{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_38110/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_38110","id":"gutenberg_38110","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/38110","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Historical Novels","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","French literature -- To 1500 -- Translations into English","Romances","Tales -- France","Tales, Medieval"],"text":"E-text prepared by Bethanne M. Simms, Diane Monico, and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)\n\n\n\nEveryman's Library\nEdited by Ernest Rhys\n\nRomance\n\nAUCASSIN & NICOLETTE\nAnd Other Mediaeval Romances and Legends.\n\nWith an Introduction by\n\nEUGENE MASON\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHE PUBLISHERS OF _EVERYMAN'S LIBRARY_ WILL BE PLEASED TO SEND FREELY\nTO ALL APPLICANTS A LIST OF THE PUBLISHED AND PROJECTED VOLUMES TO BE\nCOMPRISED UNDER THE FOLLOWING THIRTEEN HEADINGS:\n\nTRAVEL . SCIENCE . FICTION\n\nTHEOLOGY & PHILOSOPHY\n\nHISTORY . CLASSICAL\n\nFOR YOUNG PEOPLE\n\nESSAYS . ORATORY\n\nPOETRY & DRAMA\n\nBIOGRAPHY\n\nREFERENCE\n\nROMANCE\n\n[Illustration]\n\nIN FOUR STYLES OF BINDING: CLOTH,\nFLAT BACK, COLOURED TOP; LEATHER,\nROUND CORNERS, GILT TOP; LIBRARY\nBINDING IN CLOTH, & QUARTER PIGSKIN\n\nLONDON: J. M. DENT & SONS, LTD.\n\nNEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n[Illustration:\n\nA ROMANCE,\nAND IT\nME TOOK\nTO READ\n& DRIVE\nTHE NIGHT\nAWAY\n\nCHAUCER]\n\n\nAUCASSIN & NICOLETTE\nand other Mediaeval Romances and Legends\ntranslated from the French by\n\nEUGENE MASON\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLondon & Toronto\nPublished By J. M. Dent\n& Sons Ltd & in New York\nby E. P. Dutton & Co\n\nFirst Issue Of This Edition      1910\nReprinted                        1912, 1915\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nThe little tales brought together in this volume are drawn from the\nliterature of the Middle Ages, and in many cases were written in France\nof the thirteenth century. I hope that they may be found interesting in\nthemselves, but to appreciate them fully they should be considered in\ntheir relations to a definite historical background. Their conceptions\nof society, of religion, of politics, of humour--that precious gift\nwhich always dies so young--are not common to all of us to-day. They\nare of the thirteenth century, and we of the twentieth. We may not be\nbetter than our forefathers, but a great chasm of seven hundred years\nyawns between us and them. To enjoy their work without reserve it is\nnecessary for a time to breathe the same air that was breathed--roughly\nspeaking--by the subjects of St. Louis of France.\n\nIt is possible to love the period known as the Middle Ages, or it is\npossible to detest it. But you cannot ignore it, nor find it\nflavourless on the palate, because that period possesses character,\n\"character, that personal quality, that idiosyncrasy which, no doubt,\nyou are the richer for possessing, be it morally bad or good--for it is\nsurely better to have a bad character than none, and if you are a\nchurch, better to be like the Badia than the City Temple.\" Indeed, it\nis evident that the personal equation must largely determine what any\nwriter's conception of the Middle Ages is. A great modern poet, for\ninstance, loved the Middle Ages because economic conditions pressed\nless hardly on the poor; because London was small and white and clean;\nbecause chivalry afforded opportunity for that decorative treatment of\nknightly episodes which makes his poetry so attractive. Yet across the\nChannel, much at the same time, an equally distinguished poet treated\nof the same period in a book of poems which it is instructive to\nconsider side by side with the work of William Morris, and the\nFrenchman's verse is lurid with fire and bigotry, and the tale of\nman's inhumanity to man. And the strange point is that both writers\ncould give chapter and verse for the very different type of story they\nselected. Again, the religious temperament is apt to look back fondly\nto the Middle Ages as the \"Age of Faith.\" To such minds mediaevalism is\na period of easy acquiescence in spiritual authority, a state of health\nbefore the world grew sick with our modern disease of doubt. Certainly\nthese centuries produced saints whose arresting examples and haunting\nwords must always be the glory of Christianity, and it is equally\ncertain that the offices and doctrines of the Church entered far more\nintimately into the lives of the common folk than they do to-day. But\nside by side with faith there was a \"spirit of rebellion and revolt\nagainst the moral and religious ideas of the time.\" It may be found in\nmany strangely different shapes: in the life of Abelard; in the\nextraordinary spread of witchcraft; and--in its supreme literary\nexpression, perhaps--in a famous passage of \"Aucassin and Nicolette.\"\nAnd, to take a third illustration of the same difficulty, were the\nMiddle Ages years of sheer lyric beauty, or rather years of\ninexpressible ugliness and filth? \"If you love the very words 'Middle\nAge'; if they conjure up to your mind glowing old folios of black\nletter with gilt and florid initials; crimson and green and blue pages\nin which slim ladies with spiked head-dresses walk amid sparse flowers\nand trees like bouquets, or where men-at-arms attack walled cities no\nbigger than themselves, or long-legged youths with tight waists and\nfrizzed hair kiss girls under apple-trees; or a king is on a dais with\ngold lilies for his background, minstrels on their knees before him,\nlovers in the gallery\"--well, if you accept all this dainty\ncircumstance, you get sheer lyric beauty, and nothing else. Only there\nis another side, a side not very pleasant to dwell upon, and it may\nperhaps be hinted at by saying that such a necessary of the toilet as a\npocket-handkerchief was not generally known in this Age of Beauty.\nPerhaps it would be truer to hold that the Middle Ages comprised all\nthese things--the knight-errant and the tormentor; the altar and the\nwitch's Sabbath; a dream of loveliness having its roots in slime and\nsqualor. These centuries were both \"enormous and delicate.\" They were\ngreat enough to include opposites, and to square the circle. You may\nlove them, or you may hate them; but they cannot be given the go-by.\n\nThe philosophy of the Middle Ages--that is to say, the idea which\ngoverned their political and theological conceptions--was both simple\nand profound. The Emperor or King was considered to be the guardian of\nthe temporal order of things, just as the Pope was held to be the\nsupreme authority in matters of eternal and spiritual concern. It was\nan idea fascinating in its simplicity, but life is a tangled and\ncomplex matter, and in practice, planets, which in theory moved\nstrictly in their own orbits, were continually striking across each\nother's path. Even St. Louis, the King, who carried saintliness to the\nextreme limit permitted to man, was involved in frequent political\nquarrels with the supreme head of his Church, and by one of the little\nironies of fate came within measurable distance of excommunication. The\nKing--again in theory--was the owner of all his realm. This was\nnecessary to abolish Heptarchies. But for the support of the Crown he\nparcelled out his realm amongst great lords, and thus established\nHeptarchies again. The great barons, in their turn, divided their\nestates amongst knights, bound to assist them in their quarrels, and to\nfurnish a certain number of soldiers to their service. Amongst these\nknights sprang up one of the supreme institutions of the Middle\nAges--the institution of chivalry. \"It took its birth in the interior\nof the feudal mansions, without any set purpose beyond that of\ndeclaring, first, the admission of the young man to the rank and\noccupation of the warrior; secondly, the tie which bound him to his\nfeudal superior--his lord, who conferred upon him the arms of\nknighthood. But when once the feudal society had acquired some degree\nof stability and confidence, the usages, the feelings, the\ncircumstances of every kind which attended the young man's admission\namong the vassal warriors, came under two influences, which soon gave\nthem a fresh direction, and impressed them with a novel character.\nReligion and imagination, poetry and the Church, laid hold on chivalry,\nand used it as a powerful means of attaining the objects they had in\nview, of meeting the moral wants which it was their business to provide\nfor.\" Throughout a long apprenticeship, in a castle which contained\npractically but one woman, the wife of his lord and she removed how\ninfinitely from him in distance and in station, the young squire was\ntrained to feel towards all women something of the dreamy devotion with\nwhich art and religion taught him to regard Our Lady herself. And the\napprenticeship culminated in the ceremony of knighthood, with all the\nmystical significance of the symbolism preserved for us in the little\nstory of Sir Hugh of Tabarie and the Sultan Saladin, carefully\ncalculated to impress the recipient in the highest degree. Devotion to\nGod, to his king, and to his lady--these were the ideals of knighthood,\nnot always, unfortunately, its realities. But ideals are difficult of\nrealization in so faulty a world as ours. The Black Prince was the very\npattern of chivalry in his youth, yet Froissart remarks in his account\nof the battle of Poitiers that \"the Prince of Wales, who was as\ncourageous and cruel as a lion, took great pleasure this day in\nfighting and chasing his enemies.\" The conduct of that perfect gentle\nknight, Sir Graelent, towards the lady he discovered bathing in the\nfountain, was far from chivalrous, according to modern notions, and yet\nI can assure the reader that I have walked delicately as Agag, and gone\nto the verge of weakness, in recounting the incident. Finally, here is\na passage from a letter written by a knight of the fourteenth century\nto the Tyrant of Mantua, relating to a French girl, Jeannette, which is\nsufficiently explicit. \"Let her be detained at my suit, for if you\nshould have a thousand golden florins spent for her, I will pay them\nwithout delay, for if I should have to follow her to Avignon I will\nobtain this woman. Now, my lord, should I be asking a trifle contrary\nto law, yet ought you not to cross me in this, for some day I shall do\nmore for you than a thousand united women could effect; and if there be\nneed of me in a matter of greater import, you shall have for the asking\na thousand spears at my back.\" Ah, well, ideals that are realized cease\nto be ideals.\n\nJust as this worship of woman was the great social note of the Middle\nAges, so the devotion to the Blessed Virgin was the distinguishing\nreligious feature of those times. In honour of Our Lady were erected\nthe magnificent Gothic cathedrals--those masterpieces of moral\nelevation--which stud the fair land of France like painted capitals\nupon a written page. In these buildings the genius of the Middle Ages\nfound its supreme expression. Above the crowded market-place and narrow\nmediaeval street rose those incomparable churches, \"like Gothic queens\nat prayer, alone, silent and adorned.\" In her honour, too, they were\nmade beautiful with glass and statuary, so that never before nor since\nwere churches filled with such an entrancing congregation, never had\nbuildings such wonderful eyes. And at a time when masons built to her\nhonour and theologians defined her position, the story-tellers were not\nslack in her praise. The three legends relating to the Virgin, which I\nhave included in this book of translations, are but specimens of an\nimmense literature devoted to her service. \"Our Lady's Tumbler\" is, to\nthe modern taste, one of the most appealing of all these legends, but\nthere are others nearly, if not quite, so beautiful. Once upon a time\nthere was a monk who was so ignorant that he was exposed to the rebuke\nof his brethren. But in his devotion to Our Lady he took for his\nmeditation five psalms, each commencing with a letter of her name. And\nwhen it pleased God that his end should come, there happened a very\nbeauteous miracle, for from his mouth came forth five fresh roses,\nsweet, crimson and leafy, in honour of the five letters of the name of\nMaria. Again, how exquisite is the story of the nun who by frailty of\nheart fled from her cloister to give herself over to sin. After many\nlong years she returned to the nunnery, having lost her innocence, but\nnot her faith, for during all her wanderings she had never omitted her\nhabit of prayer to Our Lady. But, to her surprise, always she was\naddressed by her sisters as if she had never gone from amongst them.\nFor the Blessed Virgin, having clothed herself with the vesture and\nseeming of the truant who loved her, even in sin, took also upon her\nthe duties of a sacristan from which she had fled, so that no single\nperson had noticed the absence from her cloister of the faithless nun.\n\nYet, after all, the Middle Ages delighted to honour Our Lady as the\ntender Mother rather than as the Queen of Heaven. In numberless\nminiatures, and on the portals of the cathedrals raised to her glory,\nshe stands presenting her Child to the adoration of men. It is as the\ninstrument of the Incarnation that her ultimate dignity consists.\nIndeed, the religion of the Middle Ages can only be appreciated by\nregarding it in the light of the doctrine of the Incarnation. Christ is\nGod. The Mass--the popular service instituted by Himself--is an\nextension of His Incarnation. The Blessed Virgin is to be held in\npeculiar veneration as the Mother of God. The two threads can easily be\nseen twined together in that story of how Our Lady tourneyed whilst the\nknight was at Mass. But belief in the Incarnation is the keystone of\nmediaeval theology, and the only explanation of the lives of those\nsaints who poured out their years like water in the service of God and\nman.\n\nThe authors of the stories brought together in this book from various\nsources are, in some cases, identified, but in others are unknown. They\nmay, perhaps, be regarded as representative of the three classes who\nare responsible for this kind of fiction--the monk, the trouvere and\nthe professional minstrel. The monk, for his part, wrote in French\nseldom enough. He was a scholar, and when he had something to say,\npreferred to deliver himself in Latin, the language common to all\neducated men. But, for once, in the thirteenth century, a monk of\nSoissons, named Gautier de Coinci, translated into French verse a great\ncollection of the miracles of Our Lady. From this garner I have\nselected the legend \"Of a Jew who took as Surety the Image of Our\nLady.\" Gautier de Coinci may not have been a supreme poet--that saving\ngrace comes seldom enough--but his industry was certainly abnormal. His\nlabour of love must have been the occupation of a lifetime, and it is\npleasant to recall the old monk, in silent scriptorium and shady\ncloister, turning the Latin legends into fluent and pious verse.