady in his life to whom he could run for pity, and be made whole of his wound.  He called his varlet before him,

“Friend,” said he, “go forthwith, and bring my comrades to this place, for I have to speak with them.”

The varlet went upon his errand, leaving his master sick with the heat and fever of his hurt.  When he was gone, Gugemar tore the hem from his shirt, and bound it straitly about his wound.  He climbed painfully upon the saddle, and departed without more ado, for he was with child to be gone before any could come to stay him from his purpose.  A green path led through the deep forest to the plain, and his way across the plain brought him to a cliff, exceeding high, and to the sea.  Gugemar looked upon the water, which was very still, for this fair harbourage was land-locked from the main.  Upon this harbour lay one only vessel, bearing a rich pavilion of silk, daintily furnished both without and within, and well it seemed to Gugemar that he had seen this ship before.  Beneath the sky was no ship so rich or precious, for there was not a sail but was spun of silk, and not a plank, from keel to mast, but showed of ebony.  Too fair was the nave for mortal man, and Gugemar held it in sore displeasure.  He marvelled greatly from what country it had come, and wondered long concerning