Then Perceval harnessed his horse again, and rode, all alone, to the top of Mount Dolorous. There he gazed at the pillar and its magnificent workmanship: it was made and overlaid with copper and polished from top to bottom – and was as tall as a crossbow bolt could fly. It was surrounded by fifteen crosses, all at least ninety feet in height. Human eyes have never beheld such an amazing creation as this, described in the story set down in writing at Fécamp. Perceval stared at these marvels, awe-struck. Of the fifteen crosses five were red, five were whiter than snow on a branch and the other five, I promise you, were a beautiful shade of blue; yet the colours were purely natural. They were made of solid stone, to last forever. Perceval rode past these crosses of wondrous beauty, and looked at the pillar, so tall and shining bright, and saw a ring attached to it. I don’t know if it was silver or gold, but it was worth a tower full of treasure. Around it was an inscription in letters of fine silver – and in Latin, not a word of any other tongue – warning that no knight should presume to tether his horse to the pillar unless he could rightly claim to be the finest knight then living in the world.

Second Continuation of Perceval