\n\nThe trouvere was drawn from the same class as the troubadour, and the\ncircumstances of their lives were in essentials much the same. He lived\nvery probably in some nobleman's castle, where he composed his stories\nas a sort of amateur, and recited the verses to an audience more or\nless select. His pride forbade him to appear personally before the\npopulace, but it permitted him to provide wandering minstrels with\ncopies of these poems, and so entertain the common folk by deputy. In\nthe lord's castle it was, of course, another matter. On summer\nafternoons he would recite before the baron's household, where they\nwere seated on the steps of the garden terrace, each in his order and\ndegree. You can feel the hush and heat of the Provencal evening, whilst\nthe sombre cypresses spire into the sky, and the olives whisper, and,\nfar below, the broad stretches of the Rhone are suffused with the\nlovely light and colour of southern France. Or, in winter, after\nsupper, when the tables were cleared, the trouvere would recite in\nhall. At the feet of the ladies sat their knights on silken cushions,\nfettered with silver chains, each to his friend. It was an audience\nrich and idle, familiar with the fantastic lives of the troubadours,\nand with the wanton judgments of the Courts of Love. For such a company\nno flower of sentiment could be too highly scented, and no tale come\namiss, save only that it spoke of love.\n\nIf the trouveres were \"the aristocracy of this literature,\" the\nminstrel was its \"democracy.\" Sometimes he rose almost to the status of\nthe trouvere, composing his own stories, and reciting them even in\nkings' houses. Generally, however, the minstrel was but a strolling\nplayer, speaking other men's thoughts, and wandering over the length\nand breadth of the land. Occasionally he went alone with his viol. At\nother times he was accompanied by bears, or a little troupe of singing\nboys or dancing girls. The minstrel might have the good fortune to give\nhis entertainment before some knight or count. At any rate, the common\nfolk heard him gladly, before the church or on the village green. If he\nwas lucky, the homeless minstrel got free lodgings for the night at\nsome hospitable monastery, but occasionally he was turned from the\ndoor, with hard words, because of St. Bernard's saying that \"the tricks\nof the jongleurs can never please God.\" Once upon a time such a\nminstrel as this knocked at a monastery door, and asked for\nhospitality. He was received without indecent joy, and the\nguest-master, forgetting that a grace conferred unwillingly is no\nfavour at all, provided the guest with black bread, salted vegetables,\ncold water, and a hard and dirty pallet. The abbot obviously felt no\npassion for strolling vagabonds, and had appointed a guest-master after\nhis own heart. On the morrow, when the minstrel was leaving the\nmonastery, he met the abbot returning from a short journey. To revenge\nhimself, at any rate, on one of the two, the minstrel accosted him\neffusively. \"My lord,\" said he, \"I thank you and all the community from\nthe bottom of my heart, for Brother such-an-one has welcomed me like\nChrist Himself last night. He lighted a fire in my chamber, and served\nme with choice wines, excellent fish, and more dishes than I am able to\nrecall. And this morning when he bade me farewell he gave me shoes,\nand these leathern laces, and a knife.\" When the abbot heard this he\nwas filled with anger, and, parting shortly from the minstrel, he\nhastened to the monastery, and promptly relieved the guest-master of\nhis office, before the latter could offer a word of explanation. Thus\nwas the minstrel revenged on this grudging heart.\n\nIf, however, any reader would like to see closer the actual life of a\nminstrel of the thirteenth century, I would suggest that he obtain the\nexcellent little book on Rutebeuf, one of the most famous of them all,\npublished in the Grands Ecrivains Francais series. There he may read of\nthe poet's bare cupboard, and the unfurnished lodging, where he lived\nwith his ugly and dowerless old wife, who brought him but fifty years\nwith her soup. He coughs with cold and gapes with hunger. He has no\nmattress, but only straw, and a bed of straw is not a bed. He fears to\nface his wife without money for food and rent. If he cannot dig,\nemphatically, to beg he is not ashamed. All his goods are in pawn, and\nhis time is wasted in the tavern, playing dice, which are his curse and\nhis downfall. Well, Rutebeuf is not the first nor the last to be ruined\nby dice. How the Devil must smile! Do you remember the legend of the\nmaking of these little figures? A merchant who sold himself to the\nDevil was bidden by him to make a six-sided piece of bone, and to mark\neach side with a number. One point was to insult the only true God. Two\npoints were to insult God and the Blessed Virgin. Three points to\ninsult the Holy Trinity. Four points to insult the four Evangelists.\nFive points to insult the Sacred Wounds; and six points to insult the\nDays of Creation. From that hour the little figures spread rapidly\nthrough the world, to man's confusion. Such is the picture Rutebeuf\npaints of his life--a life curiously anticipative of that of many a\nBohemian poet since. It is not a very attractive picture, and though\nfor artistic and other reasons the shadows may be unduly darkened, yet\nin the main it is doubtless substantially correct.\n\nThe stories written by such men as these are racy of their soil, and\ngive the very form and pressure of their times. I have tried to make my\nlittle selection representative, and have included in this book not\nonly romances of love and chivalry, but legends of devotion and\nmoralities. Greatly daring, I have translated a specimen of their\nhumour even--not too characteristic, I hope, of the robust merriment\nof the feudal period. These stories will be found illustrative of some\nof the ideas with which the mind of the Middle Ages was concerned. The\ndevotion to the Blessed Sacrament and to Our Lady; the languid and\noverwrought sentiment of love; the mystical ceremonies of knighthood;\nall these things are illuminated by the tales which follow this\nIntroduction. Bound up with them are customs and ideas which to the\nmodern mind are, perhaps, less happy. It seems odd, for instance, that\nthe feudal knight should see nothing repugnant in accepting money and\nclothing from the lady who had given him already the supreme favour of\nher love. It is possible to entertain a high ideal of friendship\nwithout being prepared to cut the throats of your children for the sake\nof your friend. Yet this is what Amile did for Amis in the great epic\nof friendship of the Middle Ages. In its stark adherence to a\nsuperhuman standard, it puts one in mind of the animal-like patience of\nGriselda--which story (not included here) may perhaps be regarded as\nthe modest ideal of the mediaeval husband. It is strange, too, to find\nin stories so concerned with the knightly exercises of the tourney and\nthe joust, no hint of the singular disfavour in which these games (or,\nperhaps, pursuits) were held by the Church. Popes prohibited them; St.\nLouis forbade them. Those slain therein were refused burial in\nconsecrated ground. The Church testified, \"Of those who fell in\ntournament there is no question but that they go down to hell, unless\nthey are aided by the great benefit of absolution.\" At Cologne sixty\nknights and squires were killed, and the cries were heard all about of\ndemons carrying off their souls to perdition. Apparently all this\ntremendous machinery failed utterly in its purpose. The most pious\nknights strove in tournaments equally with the most reckless,\nand--according to Miss Knox, to whose admirable _Court of a Saint_ I am\nindebted--a son of St. Louis himself was thrown at a tourney, and was\nafterwards weak in intellect as a consequence.\n\nNor is it only with the lives of the rich that the mediaeval minstrel\nwas concerned. He dealt, too, with the lives and aspirations of that\nyet more numerous class, the poor. Such a story as \"The Three Thieves\"\nis indeed a picture of the home of the hind. We see the mean mud and\ntimber hovel, into which the thieves broke so easily, with its\ncauldron upon the fire of fagots, its big bedstead, and the little\nlean-to byre. The peasant's tools stood around the wall, whilst outside\nwas the garden, in which a wise ordinance of St. Louis required that\npot-herbs should be planted. And if the tale of \"The Three Thieves\"\nshows us the home of the peasant, his soul is stripped for us to the\nquick, in--of all places in the world of literature--\"Aucassin and\nNicolette.\" Amongst the full-blown flowers of sentiment in that\nincomparable love-story is placed an episode which, in its violence and\nharsh realism, has been likened to a spot of blood and mud on a silver\nground. Possibly it was inserted merely to show the hero's good heart,\nor is simply an instance of that artistic use of contrast so noticeable\nthroughout the book. Any way, there are few things in feudal literature\nmore striking than the meeting of the \"dansellon\" with the tattered,\nhideous ploughman, the one weeping in delicate grief, the other\ntelling, dry-eyed, the sordid story of the abject poor. It is very far\nfrom being the happiest incident in the romance, but it is certainly\none of the most memorable. One wonders how it was taken by an audience\nthat concerned itself so little with the interests of the serf, and\nwhose literature never mentioned that class, except in scorn. Was the\nauthor possibly of the ploughman's kindred, like Chaucer's parish\npriest in _The Canterbury Tales_? Had the stinging whips of captivity\ntaught him sympathy with unpoetical sorrows; or is this an early hint\nof the coming storm! \"They are clothed in velvet, and warm in their\nfurs and their ermines, while we are covered with rags. They have wine\nand spices and fair bread; and we, oat-cake and straw, and water to\ndrink. They have leisure and fine houses; we have pain and labour, the\nrain and the wind in the fields.\" We cannot tell; but comparing this\ndainty make-belief with that tragic misery, we feel the significance of\nthe peasant's cry, \"Woe to those who shall sorrow at the tears of such\nas these.\"\n\nI hope I have not dwelt unduly on these stories considered as pictures\nof the customs and philosophy of their times. Perhaps, after all, these\nmatters are of interest to the archaeologist and the ecclesiologist\nrather than to the general reader. Not being a scholar myself, I have\nno pretension to write for scholars. My object is more modest. I have\ntried to bring together a little garland for the pleasure of the\namateurs of beautiful tales. To me these mediaeval stories are\nbeautiful, and I have striven to decant them from one language into\nanother with as little loss as may be. To this end I have refined a\nphrase, or, perhaps, softened an incident here and there. I do not\npretend that they are perfect works of art. \"All poets are unequal,\nexcept the bad, and they are uniformly bad.\" Sometimes a story drags,\nor there are wearisome repetitions. The psychology occasionally strikes\na modern reader as remarkably summary. When Amis, for example, became a\nleper, we are gravely told that his wife held him in bitter hatred, and\nmany a time strove to strangle him. Here is an author who, obviously,\nis astonished at nothing. But in reading these narratives you will\nremember how they have delighted, and been used by, writers in some\ncases greater than their own authors. Is it possible, for instance, to\nperuse \"The Lay of the Little Bird\" without recalling Shelley's\n\"Sensitive Plant\"? The tale of \"The Divided Horsecloth\" is told, in\nanother version, both by Montaigne and Browning. The principal incident\nof \"King Florus and the Fair Jehane\" is used by Shakespeare in\n\"Cymbeline.\" \"Our Lady's Tumbler\" and \"A Jew who took as Surety the\nImage of Our Lady\" have been re-written by Monsieur Anatole France with\nsuch perfection of art and artistry as to be the admiration and despair\nof all who come after him.\n\nIt should not be forgotten that the majority of these stories were\nintended to be recited, and not read. Repetition, therefore, is the\nmore easily excused. This also accounts for the dramatic use of\ndialogue, so noticeable in \"The Palfrey\" and in \"Aucassin and\nNicolette.\" But it is evident that this Introduction, already\nover-long, will not permit me to go _seriatim_ through these tales,\n\"Item, a grey eye or so. Item, two lips, indifferent red.\" Let me\ntherefore content myself with appreciating the most lovely of them all,\n\"Aucassin and Nicolette.\"\n\nA single copy of \"Aucassin and Nicolette,\" transcribed in the\nthirteenth century, and preserved as by miracle, has retained for us\nnot only a charming tale, but also an unique specimen of the minstrel's\ncraft. Without it we could not have gathered that so elaborate a\nblending of prose and verse was possible to a strolling player of\nmediaeval France. The cante-fable was designed for recitation, with\nillustrative gesture, to the accompaniment of viol and pipes. In this,\nand not only in this, it seems to suggest an Eastern origin, and\nto-day, in any Moorish coffee-house, the tales of the _Arabian Nights_\nare delivered in a manner very similar to that witnessed in Provence\nseven hundred years ago. The peculiar quality of pleasure afforded by\n\"Aucassin and Nicolette\" is not to be found in the story itself. That,\nindeed, is very simple, and, perhaps, a trifle hackneyed. Aucassin, the\nonly son of the Count of Beaucaire, is passionately in love with\nNicolette, a beautiful girl of unknown parentage, bought of the\nSaracens, whom his father will not permit him to marry. The story turns\non the adventures of these fond lovers, until at the end their common\nfidelity is rewarded. Portions have faded sadly, like old tapestry, and\nthe laughter sounds especially hollow, for of all precious things fun\ndies soonest. But in \"Aucassin\" the part is emphatically greater than\nthe whole, and its charm must rather be sought in its graceful turns of\nspeech--jewels, five words long--and in the pictorial quality which\nmakes it more a series of pictures than a narrative. Who can forget the\nstill night of May on which Nicolette escapes from her prison, and\nhurries through the garden, kilting her skirt against the dew; or the\nruined tower in whose kindly shadow she remains hidden, whilst the\nwatch march along the moonlit street, their swords beneath their\nmantles; or that bower of branches, built by her own white hands,\nthrough the trellis-work of which her lover looks upon the stars! In\nsuch felicitous picture-making the dainty little classic is equalled by\nno work of its period.\n\nMay I express the pious wish that every reader may find it all as\ndelightful to read as I have found it to transcribe?\n\nEUGENE MASON.\n\n     NOTE.--The originals of these narratives are to be found in\n     Romania; in the _Fabliaux et Contes des Poetes Francois_,\n     edited by Barbazan et Meon; in two volumes of the _Nouvelles\n     Francoises en prose_, edited by Moland and D'Hericault; and\n     in _Les Miracles de la Sainte Vierge_, by Gautier de Coinci.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n                                                        PAGE\n\n'TIS OF AUCASSIN AND OF NICOLETTE                          1\n\nTHE STORY OF KING CONSTANT, THE EMPEROR                   39\n\nOUR LADY'S TUMBLER                                        53\n\nTHE LAY OF THE LITTLE BIRD                                67\n\nTHE DIVIDED HORSECLOTH                                    75\n\nSIR HUGH OF TABARIE                                       85\n\nTHE STORY OF KING FLORUS AND OF THE FAIR JEHANE           91\n\nOF THE COVETOUS MAN AND OF THE ENVIOUS MAN               129\n\nOF A JEW WHO TOOK AS SURETY THE IMAGE OF OUR LADY        133\n\nTHE LAY OF GRAELENT                                      145\n\nTHE THREE THIEVES                                        161\n\nTHE FRIENDSHIP OF AMIS AND AMILE                         173\n\nOF THE KNIGHT WHO PRAYED WHILST OUR LADY TOURNEYED\nIN HIS STEAD                                             195\n\nTHE PRIEST AND THE MULBERRIES                            199\n\nTHE STORY OF ASENATH                                     203\n\nTHE PALFREY                                              213\n\n\n\n\nMEDIAEVAL ROMANCE\n\n\n\n\n'TIS OF AUCASSIN AND OF NICOLETTE\n\n\n     Who will deign to hear the song\n     Solace of a captive's wrong,\n     Telling how two children met,\n     Aucassin and Nicolette;\n     How by grievous pains distraught,\n     Noble deeds the varlet wrought\n     For his love, and her bright face!\n     Sweet my rhyme, and full of grace,\n     Fair my tale, and debonair.\n     He who lists--though full of care,\n     Sore astonied, much amazed,\n     All cast down, by men mispraised,\n     Sick in body, sick in soul,\n     Hearing shall be glad and whole,\n         So sweet the tale.\n\nNow they say and tell and relate:\n\nHow the Count Bougars of Valence made war on Count Garin of Beaucaire,\nwar so great, so wonderful, and so mortal, that never dawned the day\nbut that he was at the gates and walls and barriers of the town, with a\nhundred knights and ten thousand men-at-arms, on foot and on horse. So\nhe burned the Count's land, and spoiled his heritage, and dealt death\nto his men. The Count Garin of Beaucaire was full of years, and frail;\nhe had long outworn his day. He had no heir, neither son nor daughter,\nsave one only varlet, and he was such as I will tell you. Aucassin was\nthe name of the lad. Fair he was, and pleasant to look upon, tall and\nshapely of body in every whit of him. His hair was golden, and curled\nin little rings about his head; he had grey and dancing eyes, a clear,\noval face, a nose high and comely, and he was so gracious in all good\ngraces that nought in him was found to blame, but good alone. But Love,\nthat high prince, so utterly had cast him down, that he cared not to\nbecome knight, neither to bear arms, nor to tilt at tourneys, nor yet\nto do aught that it became his name to do.\n\nHis father and his mother spake him thus--\n\n\"Son, don now thy mail, mount thy horse, keep thy land, and render aid\nto thy men. Should they see thee amongst them the better will the\nmen-at-arms defend their bodies and their substance, thy fief and\nmine.\"\n\n\"Father,\" said Aucassin, \"why speakest thou in such fashion to me? May\nGod give me nothing of my desire if I become knight, or mount to horse,\nor thrust into the press to strike other or be smitten down, save only\nthat thou give me Nicolette, my sweet friend, whom I love so well.\"\n\n\"Son,\" answered the father, \"this may not be. Put Nicolette from mind.\nFor Nicolette is but a captive maid, come hither from a far country,\nand the Viscount of this town bought her with money from the Saracens,\nand set her in this place. He hath nourished and baptized her, and held\nher at the font. On a near day he will give her to some young bachelor,\nwho will gain her bread in all honour. With this what hast thou to do?\nAsk for a wife, and I will find thee the daughter of a king, or a\ncount. Were he the richest man in France his daughter shalt thou have,\nif so thou wilt.\"\n\n\"Faith, my father,\" said Aucassin, \"what honour of all this world would\nnot Nicolette, my very sweet friend, most richly become! Were she\nEmpress of Byzantium or of Allemaigne, or Queen of France or England,\nlow enough would be her degree, so noble is she, so courteous and\ndebonair, and gracious in all good graces.\"\n\nNow is sung:\n\n     Aucassin was of Beaucaire,\n     Of the mighty castle there,\n     But his heart was ever set\n     On his fair friend, Nicolette.\n     Small he heeds his father's blame,\n     Or the harsh words of his dame.\n         \"Fool, to weep the livelong day,\n     Nicolette trips light and gay.\n     Scouring she from far Carthage,\n     Bought of Paynims for a wage.\n     Since a wife beseems thee good\n     Take a wife of wholesome blood.\"\n     \"Mother, naught for this I care,\n     Nicolette is debonair;\n     Slim the body, fair the face,\n     Make my heart a lighted place;\n     Love has set her as my peer,\n         Too sweet, my dear.\"\n\nNow they say and tell and relate:\n\nWhen the Count Garin of Beaucaire found that in nowise could he\nwithdraw Aucassin his son from the love of Nicolette, he sought out the\nViscount of the town, who was his man, and spake him thus--\n\n\"Sir Count, send Nicolette your god-child straightly from this place.\nCursed be the land wherefrom she was carried to this realm; for because\nof her I lose Aucassin, who will not become knight, nor do aught that\nit becometh knight to do. Know well that were she once within my power\nI would hurry her to the fire; and look well to yourself, for you stand\nin utmost peril and fear.\"\n\n\"Sire,\" answered the Viscount, \"this lies heavy upon me, that ever\nAucassin goes and he comes seeking speech with my ward. I have bought\nher with my money, and nourished and baptized her, and held her at the\nfont. Moreover, I am fain to give her to some young bachelor, who will\ngain her bread in all honour. With this Aucassin your son had nought to\ndo. But since this is your will and your pleasure, I will send her to\nso far a country that nevermore shall he see her with his eyes.\"\n\n\"Walk warily,\" replied the Count Garin, \"for great evil easily may fall\nto you of this.\"\n\nSo they went their ways.\n\nNow the Viscount was a very rich man, and had a rich palace standing\nwithin a garden. In a certain chamber of an upper floor he set\nNicolette in ward, with an old woman to bear her company, and to watch;\nand he put there bread and meat and wine and all things for their need.\nThen he placed a seal upon the door, so that none might enter in, nor\nissue forth, save only that there was a window looking on the garden,\nstrict and close, whereby they breathed a little fresh air.\n\nNow is sung:\n\n     Nicolette is prisoned fast,\n     In a vaulted chamber cast,\n     Shaped and carven wondrous well,\n     Painted as by miracle.\n     At the marble casement stayed\n     On her elbow leaned the maid;\n     Golden showed her golden hair,\n     Softly curved her eyebrows rare,\n     Fair her face, and brightly flushed,\n     Sweeter maiden never blushed.\n     In the garden from her room\n     She might watch the roses bloom,\n     Hear the birds make tender moan;\n     Then she knew herself alone.\n     \"'Lack, great pity 'tis to place\n     Maid in such an evil case.\n     Aucassin, my liege, my squire,\n     Friend, and dear, and heart's desire,\n     Since thou dost not hate me quite\n     Men have done me foul despite,\n     Sealed me in this vaulted room,\n     Thrust me to this bitter doom.\n     But by God, Our Lady's Son,\n     Soon will I from here begone,\n         So it be won.\"\n\nNow they say and tell and relate:\n\nNicolette was prisoned in the chamber, as you have heard and known. The\ncry and the haro went through all the land that Nicolette was stolen\naway. Some said that she had fled the country, and some that the Count\nGarin of Beaucaire had done her to death. Whatever man may have\nrejoiced, Aucassin had no joy therein, so he sought out the Viscount of\nthe town and spake him thus--\n\n\"Sir Viscount, what have you done with Nicolette, my very sweet friend,\nthe thing that most I love in all the world? Have you borne her off, or\nhidden her from my sight? Be sure that should I die hereof, my blood\nwill be required of you, as is most just, for I am slain of your two\nhands, since you steal from me the thing that most I love in all the\nworld.\"\n\n\"Fair sire,\" answered the Viscount, \"put this from mind. Nicolette is a\ncaptive maid whom I brought here from a far country. For her price I\ntrafficked with the Saracens, and I have bred and baptized her, and\nheld her at the font. I have nourished her duly, and on a day will give\nher to some young bachelor who will gain her bread in honourable\nfashion. With this you have nought to do; but only to wed the daughter\nof some count or king. Beyond this, what profit would you have, had\nyou become her lover, and taken her to your bed? Little enough would be\nyour gain therefrom, for your soul would lie tormented in Hell all the\ndays of all time, so that to Paradise never should you win.\"\n\n\"In Paradise what have I to do? I care not to enter, but only to have\nNicolette, my very sweet friend, whom I love so dearly well. For into\nParadise go none but such people as I will tell you of. There go those\naged priests, and those old cripples, and the maimed, who all day long\nand all night cough before the altars, and in the crypts beneath the\nchurches; those who go in worn old mantles and old tattered habits; who\nare naked, and barefoot, and full of sores; who are dying of hunger and\nof thirst, of cold and of wretchedness. Such as these enter in\nParadise, and with them have I nought to do. But in Hell will I go. For\nto Hell go the fair clerks and the fair knights who are slain in the\ntourney and the great wars, and the stout archer and the loyal man.\nWith them will I go. And there go the fair and courteous ladies, who\nhave friends, two or three, together with their wedded lords. And there\npass the gold and the silver, the ermine and all rich furs, harpers and\nminstrels, and the happy of the world. With these will I go, so only\nthat I have Nicolette, my very sweet friend, by my side.\"\n\n\"Truly,\" cried the Viscount, \"you talk idly, for never shall you see\nher more; yea, and if perchance you spoke together, and your father\nheard thereof, he would burn both me and her in one fire, and yourself\nmight well have every fear.\"\n\n\"This lies heavy upon me,\" answered Aucassin.\n\nThus he parted from the Viscount making great sorrow.\n\nNow is sung:\n\n     Aucassin departed thus\n     Sad at heart and dolorous;\n     Gone is she his fairest friend,\n     None may comfort give or mend,\n     None by counsel make good end.\n     To the palace turned he home,\n     Climbed the stair, and sought his room.\n     In the chamber all alone\n     Bitterly he made his moan,\n     Presently began to weep\n     For the love he might not keep.\n     \"Nicolette, so gent, so sweet,\n     Fair the faring of thy feet,\n     Fair thy laughter, sweet thy speech,\n     Fair our playing each with each,\n     Fair thy clasping, fair thy kiss,\n     Yet it endeth all in this.\n     Since from me my love is ta'en\n     I misdoubt that I am slain;\n         Sister, sweet friend.\"\n\nNow they say and tell and relate:\n\nWhilst Aucassin was in the chamber lamenting Nicolette, his friend, the\nCount Bougars of Valence, wishful to end the war, pressed on his\nquarrel, and setting his pikemen and horsemen in array, drew near the\ncastle to take it by storm. Then the cry arose, and the tumult; and the\nknights and the men-at-arms took their weapons, and hastened to the\ngates and the walls to defend the castle, and the burgesses climbed to\nthe battlements, flinging quarrels and sharpened darts upon the foe.\nWhilst the siege was so loud and perilous the Count Garin of Beaucaire\nsought the chamber where Aucassin lay mourning, assotted upon\nNicolette, his very sweet friend, whom he loved so well.\n\n\"Ha, son,\" cried he, \"craven art thou and shamed, that seest thy best\nand fairest castle so hardly beset. Know well that if thou lose it\nthou art a naked man. Son, arm thyself lightly, mount to horse, keep\nthy land, aid thy men, hurtle into the press. Thou needest not to\nstrike another, neither to be smitten down, but if they see thee\namongst them, the better will they defend their goods and their bodies,\nthy land and mine. And thou art so stout and strong that very easily\nthou canst do this thing, as is but right.\"\n\n\"Father,\" answered Aucassin, \"what sayest thou now? May God give me\nnought that I require of Him if I become knight, or mount to horse, or\nthrust into the press to strike knight or be smitten down, save only\nthou givest me Nicolette, my sweet friend, whom I love so well.\"\n\n\"Son,\" replied the father, \"this can never be. Rather will I suffer to\nlose my heritage, and go bare of all, than that thou shouldest have\nher, either as woman or as dame.\"\n\nSo he turned without farewell. But when Aucassin saw him part he stayed\nhim, saying--\n\n\"Father, come now, I will make a true bargain with thee.\"\n\n\"What bargain, fair son?\"\n\n\"I will arm me, and thrust into the press on such bargain as this, that\nif God bring me again safe and sound, thou wilt let me look on\nNicolette, my sweet friend, so long that I may have with her two words\nor three, and kiss her one only time.\"\n\n\"I pledge my word to this,\" said the father.\n\nOf this covenant had Aucassin much joy.\n\nNow is sung:\n\n     Aucassin the more was fain\n     Of the kiss he sought to gain,\n     Rather than his coffers hold\n     A hundred thousand marks of gold.\n     At the call his squire drew near,\n     Armed him fast in battle gear;\n     Shirt and hauberk donned the lad,\n     Laced the helmet on his head,\n     Girt his golden-hilted sword,\n     Came the war-horse at his word,\n     Gripped the buckler and the lance,\n     At the stirrups cast a glance;\n     Then most brave from plume to heel\n     Pricked the charger with the steel,\n     Called to mind his absent dear,\n     Passed the gateway without fear\n         Straight to the fight.\n\nNow they say and tell and relate:\n\nAucassin was armed and horsed as you have heard. God! how bravely\nshowed the shield about his neck, the helmet on his head, and the\nfringes of the baldric upon his left thigh. The lad was tall and\nstrong, slender and comely to look upon, and the steed he bestrode was\ngreat and speedy, and fiercely had he charged clear of the gate. Now\nthink not that he sought spoil of oxen and cattle, nor to smite others\nand himself escape. Nay, but of all this he took no heed. Another was\nwith him, and he thought so dearly upon Nicolette, his fair friend,\nthat the reins fell from his hand, and he struck never a blow. Then the\ncharger, yet smarting from the spur, bore him into the battle, amidst\nthe thickest of the foe, so that hands were laid upon him from every\nside, and he was made prisoner. Thus they spoiled him of shield and\nlance, and forthwith led him from the field a captive, questioning\namongst themselves by what death he should be slain. When Aucassin\nmarked their words,\n\n\"Ha, God,\" cried he, \"sweet Creature, these are my mortal foes who lead\nme captive, and who soon will strike off my head; and when my head is\nsmitten, never again may I have fair speech with Nicolette, my sweet\nfriend, whom I hold so dear. Yet have I a good sword, and my horse is\nyet unblown. Now if I defend me not for her sake, may God keep her\nnever, should she love me still.\"\n\nThe varlet was hardy and stout, and the charger he bestrode was right\nfierce. He plucked forth his sword, and smote suddenly on the right\nhand and on the left, cutting sheer through nasal and headpiece,\ngauntlet and arm, making such ruin around him as the wild boar deals\nwhen brought to bay by hounds in the wood; until he had struck down ten\nknights, and hurt seven more, and won clear of the _melee_, and rode\nback at utmost speed, sword in his hand.\n\nThe Count Bougars of Valence heard tell that his men were about to hang\nAucassin, his foe, in shameful wise, so he hastened to the sight, and\nAucassin passed him not by. His sword was yet in hand, and he struck\nthe Count so fiercely upon the helm, that the headpiece was cleft and\nshattered upon the head. So bewildered was he by the stroke that he\ntumbled to the ground, and Aucassin stretched forth his hand, and took\nhim, and led him captive by the nasal of the helmet, and delivered him\nto his father.\n\n\"Father,\" said Aucassin, \"behold the foe who wrought such war and\nmischief upon you! Twenty years hath this war endured, and none was\nthere to bring it to an end.\"\n\n\"Fair son,\" replied his father, \"better are such deeds as these than\nfoolish dreams.\"\n\n\"Father,\" returned Aucassin, \"preach me no preachings; but carry out\nour bargain.\"\n\n\"Ha, what bargain, fair son?\"\n\n\"How now, father, hast thou returned from the market? By my head, I\nwill remember, whosoever may forget; so close is it to my heart. Didst\nthou not bargain with me when I armed me and fared into the press, that\nif God brought me again safe and sound, thou wouldst grant me sight of\nNicolette, my sweet friend, so long that I might have with her two\nwords or three, and kiss her once? Such was the bargain, so be thou\nhonest dealer.\"\n\n\"I,\" cried the father, \"God aid me never should I keep such terms. Were\nshe here I would set her in the flames, and thou thyself might well\nhave every fear.\"\n\n\"Is this the very end?\" said Aucassin.\n\n\"So help me God,\" said his father; \"yea.\"\n\n\"Certes,\" said Aucassin, \"grey hairs go ill with a lying tongue.\"\n\n\"Count of Valence,\" said Aucassin, \"thou art my prisoner?\"\n\n\"Sire,\" answered the Count, \"it is verily and truly so.\"\n\n\"Give me thy hand,\" said Aucassin.\n\n\"Sire, as you wish.\"\n\nSo each took the other's hand.\n\n\"Plight me thy faith,\" said Aucassin, \"that so long as thou drawest\nbreath, never shall pass a day but thou shalt deal with my father in\nshameful fashion, either in goods or person, if so thou canst!\"\n\n\"Sire, for God's love make me not a jest, but name me a price for my\nransom. Whether you ask gold or silver, steed or palfrey, pelt or fur,\nhawk or hound, it shall be paid.\"\n\n\"What!\" said Aucassin; \"art thou not my prisoner?\"\n\n\"Truly, sire,\" said the Count Bougars.\n\n\"God aid me never,\" quoth Aucassin, \"but I send thy head flying, save\nthou plight me such faith as I said.\"\n\n\"In God's name,\" cried he, \"I plight such affiance as seems most meet\nto thee.\"\n\nHe pledged his troth, so Aucassin set him upon a horse, and brought him\ninto a place of surety, himself riding by his side.\n\nNow is sung:\n\n     When Count Garin knew his son\n     Aucassin still loved but one,\n     That his heart was ever set\n     Fondly on fond Nicolette;\n     Straight a prison he hath found,\n     Paved with marble, walled around,\n     Where in vault beneath the earth\n     Aucassin made little mirth,\n     But with wailing filled his cell\n     In such wise as now I tell.\n     \"Nicolette, white lily-flow'r,\n     Sweetest lady found in bow'r;\n     Sweet as grape that brimmeth up\n     Sweetness in the spiced cup.\n     On a day this chanced to you;\n     Out of Limousin there drew\n     One, a pilgrim, sore adread,\n     Lay in pain upon his bed,\n     Tossed, and took with fear his breath,\n     Very dolent, near to death.\n     Then you entered, pure and white,\n     Softly to the sick man's sight,\n     Raised the train that swept adown,\n     Raised the ermine-bordered gown,\n     Raised the smock, and bared to him\n     Daintily each lovely limb.\n     Then a wondrous thing befell,\n     Straight he rose up sound and well,\n     Left his bed, took cross in hand,\n     Sought again his own dear land.\n     Lily-flow'r, so white, so sweet,\n     Fair the faring of thy feet,\n     Fair thy laughter, fair thy speech,\n     Fair our playing each with each.\n     Sweet thy kisses, soft thy touch,\n     All must love thee over much.\n     'Tis for thee that I am thrown\n     In this vaulted cell alone;\n     'Tis for thee that I attend\n     Death, that comes to make an end,\n         For thee, sweet friend.\"\n\nNow they say and tell and relate:\n\nAucassin was set in prison as you have heard tell, and Nicolette for\nher part was shut in the chamber. It was in the time of summer heat, in\nthe month of May, when the days are warm, long and clear, and the\nnights coy and serene. Nicolette lay one night sleepless on her bed,\nand watched the moon shine brightly through the casement, and listened\nto the nightingale plain in the garden. Then she bethought her of\nAucassin, her friend, whom she loved so well. She called also to mind\nthe Count Garin of Beaucaire, her mortal foe, and feared greatly to\nremain lest her hiding-place should be told to him, and she be put to\ndeath in some shameful fashion. She made certain that the old woman who\nheld her in ward was sound asleep. So she rose, and wrapped herself in\na very fair silk mantle, the best she had, and taking the sheets from\nher bed and the towels of her bath, knotted them together to make so\nlong a rope as she was able, tied it about a pillar of the window, and\nslipped down into the garden. Then she took her skirt in both hands,\nthe one before, and the other behind, and kilted her lightly against\nthe dew which lay thickly upon the grass, and so passed through the\ngarden. Her hair was golden, with little love-locks; her eyes blue and\nlaughing; her face most dainty to see, with lips more vermeil than ever\nwas rose or cherry in the time of summer heat; her teeth white and\nsmall; her breasts so firm that they showed beneath her vesture like\ntwo rounded nuts; so frail was she about the girdle that your two hands\ncould have spanned her, and the daisies that she brake with her feet in\npassing, showed altogether black against her instep and her flesh, so\nwhite was the fair young maiden.\n\nShe came to the postern, and unbarring the gate, issued forth upon the\nstreets of Beaucaire, taking heed to keep within the shadows, for the\nmoon shone very bright, and thus she fared until she chanced upon the\ntower where her lover was prisoned. The tower was buttressed with\npieces of wood in many places, and Nicolette hid herself amongst the\npillars, wrapped close in her mantle. She set her face to a crevice of\nthe tower, which was old and ruinous, and there she heard Aucassin\nweeping within, making great sorrow for the sweet friend whom he held\nso dear; and when she had hearkened awhile she began to speak.\n\nNow is sung:\n\n     Nicolette, so bright of face,\n     Leaned within this buttressed place,\n     Heard her lover weep within,\n     Marked the woe of Aucassin.\n     Then in words her thought she told,\n     \"Aucassin, fond heart and bold,\n     What avails thine heart should ache\n     For a Paynim maiden's sake.\n     Ne'er may she become thy mate,\n     Since we prove thy father's hate,\n     Since thy kinsfolk hate me too;\n     What for me is left to do?\n     Nothing, but to seek the strand,\n     Pass o'er sea to some far land.\"\n     Shore she then one golden tress,\n     Thrust it in her love's duress;\n     Aucassin hath seen the gold\n     Shining bright in that dark hold,\n     Took the lock at her behest,\n     Kissed and placed it in his breast,\n     Then once more his eyes were wet\n         For Nicolette.\n\nNow they say and tell and relate:\n\nWhen Aucassin heard Nicolette say that she would fare into another\ncountry, he was filled with anger.\n\n\"Fair sweet friend,\" said he, \"this be far from thee, for then wouldst\nthou have slain me. And the first man who saw thee, if so he might,\nwould take thee forthwith and carry thee to his bed, and make thee his\nleman. Be sure that if thou wert found in any man's bed, save it be\nmine, I should not need a dagger to pierce my heart and slay me.\nCertes, no; wait would I not for a knife; but on the first wall or the\nnearest stone would I cast myself, and beat out my brains altogether.\nBetter to die so foul a death as this, than know thee to be in any\nman's bed, save mine.\"\n\n\"Aucassin,\" said she, \"I doubt that thou lovest me less than thy words;\nand that my love is fonder than thine.\"\n\n\"Alack,\" cried Aucassin, \"fair sweet friend, how can it be that thy\nlove should be so great? Woman cannot love man, as man loves woman; for\nwoman's love is in the glance of her eye, and the blossom of her\nbreast, and the tip of the toe of her foot; but the love of man is set\ndeep in the hold of his heart, from whence it cannot be torn away.\"\n\nWhilst Aucassin and Nicolette were thus at odds together, the town\nwatch entered the street, bearing naked swords beneath their mantles,\nfor Count Garin had charged them strictly, once she were taken, to put\nher to death. The warder from his post upon the tower marked their\napproach, and as they drew near heard them speaking of Nicolette,\nmenacing her with death.\n\n\"God,\" said he, \"it is great pity that so fair a damsel should be\nslain, and a rich alms should I give if I could warn her privily, and\nso she escape the snare; for of her death Aucassin, my liege, were\ndead already, and truly this were a piteous case.\"\n\nNow is sung:\n\n     Brave the warder, full of guile,\n     Straight he sought some cunning wile;\n     Sought and found a song betime,\n     Raised this sweet and pleasant rhyme.\n     \"Lady of the loyal mind,\n     Slender, gracious, very kind,\n     Gleaming head and golden hair,\n     Laughing lips and eyes of vair!\n     Easy, Lady, 'tis to tell\n     Two have speech who love full well.\n     Yet in peril are they met,\n     Set the snare, and spread the net.\n     Lo, the hunters draw this way,\n     Cloaked, with privy knives, to slay.\n     Ere the huntsmen spie the chace\n     Let the quarry haste apace\n         And keep her well.\"\n\nNow they say and tell and relate.\n\n\"Ah,\" said Nicolette, \"may the soul of thy father and of thy mother\nfind sweetest rest, since in so fair and courteous a manner hast thou\nwarned me. So God please, I will indeed keep myself close, and may He\nkeep me too.\"\n\nShe drew the folds of her cloak about her, and crouched in the darkness\nof the pillars till the watch had passed beyond; then she bade farewell\nto Aucassin, and bent her steps to the castle wall. The wall was very\nruinous, and mended with timber, so she climbed the fence, and went her\nway till she found herself between wall and moat. Gazing below, she saw\nthat the fosse was very deep and perilous, and the maid had great fear.\n\n\"Ah, God,\" cried she, \"sweet Creature, should I fall, my neck must be\nbroken; and if I stay, to-morrow shall I be taken, and men will burn\nmy body in a fire. Yet were it better to die, now, in this place, than\nto be made a show to-morrow in the market.\"\n\nShe crossed her brow, and let herself slide down into the moat, and\nwhen she reached the bottom, her fair feet and pretty hands, which had\nnever learned that they could be hurt, were so bruised and wounded that\nthe blood came from them in places a many; yet knew she neither ill nor\ndolour because of the mightiness of her fear. But if with pain she had\nentered in, still more it cost her to issue forth. She called to mind\nthat it were death to tarry, and by chance found there a stake of\nsharpened wood, which those within the keep had flung forth in their\ndefence of the tower. With this she cut herself a foothold, one step\nabove the other, till with extreme labour she climbed forth from the\nmoat. Now the forest lay but the distance of two bolts from a crossbow,\nand ran some thirty leagues in length and breadth; moreover, within\nwere many wild beasts and serpents. She feared these greatly, lest they\nshould do her a mischief; but presently she remembered that should men\nlay hands upon her, they would lead her back to the city to burn her at\nthe fire.\n\nNow is sung:\n\n     Nicolette the fair, the fond,\n     Climbed the fosse and won beyond;\n     There she kneeled her, and implored\n     Very help of Christ the Lord.\n     \"Father, King of majesty,\n     Where to turn I know not, I.\n     So, within the woodland gloom\n     Wolf and boar and lion roam,\n     Fearful things, with rav'ning maw,\n     Rending tusk and tooth and claw.\n     Yet, if all adread I stay,\n     Men will come at break of day,\n     Treat me to their heart's desire,\n     Burn my body in the fire.\n     But by God's dear majesty\n     Such a death I will not die;\n     Since I die, ah, better then\n     Trust the boar than trust to men.\n     Since all's evil, men and beast,\n         Choose I the least.\"\n\nNow they say and tell and relate:\n\nNicolette made great sorrow in such manner as you have heard. She\ncommended herself to God's keeping, and fared on until she entered the\nforest. She kept upon the fringes of the woodland, for dread of the\nwild beasts and reptiles; and hiding herself within some thick bush,\nsleep overtook her, and she slept fast until six hours of the morn,\nwhen shepherds and herdsmen come from the city to lead their flocks to\npasture between the wood and the river. The shepherds sat by a clear,\nsweet spring, which bubbled forth on the outskirts of the greenwood,\nand spreading a cloak upon the grass, set bread thereon. Whilst they\nate together, Nicolette awoke at the song of the birds and the\nlaughter, and hastened to the well.\n\n\"Fair children,\" said she, \"God have you in His keeping.\"\n\n\"God bless you also,\" answered one who was more fluent of tongue than\nhis companions.\n\n\"Fair child,\" said she, \"do you know Aucassin, the son of Count Garin\nof this realm?\"\n\n\"Yes, we know him well.\"\n\n\"So God keep you, pretty boy,\" said she, \"as you tell him that within\nthis wood there is a fair quarry for his hunting; and if he may take\nher he would not part with one of her members for a hundred golden\nmarks, nor for five hundred, nay, nor for aught that man can give.\"\n\nThen looking upon her steadfastly, their hearts were troubled, the maid\nwas so beautiful.\n\n\"Will I tell him?\" cried he who was readier of word than his\ncompanions. \"Woe to him who speaks of it ever, or tells Aucassin what\nyou say. You speak not truth but faery, for in all this forest there is\nno beast--neither stag, nor lion, nor boar--one of whose legs would be\nworth two pence, or three at the very best, and you talk of five\nhundred marks of gold. Woe betide him who believes your story, or shall\nspread it abroad. You are a fay, and no fit company for such as us, so\npass upon your road.\"\n\n\"Ah, fair child,\" answered she, \"yet you will do as I pray. For this\nbeast is the only medicine that may heal Aucassin of his hurt. And I\nhave here five sous in my purse, take them, and give him my message.\nFor within three days must he hunt this chace, and if within three days\nhe find not the quarry, never may he cure him of his wound.\"\n\n\"By my faith,\" said he, \"we will take the money, and if he comes this\nway we will give him your message, but certainly we will not go and\nlook for him.\"\n\n\"As God pleases,\" answered she.\n\nSo she bade farewell to the shepherds, and went her way.\n\nNow is sung:\n\n     Nicolette as you heard tell\n     Bade the shepherd lads farewell,\n     Through deep woodlands warily\n     Fared she 'neath the leafy tree;\n     Till the grass-grown way she trod\n     Brought her to a forest road,\n     Whence, like fingers on a hand,\n     Forked sev'n paths throughout the land.\n     There she called to heart her love,\n     There bethought her she would prove\n     Whether true her lover's vows.\n     Plucked she then young sapling boughs,\n     Grasses, leaves that branches yield,\n     Oak shoots, lilies of the field;\n     Built a lodge with frond and flow'r,\n     Fairest mason, fairest bow'r!\n     Swore then by the truth of God\n     Should her lover come that road,\n     Nor for love of her who made\n     Dream a little in its shade,\n     'Spite his oath no true love, he,\n         Nor fond heart, she.\n\nNow they say and tell and relate:\n\nNicolette builded the lodge, as you have heard; very pretty it was and\nvery dainty, and well furnished, both outside and in, with a tapestry\nof flowers and of leaves. Then she withdrew herself a little way from\nthe bower, and hid within a thicket to spy what Aucassin would do. And\nthe cry and the haro went through all the realm that Nicolette was\nlost. Some had it that she had stolen away, and others that Count Garin\nhad done her to death. Whoever had joy thereof, Aucassin had little\npleasure. His father, Count Garin, brought him out of his prison, and\nsent letters to the lords and ladies of those parts bidding them to a\nvery rich feast, so that Aucassin, his son, might cease to dote. When\nthe feast was at its merriest, Aucassin leaned against the musicians'\ngallery, sad and all discomforted. No laugh had he for any jest, since\nshe, whom most he loved, was not amongst the ladies set in hall. A\ncertain knight marked his grief, and coming presently to him, said--\n\n\"Aucassin, of such fever as yours I, too, have been sick. I can give\nyou good counsel, if you are willing to listen.\"\n\n\"Sir knight,\" said Aucassin, \"great thanks; good counsel, above all\nthings, I would hear.\"\n\n\"Get to horse,\" said he; \"take your pleasure in the woodland, amongst\nflowers and bracken and the songs of the birds. Perchance, who knows?\nyou may hear some word of which you will be glad.\"\n\n\"Sir knight,\" answered Aucassin, \"great thanks; this I will do.\"\n\nHe left the hall privily, and went down-stairs to the stable where was\nhis horse. He caused the charger to be saddled and bridled, then put\nfoot in stirrup, mounted, and left the castle, riding till he entered\nthe forest, and so by adventure came upon the well whereby the shepherd\nlads were sitting, and it was then about three hours after noon. They\nhad spread a cloak upon the grass, and were eating their bread, with\ngreat mirth and jollity.\n\nNow is sung:\n\n     Round about the well were set\n     Martin, Robin, Esmeret;\n     Jolly shepherds, gaily met,\n     Frulin, Jack and Aubriet.\n     Laughed the one, \"God keep in ward\n     Aucassin, our brave young lord.\n     Keep besides the damsel fair,\n     Blue of eye and gold of hair,\n     Gave us wherewithal to buy\n     Cate and sheath knife presently,\n     Horn and quarter staff and fruit,\n     Shepherd's pipe and country flute;\n         God make him well.\"\n\nNow they say and tell and relate:\n\nWhen Aucassin marked the song of the herdboys he called to heart\nNicolette, his very sweet friend, whom he held so dear. He thought she\nmust have passed that way, so he struck his horse with the spurs and\ncame quickly to the shepherds.\n\n\"Fair children, God keep you.\"\n\n\"God bless you,\" replied he who was readier of tongue than his fellows.\n\n\"Fair children,\" said he, \"tell over again the song that you told but\nnow.\"\n\n\"We will not tell it,\" answered he who was more fluent of speech than\nthe others; \"sorrow be his who sings it to you, fair sir.\"\n\n\"Fair children,\" returned Aucassin, \"do you not know me?\"\n\n\"Oh yes, we know well that you are Aucassin, our young lord; but we are\nnot your men; we belong to the Count.\"\n\n\"Fair children, sing me the song once more, I pray you!\"\n\n\"By the Wounded Heart, what fine words! Why should I sing for you, if I\nhave no wish to do so? Why, the richest man in all the land--saving the\npresence of Count Garin--would not dare to drive my sheep and oxen and\ncows from out his wheatfield or his pasture, for fear of losing his\neyes. Wherefore, then, should I sing for you, if I have no wish to do\nso?\"\n\n\"God keep you, fair children; yet you will do this thing for me. Take\nthese ten sous that I have here in my purse.\"\n\n\"Sire, we will take the money; but I will not sing for you, since I\nhave sworn not to do so; but I will tell it in plain prose, if such be\nyour pleasure.\"\n\n\"As God pleases,\" answered Aucassin; \"better the tale in prose than no\nstory at all.\"\n\n\"Sire, we were in this glade between six and nine of the morn, and were\nbreaking our bread by the well, just as we are doing now, when a girl\ncame by, the loveliest thing in all the world, so fair that we doubted\nher a fay, and she brimmed our wood with light. She gave us money, and\nmade a bargain with us that if you came here we would tell you that you\nmust hunt in this forest, for in it is such a quarry that if you may\ntake her you would not part with one of her members for five hundred\nsilver marks, nor for aught that man can give. For in the quest is so\nsweet a salve that if you take her you shall be cured of your wound;\nand within three days must the chace be taken, for if she be not found\nby then, never will you see her more. Now go to your hunting if you\nwill, and if you will not, let it go, for truly have I carried out my\nbargain with her.\"\n\n\"Fair children,\" cried Aucassin, \"enough have you spoken, and may God\nset me on her track.\"\n\nNow is sung:\n\n     Aucassin's fond heart was moved\n     When this hidden word he proved\n     Sent him by the maid he loved.\n     Straight his charger he bestrode,\n     Bade farewell, and swiftly rode\n     Deep within the forest dim,\n     Saying o'er and o'er to him;\n     \"Nicolette, so sweet, so good,\n     'Tis for you I search this wood;\n     Antlered stag nor boar I chase,\n     Hot I follow on your trace.\n     Slender shape and deep, blue eyes,\n     Dainty laughter, low replies,\n     Fledge the arrow in my heart.\n     Ah, to find you, ne'er to part!\n     Pray God give so fair an end,\n         Sister, sweet friend.\"\n\nNow they say and tell and relate:\n\nAucassin rode through the wood in search of Nicolette, and the charger\nwent right speedily. Do not think that the spines and thorns were\npitiful to him. Truly it was not so; for his raiment was so torn that\nthe least tattered of his garments could scarcely hold to his body, and\nthe blood ran from his arms and legs and flanks in forty places, or at\nleast in thirty, so that you could have followed after him by the blood\nwhich he left upon the grass. But he thought so fondly of Nicolette,\nhis sweet friend, that he felt neither ill nor dolour. Thus all day\nlong he searched the forest in this fashion, but might learn no news of\nher, and when it drew towards dusk he commenced to weep because he had\nheard nothing. He rode at adventure down an old grass-grown road, and\nlooking before him saw a young man standing, such as I will tell you.\nTall he was, and marvellously ugly and hideous. His head was big and\nblacker than smoked meat; the palm of your hand could easily have gone\nbetween his two eyes; he had very large cheeks and a monstrous flat\nnose with great nostrils; lips redder than uncooked flesh; teeth yellow\nand foul; he was shod with shoes and gaiters of bull's hide, bound\nabout the leg with ropes to well above the knee; upon his back was a\nrough cloak; and he stood leaning on a huge club. Aucassin urged his\nsteed towards him, but was all afeared when he saw him as he was.\n\n\"Fair brother, God keep you.\"\n\n\"God bless you too,\" said he.\n\n\"As God keeps you, what do you here?\"\n\n\"What is that to you?\" said he.\n\n\"Truly, naught,\" answered Aucassin. \"I asked with no wish to do you\nwrong.\"\n\n\"And you, for what cause do you weep?\" asked the other, \"and make such\nheavy sorrow? Certainly, were I so rich a man as you are, not the whole\nworld should make me shed a tear.\"\n\n\"Do you know me, then?\" said Aucassin.\n\n\"Yes, well I know you to be Aucassin, the son of the Count, and if you\nwill tell me why you weep, well, then I will tell you what I do here.\"\n\n\"Certes,\" said Aucassin, \"I will tell you with all my heart. I came\nthis morning to hunt in the forest, and with me a white greyhound, the\nswiftest in the whole world. I have lost him, and that is why I weep.\"\n\n\"Hear him,\" cried he, \"by the Sacred Heart, and you make all this\nlamentation for a filthy dog! Sorrow be his who shall esteem you more.\nWhy, there is not a man of substance in these parts who would not give\nyou ten or fifteen or twenty hounds--if so your father wished--and be\nright glad to make you the gift. But for my part I have full reason to\nweep and cry aloud.\"\n\n\"And what is your grief, brother?\"\n\n\"Sire, I will tell you. I was hired by a rich farmer to drive his\nplough, with a yoke of four oxen. Now three days ago, by great\nmischance, I lost the best of my bullocks, Roget, the very best ox in\nthe plough. I have been looking for him ever since, and have neither\neaten nor drunk for three days, since I dare not go back to the town,\nbecause men would put me into prison, as I have no money to pay for my\nloss. Of all the riches of the world I have nought but the rags upon my\nback. My poor old mother, too, who had nothing but one worn-out\nmattress, why, they have taken that from under her, and left her lying\non the naked straw. That hurts me more than my own trouble. For money\ncomes and money goes; if I have lost to-day, why, I may win to-morrow;\nand I will pay for my ox when pay I can. Not for this will I wring my\nhands. And you--you weep aloud for a filthy cur. Sorrow take him who\nshall esteem you more.\"\n\n\"Certes, thou art a true comforter, fair brother, and blessed may you\nbe. What is the worth of your bullock?\"\n\n\"Sire, the villein demands twenty sous for his ox. I cannot beat the\nprice down by a single farthing.\"\n\n\"Hold out your hand,\" said Aucassin; \"take these twenty sous which I\nhave in my purse, and pay for your ox.\"\n\n\"Sire,\" answered the hind, \"many thanks, and God grant you find that\nfor which you seek.\"\n\nSo they parted from each other, and Aucassin rode upon his way. The\nnight was beautiful and still, and so he fared along the forest path\nuntil he came to the seven cross-roads where Nicolette had builded her\nbower. Very pretty it was, and very dainty, and well furnished both\noutside and in, ceiling and floor, with arras and carpet of freshly\nplucked flowers; no sweeter habitation could man desire to see. When\nAucassin came upon it he reined back his horse sharply, and the\nmoonbeams fell within the lodge.\n\n\"Dear God,\" cried Aucassin, \"here was Nicolette, my sweet friend, and\nthis has she builded with her fair white hands. For the sweetness of\nthe house and for love of her, now will I dismount, and here will I\nrefresh me this night.\"\n\nHe withdrew his foot from the stirrup, and the charger was tall and\nhigh. He dreamed so deeply on Nicolette, his very sweet friend, that he\nfell heavily upon a great stone, and his shoulder came from its socket.\nHe knew himself to be grievously wounded, but he forced him to do all\nthat he was able, and fastened his horse with the other hand to a\nthorn. Then he turned on his side, and crawled as best he might into\nthe lodge. Looking through a crevice of the bower he saw the stars\nshining in the sky, and one brighter than all the others, so he began\nto repeat--\n\nNow is sung:\n\n     Little Star I gaze upon\n     Sweetly drawing to the moon,\n     In such golden haunt is set\n     Love, and bright-haired Nicolette.\n     God hath taken from our war\n     Beauty, like a shining star.\n     Ah, to reach her, though I fell\n     From her Heaven to my Hell.\n     Who were worthy such a thing,\n     Were he emperor or king?\n     Still you shine, oh, perfect Star,\n         Beyond, afar.\n\nNow they say and tell and relate:\n\nWhen Nicolette heard Aucassin speak these words she hastened to him\nfrom where she was hidden near by. She entered in the bower, and\nclasping her arms about his neck, kissed and embraced him straitly.\n\n\"Fair sweet friend, very glad am I to find you.\"\n\n\"And you, fair sweet friend, glad am I to meet.\"\n\nSo they kissed, and held each other fast, and their joy was lovely to\nsee.\n\n\"Ah, sweet friend,\" cried Aucassin, \"it was but now that I was in\ngrievous pain with my shoulder, but since I hold you close I feel\nneither sorrow nor wound.\"\n\nNicolette searched his hurt, and perceived that the shoulder was out of\njoint. She handled it so deftly with her white hands, and used such\nskilful surgery, that by the grace of God (who loveth all true lovers)\nthe shoulder came back to its place. Then she plucked flowers, and\nfresh grass and green leafage, and bound them tightly about the setting\nwith the hem torn from her shift, and he was altogether healed.\n\n\"Aucassin,\" said she, \"fair sweet friend, let us take thought together\nas to what must be done. If your father beats the wood to-morrow, and\nmen take me, whatever may chance to you, certainly I shall be slain.\"\n\n\"Certes, fair sweet friend, the sorer grief would be mine. But so I may\nhelp, never shall you come to his hands.\"\n\nSo he mounted to horse, and setting his love before him, held her fast\nin his arms, kissing her as he rode, and thus they came forth to the\nopen fields.\n\nNow is sung:\n\n     Aucassin, that loving squire,\n     Dainty fair to heart's desire,\n     Rode from out the forest dim\n     Clasping her he loved to him.\n     'Laced upon the saddle bow\n     There he kissed her, chin and brow,\n     There embraced her, mouth and eyes.\n     But she spake him, sweetly wise;\n     \"Love, a term to dalliance,\n     Since for us no home in France\n     Seek we Rome or far Byzance?\"\n     \"Sweet my love, all's one to me,\n     Dale or woodland, earth or sea;\n     Nothing care I where we ride\n     So I hold you at my side.\"\n     So, enlaced, the lovers went,\n     Skirting town and battlement,\n     Rocky scaur, and quiet lawn;\n     Till one morning, with the dawn,\n     Broke the cliffs down to the shore,\n     Loud they heard the surges roar,\n         Stood by the sea.\n\nNow they say and tell and relate:\n\nAucassin dismounted upon the sand, he and Nicolette together, as you\nhave heard tell. He took his horse by the bridle, and his damsel by the\nhand, and walked along the beach. Soon they perceived a ship,\nbelonging to merchants of those parts, sailing close by, so Aucassin\nmade signs to the sailors, and presently they came to him. For a\ncertain price they agreed to take them upon the ship, but when they had\nreached the open sea a great and marvellous storm broke upon the\nvessel, and drove them from land to land until they drew to a far-off\ncountry, and cast anchor in the port of the castle of Torelore. Then\nthey asked to what realm they had fared, and men told them that it was\nthe fief of the King of Torelore. Then inquired Aucassin what manner of\nman was this king, and whether there was any war, and men answered--\n\n\"Yes, a mighty war.\"\n\nSo Aucassin bade farewell to the merchants, and they commended him to\nGod. He belted his sword about him, climbed to horse, taking his love\nbefore him on the saddle bow, and went his way till he came to the\ncastle. He asked where the King might be found, and was told that he\nwas in child-bed.\n\n\"Where, then, is his wife?\"\n\nAnd they answered that she was with the host, and had carried with her\nall the armed men of those parts. When Aucassin heard these things he\nmarvelled very greatly. He came to the palace door and there\ndismounted, bidding Nicolette to hold the bridle. Then, making his\nsword ready, he climbed the palace stair, and searched until he came to\nthe chamber where the King lay.\n\nNow is sung:\n\n     Hot from searching, Aucassin\n     Found the room and entered in;\n     There before the couch he stayed\n     Where the King, alone, was laid,\n     Marked the King, and marked the bed,\n     Marked this lying-in, then said,\n     \"Fool, why doest thou this thing?\"\n     \"I'm a mother,\" quoth the King:\n     \"When my month is gone at length,\n     And I come to health and strength,\n     Then shall I hear Mass once more\n     As my fathers did before,\n     Arm me lightly, take my lance,\n     Set my foe a right fair dance,\n         Where horses prance.\"\n\nNow they say and tell and relate:\n\nWhen Aucassin heard the King speak thus he took the linen from the bed,\nand flung it about the chamber. He saw a staff in the corner, so he\nseized it, returned to the bed, and beat the King so rudely therewith,\nthat he was near to die.\n\n\"Ha, fair sire,\" cried the King, \"what do you require of me? Are you\nmad that you treat me thus in my own house?\"\n\n\"By the Sacred Heart,\" said Aucassin, \"bad son of a shameless mother, I\nwill strike with the sword if you do not swear to me that man shall\nnever lie in child-bed in your realm again.\"\n\nHe plighted troth, and when he was thus pledged, \"Sire,\" required\nAucassin, \"bring me now where your wife is with the host.\"\n\n\"Sire, willingly,\" said the King.\n\nHe got to horse, and Aucassin mounted his, leaving Nicolette at peace\nin the Queen's chamber. The King and Aucassin rode at adventure until\nthey came to where the Queen was set, and they found that the battle\nwas joined with roasted crab-apples and eggs and fresh cheeses. So\nAucassin gazed upon the sight and marvelled greatly.\n\nNow is sung:\n\n     Aucassin hath drawn his rein,\n     From the saddle stared amain,\n     Marked the set and stricken field,\n     Cheered the hearts that would not yield.\n     They had carried to the fight\n     Mushrooms, apples baked aright,\n     And for arrows, if you please,\n     Pelted each with good fresh cheese.\n     He who muddied most the ford\n     Bore the prize in that award.\n     Aucassin, the brave, the true,\n     Watched these deeds of derring do,\n         Laughed loudly too.\n\nNow they say and tell and relate:\n\nWhen Aucassin saw this strange sight he went to the King and asked of\nhim--\n\n\"Sire, are these your foes?\"\n\n\"Yea, sire,\" answered the King.\n\n\"And would you that I should avenge you on them?\"\n\n\"Yea,\" answered he, \"right willingly.\"\n\nSo Aucassin took sword in hand, and throwing himself in the _melee_,\nstruck fiercely on the right and on the left, and slew many. When the\nKing saw the death that Aucassin dealt he snatched at his bridle and\ncried--\n\n\"Hold, fair sire, deal not with them so cruelly.\"\n\n\"What,\" said Aucassin, \"was it not your wish that I should avenge you\non your enemies?\"\n\n\"Sire,\" replied the King, \"too ready is such payment as yours. It is\nnot our custom, nor theirs, to fight a quarrel to the death.\"\n\nThereon the foemen fled the field.\n\nThe King and Aucassin returned in triumph to the castle of Torelore,\nand the men of the country persuaded the King that he should cast\nAucassin forth from the realm, and give Nicolette to his son, for she\nseemed a fair woman of high lineage. When Nicolette heard thereof she\nhad little comfort, so began to say--\n\nNow is sung:\n\n     Simple folk, and simple King,\n     Deeming maid so slight a thing.\n     When my lover finds me sweet,\n     Sweetly shapen, brow to feet,\n     Then know I such dalliance,\n     No delight of harp, or dance,\n     Sweetest tune, or fairest mirth,\n     All the play of all the earth\n         Seems aught of worth.\n\nNow they say and tell and relate:\n\nAucassin abode in the castle of Torelore in ease and great delight,\nhaving with him Nicolette his sweet friend, whom he loved so well.\nWhilst his days passed in so easy and delightful a manner a great\ncompany of Saracens came in galleys oversea and beset the castle, and\npresently took it by storm. They gathered together the spoil, and bore\noff the townsfolk, both men and women, into captivity. Amongst these\nwere seized Nicolette and Aucassin, and having bound Aucassin, both\nhands and feet, they flung him into one vessel, and bestowed Nicolette\nupon another. Thereafter a great tempest arose at sea, and drove these\ngalleys apart. The ship whereon Aucassin lay bound, drifted idly, here\nand there, on wind and tide, till by chance she went ashore near by the\ncastle of Beaucaire, and the men of that part hurrying to the wreck,\nfound Aucassin, and knew him again. When the men of Beaucaire saw their\nlord they had much joy, for Aucassin had lived at the castle of\nTorelore in all ease for three full years, and his father and his\nmother were dead. They brought him to the castle of Beaucaire, and\nknelt before him; so held he his realm in peace.\n\nNow is sung:\n\n     Aucassin hath gained Beaucaire,\n     Men have done him homage there;\n     Holds he now in peace his fief,\n     Castellan and count and chief.\n     Yet with heaviness and grief\n     Goeth he in that fair place,\n     Lacking love and one sweet face;\n     Grieving more for one bright head\n     Than he mourneth for his dead.\n     \"Dearest love, and lady kind,\n     Treasure I may never find,\n     God hath never made that strand\n     Far o'er sea or long by land,\n     Where I would not seek such prize\n         And merchandize.\"\n\nNow they say and tell and relate:\n\nNow leave we Aucassin and let us tell of Nicolette. The ship which\ncarried Nicolette belonged to the King of Carthage, and he was her\nfather, and she had twelve brothers, all princes or kings in the land.\nWhen they saw the beauty of the girl, they made much of her, and bore\nher in great reverence, and questioned her straitly as to her degree,\nfor certainly she seemed to them a very gracious lady and of high\nlineage. But she could not tell them aught thereof, for she was but a\nlittle child when men sold her into captivity. So the oarsmen rowed\nuntil the galley cast anchor beneath the city of Carthage, and when\nNicolette gazed on the battlements and the country round about, she\ncalled to mind that there had she been cherished, and from thence borne\naway when but an unripe maid; yet she was not snatched away so young\nbut that she could clearly remember that she was the daughter of the\nKing of Carthage, and once was nourished in the city.\n\nNow is sung:\n\n     Nicolette, that maid demure,\n     Set her foot on alien shore;\n     Marked the city fenced with walls,\n     Gazed on palaces and halls.\n     Then she sighed, \"Ah, little worth\n     All the pomp of all the earth,\n     Since the daughter of a king,\n     Come of Sultan's blood, they bring\n     Stripped to market, as a slave.\n     Aucassin, true heart and brave,\n     Sweet thy love upon me steals,\n     Urges, clamours, pleads, appeals;\n     Would to God that peril past\n     In my arms I held you fast;\n     Would to God that in this place\n     We were stayed in one embrace,\n     Fell your kisses on my face,\n         My dear, my fere.\"\n\nNow they say and tell and relate:\n\nWhen the King of Carthage heard Nicolette speak in this wise he put his\narms about her neck.\n\n\"Fair sweet friend,\" said he, \"tell me truly who you are, and be not\nesmayed of me.\"\n\n\"Sire,\" answered she, \"truly am I daughter to the King of Carthage, and\nwas stolen away when but a little child, full fifteen years ago.\"\n\nWhen they heard her say this thing they were assured that her words\nwere true, so they rejoiced greatly, and brought her to the palace in\nsuch pomp as became the daughter of a king. They sought to give her\nsome king of those parts as husband and baron, but she had no care to\nmarry. She stayed in the palace three or four days, and considered in\nher mind by what means she might flee and seek Aucassin. So she\nobtained a viol, and learned to play thereon; and when on a certain day\nthey would have given her in marriage to a rich king among the Paynim,\nshe rose at night and stole away secretly, wandering until she came to\nthe seaport, where she lodged with some poor woman in a house near the\nshore. There, by means of a herb, she stained her head and face, so\nthat her fairness was all dark and discoloured; and having made herself\ncoat and mantle, shirt and hose, she equipped her in the guise of a\nminstrel. Then, taking her viol, she sought out a sailor, and persuaded\nhim sweetly to grant her a passage in his ship. They hoisted sail, and\nvoyaged over the rough seas until they came to the land of Provence;\nand Nicolette set foot on shore, carrying her viol, and fared playing\nthrough the country, until she came to the castle of Beaucaire, in the\nvery place where Aucassin was.\n\nNow is sung:\n\n     'Neath the keep of strong Beaucaire\n     On a day of summer fair,\n     At his pleasure, Aucassin\n     Sat with baron, friend and kin.\n     Then upon the scent of flow'rs,\n     Song of birds, and golden hours,\n     Full of beauty, love, regret,\n     Stole the dream of Nicolette,\n     Came the tenderness of years;\n     So he drew apart in tears.\n     Then there entered to his eyes\n     Nicolette, in minstrel guise,\n     Touched the viol with the bow,\n     Sang as I will let you know.\n     \"Lords and ladies, list to me,\n     High and low, of what degree;\n     Now I sing, for your delight,\n     Aucassin, that loyal knight,\n     And his fond friend, Nicolette.\n     Such the love betwixt them set\n     When his kinsfolk sought her head\n     Fast he followed where she fled.\n     From their refuge in the keep\n     Paynims bore them o'er the deep.\n     Nought of him I know to end.\n     But for Nicolette, his friend,\n     Dear she is, desirable,\n     For her father loves her well;\n     Famous Carthage owns him king,\n     Where she has sweet cherishing.\n     Now, as lord he seeks for her,\n     Sultan, Caliph, proud Emir.\n     But the maid of these will none,\n     For she loves a dansellon,\n     Aucassin, who plighted troth.\n     Sworn has she some pretty oath\n     Ne'er shall she be wife or bride,\n     Never lie at baron's side\n         Be he denied.\"\n\nNow they say and tell and relate:\n\nWhen Aucassin heard Nicolette sing in this fashion he was glad at\nheart, so he drew her aside, and asked--\n\n\"Fair sweet friend,\" said Aucassin, \"know you naught of this Nicolette,\nwhose ballad you have sung?\"\n\n\"Sire, truly, yes; well I know her for the most loyal of creatures, and\nas the most winning and modest of maidens born. She is daughter to the\nKing of Carthage, who took her when Aucassin also was taken, and\nbrought her to the city of Carthage, till he knew for certain that she\nwas his child, whereat he rejoiced greatly. Any day he would give her\nfor husband one of the highest kings in all Spain; but rather would she\nbe hanged or burned than take him, however rich he be.\"\n\n\"Ah, fair sweet friend,\" cried the Count Aucassin, \"if you would return\nto that country and persuade her to have speech with me here, I would\ngive you of my riches more than you would dare to ask of me or to take.\nKnow that for love of her I choose not to have a wife, however proud\nher race, but I stand and wait; for never will there be wife of mine\nif it be not her, and if I knew where to find her I should not need to\ngrope blindly for her thus.\"\n\n\"Sire,\" answered she, \"if you will do these things I will go and seek\nher for your sake, and for hers too; because to me she is very dear.\"\n\nHe pledged his word, and caused her to be given twenty pounds. So she\nbade him farewell, and he was weeping for the sweetness of Nicolette.\nAnd when she saw his tears--\n\n\"Sire,\" said she, \"take it not so much to heart; in so short a space\nwill I bring her to this town, and you shall see her with your eyes.\"\n\nWhen Aucassin knew this he rejoiced greatly. So she parted from him,\nand fared in the town to the house of the Viscountess, for the\nViscount, her god-father, was dead. There she lodged, and opened her\nmind fully to the lady on all the business; and the Viscountess\nrecalled the past, and knew well that it was Nicolette whom she had\ncherished. So she caused the bath to be heated, and made her take her\nease for fully eight days. Then Nicolette sought a herb that was called\ncelandine, and washed herself therewith, and became so fair as she had\nnever been before. She arrayed her in a rich silken gown from the\nlady's goodly store; and seated herself in the chamber on a rich stuff\nof broidered sendal; then she whispered the dame, and begged her to\nfetch Aucassin, her friend. This she did. When she reached the palace,\nlo, Aucassin in tears, making great sorrow for the long tarrying of\nNicolette, his friend; and the lady called to him, and said--\n\n\"Aucassin, behave not so wildly; but come with me, and I will show you\nthat thing you love best in all the world; for Nicolette, your sweet\nfriend, is here from a far country to seek her love.\"\n\nSo Aucassin was glad at heart.\n\nNow is sung:\n\n     When he learned that in Beaucaire\n     Lodged his lady, sweet and fair,\n     Aucassin arose, and came\n     To her hostel, with the dame:\n     Entered in, and passed straightway\n     To the chamber where she lay.\n     When she saw him, Nicolette\n     Had such joy as never yet;\n     Sprang she lightly to her feet\n     Swiftly came with welcome meet.\n     When he saw her, Aucassin\n     Oped both arms, and drew her in,\n     Clasped her close in fond embrace,\n     Kissed her eyes and kissed her face.\n     In such greeting sped the night,\n     Till, at dawning of the light,\n     Aucassin, with pomp most rare,\n     Crowned her Countess of Beaucaire.\n     Such delight these lovers met,\n     Aucassin and Nicolette.\n     Length of days and joy did win,\n     Nicolette and Aucassin,\n     Endeth song and tale I tell\n         With marriage bell.\n\n\n\n\nTHE STORY OF KING CONSTANT, THE EMPEROR\n\n\nNow telleth the tale that once upon a time there lived an Emperor of\nByzantium, the which town is now called Constantinople, but in ancient\ndays it was called Byzantium. In days long since there reigned in this\ncity an Emperor; a Paynim he was, and was held to be a great clerk in\nthe laws of his religion. He was learned in a science called astronomy,\nand knew the courses of the stars, the planets and the moon; moreover,\nin the stars he read many marvels; he had knowledge of many things\nwhich the Paynims study deeply, and had faith in divinations, and in\nthe answers of the Evil One--that is to say, the Adversary. He knew,\nbesides, much of enchantments and sorceries, as many a Paynim doth to\nthis very day.\n\nNow it chanced that the Emperor Muselin fared forth one night, he and a\ncertain lord of his together, and went their ways about this city of\nConstantinople, and the moon shone very clear. They heard a Christian\nwoman, travailing of child, cry aloud as they passed before her house;\nbut the husband of this dame was set in the terrace upon his roof, and\nnow he prayed God to deliver her from her peril, and again he prayed\nthat she might not be delivered. When the Emperor had listened to his\nwords for a long time, he said to the knight--\n\n\"Have you heard this caitif who prays now that his wife may not be\ndelivered of her child, and again that she may be delivered? Surely he\nis viler than any thief, for every man should show pity to woman, and\nthe greater pity to her in pain with child. But may Mahound and\nTermagaunt aid me never if I hang him not by the neck, so he give me\nnot fair reason for this deed. Let us now go to him.\"\n\nSo they went, and the Emperor spake him thus, \"Caitif, tell me truly\nwhy thou prayest thy God in this fashion, now that He should deliver\nthy wife in her labour, and again that she should not be delivered;\nthis must I know!\"\n\n\"Sire,\" answered he, \"I will tell you readily. Truly I am a clerk, and\nknow much of a science that men call astrology. I have learned, too,\nthe courses of the stars and the planets, and thus I knew well that\nwere my wife delivered in that hour when I prayed God to close her\nwomb, then the child must be for ever lost, and certainly would he be\nhanged, or drowned, or set within the fire. But when I saw the hour was\ngood, and the case fair, then I prayed God that she might be delivered;\nand I cried to Him, so that of His mercy He heard my prayer, and now\nthe boy is born to a goodly heritage; blessed be God and praised be His\nName.\"\n\n\"Now tell me,\" said the King, \"to what fair heritage is this child\nborn?\"\n\n\"Sire,\" said he, \"with all my heart. Know, sire, of a truth that the\nchild born in this place shall have to wife the daughter of the Emperor\nof this town, she who was born but eight days since, and shall become\nEmperor and lord of this city, and of the whole world.\"\n\n\"Caitif,\" cried the Emperor, \"never can it come to pass as thou\nsayest.\"\n\n\"Sire,\" answered he, \"so shall it be seen, and thus behoveth it to be.\"\n\n\"Certes,\" said the Emperor, \"great faith hath he who receives it.\"\n\nThen they went from the house, but the Emperor commanded his knight\nthat he should bear away the child in so privy a manner, if he were\nable, that none should see the deed. The knight came again to the\nhouse, and found two women in the chamber, diligently tending the\nmother in her bed, but the child was wrapt in linen clothes, and was\nlaid upon a stool. Thereupon the knight entered the room, and set hands\nupon the child, and placed him on a certain table used for chess, and\ncarried him to the Emperor, in so secret a fashion that neither nurse\nnor mother saw aught thereof. Then the Emperor struck the child with a\nknife, wounding him from the stomach to the navel, protesting to the\nknight that never should son of such a miscreant have his daughter to\nwife, nor come to sit upon his throne. He would even have plucked the\nheart from out the breast, but the knight dissuaded him, saying--\n\n\"Ah, sire, for the love of God, what is this thing that you would do!\nSuch a deed becomes you naught, and if men heard thereof, great\nreproach would be yours. Enough have you done, for he is more than dead\nalready. But if it be your pleasure to take further trouble in the\nmatter, give him to me, and I will cast him in the sea.\"\n\n\"Yea,\" cried the Emperor, \"throw him in the water, for I hate him too\nmuch.\"\n\nThe knight took the child, wrapped him in a piece of broidered silk,\nand went with him towards the water. But on his way, pity came into his\nheart, and he thought within himself that never should new-born babe be\ndrowned by him; so he set him, swathed in the silken cloth, on a warm\nmuck-heap, before the gate of a certain abbey of monks, who at that\nhour were chanting matins. When the monks kept silence from their\nsinging, they heard the crying of the child, and carried him to the\nLord Abbot, who commanded that so fair a boy should be cherished of\nthem. So they unswathed him from the piece of stuff, and saw the grisly\nwound upon his body. As soon, therefore, as it was day the Abbot sent\nfor physicians, and inquired of them at what cost they would cure the\nchild of his hurt; and they asked of him one hundred pieces of gold.\nBut he answered that such a sum was beyond his means, and that the\nsaving of the child would prove too costly. Then he made a bargain with\nthe surgeons to heal the child of his wound for eighty golden pieces;\nand afterwards he brought him to the font, and caused him to be named\nCOUSTANT, because of his costing the abbey so great a sum to be made\nwhole.\n\nWhilst the doctors were about this business, the Abbot sought out a\nhealthy nurse, in whose breast the infant lay till he was healed of his\nhurt, for his flesh was soft and tender, and the knife wound grew\ntogether quickly, but ever after on his body showed the gash. The child\ngrew in stature, and to great beauty. When he was seven years old the\nAbbot put him to school, where he proved so fair a scholar that he\npassed all his class-mates in aptness and knowledge. When he was twelve\nyears of age the boy had come to marvellous beauty; no fairer could you\nfind in all the land; and when the Abbot saw how comely was the lad and\nhow gracious, he caused him to ride in his train when he went abroad.\n\nNow it chanced that the Abbot wished to complain to the Emperor of a\ncertain wrong that his servants had done to the abbey. So the Abbot\nmade ready a rich present, for the abbey and monastery were his\nvassals, although this Emperor was but a Saracen. When the Abbot had\nproffered his goodly gift, the Emperor appointed a time, three days\nthence, to inquire into the matter, when he would lie at a castle of\nhis, some three miles out from the city of Byzantium. On the day fixed\nby the Emperor, the Abbot got to horse, with his chaplain, his squire,\nand his train; and amongst them rode Constant, so goodly in every whit\nthat all men praised his exceeding beauty, and said amongst themselves\nthat certainly he came of high peerage, and would rise to rank and\nwealth. Thus rode the Abbot towards the castle where the Emperor lay,\nand when they met, he greeted him and did him homage, and the Emperor\nbade him to enter within the castle, where he would speak with him of\nhis wrong. The Abbot bowed before him and answered--\n\n\"Sire, as God wills.\"\n\nThe Abbot called Constant to him, for the lad carried the prelate's hat\nof felt, whilst he talked with the Emperor, and the Emperor gazed on\nthe varlet, and saw him so comely and winning, that never before had he\nseen so fair a person. Then he asked who the boy was; and the Abbot\nanswered that he knew little, save that he was his man, and that the\nabbey had nourished him from his birth--\"and truly were this business\nof ours finished, I could relate fine marvels concerning him.\"\n\n\"Is this so?\" said the Emperor; \"come now with me to the castle, and\nthere you shall tell me the truth.\"\n\nThe Emperor returned to the castle, and the Abbot was ever at his side,\nas one who had a heavy business, and he made the best bargain that he\nmight, for the Emperor was his lord and suzerain. But the matter did\nnot put from the Emperor's mind the great beauty of the lad, and he\ncommanded the Abbot to bring the varlet before him. So the boy was sent\nfor, and came with speed. When Constant stood in the presence, the\nEmperor praised his beauty, and said to the Abbot that it was a great\npity that so fair a child should be a Christian. The Abbot replied that\nit was rather a great happiness, for one day he would render to God an\nunspotted soul. When the Emperor heard this thing he laughed at his\nfolly, saying the laws of Christ were of nothing worth, and that hell\nwas the portion of such as put faith in them. Sorely grieved was the\nAbbot when he heard the Paynim jest in this fashion, but he dared not\nto answer as he wished, and spake soft words to him right humbly.\n\n\"Sire, so it pleases the Almighty, such souls are not lost, for, with\nall sinners, they go to the mercy of the Merciful.\"\n\nThe Emperor inquired when the boy came to his hands, and the Abbot\nreplied that fifteen years before he was found by night on the\nmuck-heap before the abbey door.\n\n\"Our monks heard the wail of a tiny child as they came from chanting\nmatins, so they searched for him, and carried him to me. I looked on\nthe child, and he was very fair, so that I bade them to take him to the\nfont and to cherish him duly. He was swathed in a rich stuff of scarlet\nsilk, and when he was unwrapped I saw on his stomach a grievous wound;\nso I sent for doctors and surgeons, and bargained with them to cure him\nof his hurt for eighty pieces of gold. Afterwards we baptized him, and\ngave him the name of COUSTANT, because of his costing so great a sum to\nbe made whole. Yet, though he be healed of his wound, never will his\nbody lose the mark of that grisly gash.\"\n\nWhen the Emperor heard this story he knew well that it was the child\nwhom he had sought to slay in so felon a fashion; so he prayed the\nAbbot to give the lad to his charge. Then replied the Abbot that he\nwould put the matter before his Chapter, but that for his own part the\nboy should be given to the King very willingly. Never a word, for good\nor evil, spake the King; so the Abbot took leave, and returned to the\nmonastery, and calling a Chapter of his monks, told them that the\nEmperor demanded Constant from their hands.\n\n\"But I answered that I must speak to you to know your pleasure therein.\nNow answer if I have done aright.\"\n\n\"What, sire, done rightly!\" cried the gravest and wisest of all the\nmonks; \"evilly and foolishly have you done in not giving him just what\nhe asked at once. If you will hear our counsel, send Constant to him\nnow as he requires, lest he be angry with us, for quickly can he do us\nmuch mischief.\"\n\nSince it seemed to all the Chapter good that Constant should be sent to\nthe Emperor, the Abbot bade the prior to go upon this errand, and he\nobeyed, saying, \"As God pleases.\"\n\nHe got to horse, and Constant with him, and riding to the Emperor,\ngreeted him in the name of the Abbot and the abbey; then taking\nConstant by the hand, gave him to the Emperor formally, in such names\nand in their stead. The Paynim received him as one angered that a\nnameless man and vagabond must have a king's daughter to wife, and well\nhe thought in his heart to serve him some evil turn.\n\nWhen the Emperor held Constant in his power, he pondered deeply how he\nmight slay him, and no man speak a word. It chanced at this time that\nthe Emperor had business which called him to the frontier of his realm,\na very long way off, a full twelve days' journey. He set forth,\ncarrying Constant in his train, yet brooding how to do him to death;\nand presently he caused letters to be written in this wise to the\ncastellan of Byzantium.\n\n     \"I, the Emperor of Byzantium, and lord of Greece, make him,\n     the governor of my city, to know that as soon as he shall\n     read this letter he shall slay, or cause to be slain, the\n     bearer of this letter, forthwith, upon the delivery thereof.\n     As your proper body to you is dear, so fail not this\n     command.\"\n\nSuch was the letter Constant carried, and little he knew that it was\nhis death he held in hand. He took the warrant, which was closely\nsealed, and set out upon his way, riding in such manner that in less\nthan fifteen days he reached Byzantium, the town we now call\nConstantinople. When the varlet rode through the gate it was the\ndinner-hour, so (by the will of God) he thought he would not carry his\nletter to table, but would wait till men had dined. He came with his\nhorse to the palace garden, and the weather was very hot, for it was\nnear to Midsummer day. The pleasaunce was deep and beautiful, and the\nlad unbitted his horse, loosened the saddle, and let him graze; then he\nthrew himself down beneath the shelter of a tree, and in that sweet and\npeaceful place presently fell sound asleep.\n\nNow it happened that when the fair daughter of the Emperor had dined,\nshe entered the garden, and with her four of her maidens, and soon they\nbegan to run one after the other, in such play as is the wont of\ndamsels when alone. Playing thus, the fair daughter of the Emperor\nfound herself beneath the tree where Constant lay sleeping, and he was\nflushed as any rose. When the Princess saw him, she would not willingly\nwithdraw her eyes, saying to her own heart that never in her life had\nshe beheld so comely a person. Then she called to her that one of her\ncompanions who was her closest friend, and made excuses to send the\nothers forth from the garden. The fair maiden took her playfellow by\nthe hand, and brought her towards the slumbering youth, saying--\n\n\"Sweet friend, here is rich and hidden treasure. Certes, never in all\nmy days have I seen so gracious a person. He is the bearer of letters,\nand right willingly would I learn his news.\"\n\nThe two damsels came near the sleeping lad, and softly withdrew the\nletter. When the Princess read the warrant she began to weep very\nbitterly, and said to her companion, \"Certainly this is a heavy\nmatter.\"\n\n\"Ah, madame,\" said her fellow, \"tell me all the case.\"\n\n\"Truly,\" answered the Princess, \"could I but trust you fully, such\nheaviness should soon be turned to joy.\"\n\n\"Lady,\" replied she, \"surely you may trust me; never will I make known\nthat which you desire to be hid.\"\n\nSo that maiden, the daughter of the Emperor, caused her fellow to\npledge faith by all that she held most dear, and then she revealed what\nthe letter held; and the girl answered her--\n\n\"Lady, what would you do herein?\"\n\n\"I will tell you readily,\" said the Princess. \"I will put within his\ngirdle another letter from my father in place of this, bidding the\ncastellan to give me as wife to this comely youth, and to call all the\npeople of this realm to the wedding banquet; for be sure that the youth\nis loyal and true, and a man of peerage.\"\n\nWhen the maiden heard this she said within herself that such a turn\nwere good to play.\n\n\"But, Lady, how may you get the seal of your father to the letter?\"\n\n\"Very easily,\" answered the Princess; \"ere my father left for the\nmarches he gave me eight sheets of parchment, sealed at the foot with\nhis seal, but with nothing written thereon, and there will I set all\nthat I have told you.\"\n\n\"Lady,\" said she, \"right wisely have you spoken; but lose no time, and\nhasten lest he awake.\"\n\n\"I will go now,\" said the Princess.\n\nThe fair maiden, the daughter of the Emperor, went straight to her\nwedding chest, and drew therefrom one of the sealed parchments left her\nby her father, so that she might borrow moneys in his name should\noccasion arise. For, always was this king and his people at war with\nfelon and mighty princes whose frontiers were upon his borders. Thereon\nshe wrote her letter in such manner as this--\n\n     \"I, King Muselin, Emperor of Greece and of Byzantium the\n     great city, to my Castellan of Byzantium greeting. I command\n     you to give the bearer of this letter to my fair daughter in\n     marriage, according to our holy law; for I have heard, and\n     am well persuaded, that he is of noble descent and right\n     worthy the daughter of a king. And, moreover, at such time\n     grant holiday and proclaim high festival to all burgesses of\n     the city, and throughout my realm.\"\n\nIn such fashion wrote and witnessed the letter of that fair maiden the\ndaughter of the Emperor. So when her letter was finished she hastened\nto the garden, she and her playmate together, and finding Constant yet\nasleep, placed privily the letter beneath his girdle. Then the two\ngirls began to sing and to make such stir as must needs arouse him. The\nlad awoke from his slumber, and was all amazed at the beauty of the\nlady and her companion. They drew near, and the Princess gave him\ngracious greeting, whereupon Constant got to his feet and returned her\nsalutation right courteously. She inquired of him as to his name and\nhis business, and he answered that he was the bearer of letters from\nthe Emperor to the governor of the city. The girl replied that she\nwould bring him at once to the presence of the castellan; so she took\nhim by the hand and led him within the palace; and all within the hall\nrose at the girl's approach, and did reverence to their Lady.\n\nThe demoiselle sought after the castellan, who was in his chamber, and\nthere she brought the varlet, who held forth his letter, and added\nthereto the Emperor's greeting. The seneschal made much of the lad,\nkissing his hand; but the maid for her part kissed both letter and\nseal, as one moved with delight, for it was long since she had learned\nher father's news. Afterwards she said to the governor that it were\nwell to read the dispatch in counsel together, and this she said\ninnocently as one who knew nothing of what was therein. To this the\ncastellan agreed, so he and the maiden passed to the council chamber\nalone. Thereupon the girl unfolded the letter, and made it known to the\ngovernor, and she seemed altogether amazed and distraught as she read.\nBut the castellan took her to task.\n\n\"Lady, certainly the will of my lord your father must be done;\notherwise will his blame come upon us with a heavy hand.\"\n\nBut the girl made answer to this--\n\n\"How, then, should I be married, and my lord and father far away? A\nstrange thing this would be; and certainly will I not be wed.\"\n\n\"Ah, lady,\" cried the castellan, \"what words are these? Your father's\nletter biddeth you to marry, so give not nay for yea.\"\n\n\"Sire,\" said the demoiselle, to whom time went heavy till all was\ndone--\"speak you to the lords and dignitaries of this realm, and take\ncounsel together. So they deem that thus it must be, who am I to\ngainsay them?\"\n\nThe castellan approved such modest and becoming words, so he took\ncounsel with the barons, and showed them his letter, and all agreed\nthat the letter must be obeyed, and the commandment of the Emperor\ndone. Thus was wedded according to Paynim ritual Constant, that comely\nlad, to the fair daughter of the Emperor. The marriage feast lasted\nfifteen days, and all Byzantium kept holiday and high festival; no\nbusiness was thought of in the city, save that of eating and drinking\nand making merry. This was all the work men did.\n\nThe Emperor tarried a long time in the borders of his land, but when\nhis task was ended he returned towards Byzantium. Whilst he was about\ntwo days' journey from the city, there met him a messenger with letters\nof moment. The King inquired of him as to the news of the capital, and\nthe messenger made answer that there men thought of nought else but\ndrinking and eating and taking their ease, and had so done for a whole\nfortnight.\n\n\"Why is this?\" asked the Emperor.\n\n\"Why, sire, do you not remember?\"\n\n\"Truly, no,\" said the Emperor; \"so tell me the reason.\"\n\n\"Sire,\" replied the varlet, \"you sent to your castellan a certain\ncomely lad, and he bore with him letters from you commanding that he\nshould be wed to your daughter, the fair Princess, since after your\ndeath he would be Emperor in your stead, for he was a man of lineage,\nand well worthy so high a bride. But your daughter refused to marry\nsuch an one, till the castellan had spoken with the lords; so he showed\nthe council your letter, and they all advised him to carry out your\nwill. When your daughter knew that they were all of one mind, she dared\nno longer to withstand you, and consented to your purpose. In just such\nmanner as this was your daughter wedded, and a merrier city than yours\ncould no man wish to see.\"\n\nWhen the Emperor heard this thing from the messenger, he marvelled\nbeyond measure, and turned it over in his thoughts; so presently he\ninquired of the varlet how long it was since Constant had wedded his\ndaughter, and whether he had bedded with her.\n\n\"Yea, sire,\" answered the varlet, \"and since it is more than three\nweeks that they were married, perchance one day will she be mother as\nwell as wife.\"\n\n\"Truly it were a happy hazard,\" said the Emperor, \"and since the thing\nhas fallen thus, let me endure it with a smiling face, for nothing else\nis left to do.\"\n\nThe Emperor went on his way until he reached Byzantium, and all the\ncity gave him loyal greeting. Amongst those who came to meet him was\nthe fair Princess with her husband, Constant, so gracious in person\nthat no man was ever goodlier. The Emperor, who was a wise prince, made\nmuch of both of them, and laid his two hands on their two heads, and\nheld them so for long, for such is the fashion of blessing amongst the\nPaynim. That night the Emperor considered this strange adventure, and\nhow it must have chanced, and so deeply did he think upon it that well\nhe knew that the game had been played him by his daughter. He did not\nreproach her, but bade them bring the letter he sent to the governor,\nand when it was shown him he read the writing therein, and saw that it\nwas sealed with his very seal. So, seeing the way in which the thing\nhad come to pass, he said within himself that he had striven against\nthose things which were written in the stars.\n\nAfter this the Emperor made Constant, his newly wedded son, a belted\nknight, and gave and delivered to him his whole realm in heritage after\nhis death. Constant bore himself wisely and well, as became a good\nknight, bold and chivalrous, and defended the land right well against\nall its foes. In no long while his lord the Emperor died, and was laid\nin the grave, according to Paynim ritual, with great pomp and ceremony.\nThe Emperor Constant reigned in his stead, and greatly he loved and\nhonoured the Abbot who had cherished him, and he made him Chancellor of\nhis kingdom. Then, by the advice of the Abbot, and according to the\nwill of God, the All Powerful, the Emperor Constant brought his wife to\nthe font, and caused all men of that realm to be converted to the law\nof Jesus Christ. He begot on his wife an heir, whom he christened\nConstantine, and who became true Christian and a very perfect knight.\nIn his day was the city first called Constantinople, because of\nConstant his father, who cost the abbey so great a sum, but before then\nwas the city known as Byzantium.\n\nSo endeth in this place the story of King Constant the Emperor.\n\n\n\n\nOUR LADY'S TUMBLER\n\n\nAmongst the lives of the ancient Fathers, wherein may be found much\nprofitable matter, this story is told for a true ensample. I do not say\nthat you may not often have heard a fairer story, but at least this is\nnot to be despised, and is well worth the telling. Now therefore will I\nsay and narrate what chanced to this minstrel.\n\nHe erred up and down, to and fro, so often and in so many places, that\nhe took the whole world in despite, and sought rest in a certain Holy\nOrder. Horses and raiment and money, yea, all that he had, he\nstraightway put from him, and seeking shelter from the world, was\nfirmly set never to put foot within it more. For this cause he took\nrefuge in this Holy Order, amongst the monks of Clairvaux. Now, though\nthis dancer was comely of face and shapely of person, yet when he had\nonce entered the monastery he found that he was master of no craft\npractised therein. In the world he had gained his bread by tumbling and\ndancing and feats of address. To leap, to spring, such matters he knew\nwell, but of greater things he knew nothing, for he had never spelled\nfrom book--nor Paternoster, nor canticle, nor creed, nor Hail Mary, nor\naught concerning his soul's salvation.\n\nWhen the minstrel had joined himself to the Order he marked how the\ntonsured monks spoke amongst themselves by signs, no words coming from\ntheir lips, so he thought within himself that they were dumb. But when\nhe learned that truly it was by way of penance that speech was\nforbidden to their mouths, and that for holy obedience were they\nsilent, then considered he that silence became him also; and he\nrefrained his tongue from words, so discreetly and for so long a space,\nthat day in, day out, he spake never, save by commandment; so that the\ncloister often rang with the brothers' mirth. The tumbler moved amongst\nhis fellows like a man ashamed, for he had neither part nor lot in all\nthe business of the monastery, and for this he was right sad and\nsorrowful. He saw the monks and the penitents about him, each serving\nGod, in this place and that, according to his office and degree. He\nmarked the priests at their ritual before the altars; the deacons at\nthe gospels; the sub-deacons at the epistles; and the ministers about\nthe vigils. This one repeats the introit; this other the lesson;\ncantors chant from the psalter; penitents spell out the Miserere--for\nthus are all things sweetly ordered--yea, and the most ignorant amongst\nthem yet can pray his Paternoster. Wherever he went, here or there, in\noffice or cloister, in every quiet corner and nook, there he found\nfive, or three, or two, or at least one. He gazes earnestly, if so he\nis able, upon each. Such an one laments; this other is in tears; yet\nanother grieves and sighs. He marvels at their sorrow. Then he said,\n\"Holy Mary, what bitter grief have all these men that they smite the\nbreast so grievously! Too sad of heart, meseems, are they who make such\nbitter dole together. Ah, St. Mary, alas, what words are these I say!\nThese men are calling on the mercy of God, but I--what do I here! Here\nthere is none so mean or vile but who serves God in his office and\ndegree, save only me, for I work not, neither can I preach. Caitif and\nshamed was I when I thrust myself herein, seeing that I can do nothing\nwell, either in labour or in prayer. I see my brothers upon their\nerrands, one behind the other; but I do naught but fill my belly with\nthe meat that they provide. If they perceive this thing, certainly\nshall I be in an evil case, for they will cast me out amongst the dogs,\nand none will take pity on the glutton and the idle man. Truly am I a\ncaitif, set in a high place for a sign.\" Then he wept for very woe, and\nwould that he was quiet in the grave. \"Mary, Mother,\" quoth he, \"pray\nnow your Heavenly Father that He keep me in His pleasure, and give me\nsuch good counsel that I may truly serve both Him and you; yea, and may\ndeserve that meat which now is bitter in my mouth.\"\n\nDriven mad with thoughts such as these, he wandered about the abbey\nuntil he found himself within the crypt, and took sanctuary by the\naltar, crouching close as he was able. Above the altar was carved the\nstatue of Madame St. Mary. Truly his steps had not erred when he sought\nthat refuge; nay, but rather, God who knows His own had led him thither\nby the hand. When he heard the bells ring for Mass he sprang to his\nfeet all dismayed. \"Ha!\" said he; \"now am I betrayed. Each adds his\nmite to the great offering, save only me. Like a tethered ox, naught I\ndo but chew the cud, and waste good victuals on a useless man. Shall I\nspeak my thought? Shall I work my will? By the Mother of God, thus am I\nset to do. None is here to blame. I will do that which I can, and\nhonour with my craft the Mother of God in her monastery. Since others\nhonour her with chant, then I will serve with tumbling.\"\n\nHe takes off his cowl, and removes his garments, placing them near the\naltar, but so that his body be not naked he dons a tunic, very thin and\nfine, of scarce more substance than a shirt. So, light and comely of\nbody, with gown girt closely about his loins, he comes before the Image\nright humbly. Then raising his eyes, \"Lady,\" said he, \"to your fair\ncharge I give my body and my soul. Sweet Queen, sweet Lady, scorn not\nthe thing I know, for with the help of God I will essay to serve you in\ngood faith, even as I may. I cannot read your Hours nor chant your\npraise, but at the least I can set before you what art I have. Now will\nI be as the lamb that plays and skips before his mother. Oh, Lady, who\nart nowise bitter to those who serve you with a good intent, that which\nthy servant is, that he is for you.\"\n\nThen commenced he his merry play, leaping low and small, tall and high,\nover and under. Then once more he knelt upon his knees before the\nstatue, and meekly bowed his head. \"Ha!\" said he, \"most gracious Queen,\nof your pity and your charity scorn not this my service.\" Again he\nleaped and played, and for holiday and festival, made the somersault of\nMetz. Again he bowed before the Image, did reverence, and paid it all\nthe honour that he might. Afterwards he did the French vault, then the\nvault of Champagne, then the Spanish vault, then the vaults they love\nin Brittany, then the vault of Lorraine, and all these feats he did as\nbest he was able. Afterwards he did the Roman vault, and then, with\nhands before his brow, danced daintily before the altar, gazing with a\nhumble heart at the statue of God's Mother. \"Lady,\" said he, \"I set\nbefore you a fair play. This travail I do for you alone; so help me\nGod, for you, Lady, and your Son. Think not I tumble for my own\ndelight; but I serve you, and look for no other guerdon on my carpet.\nMy brothers serve you, yea, and so do I. Lady, scorn not your villein,\nfor he toils for your good pleasure; and, Lady, you are my delight and\nthe sweetness of the world.\" Then he walked on his two hands, with his\nfeet in the air, and his head near the ground. He twirled with his\nfeet, and wept with his eyes. \"Lady,\" said he, \"I worship you with\nheart, with body, feet and hands, for this I can neither add to nor\ntake away. Now am I your very minstrel. Others may chant your praises\nin the church, but here in the crypt will I tumble for your delight.\nLady, lead me truly in your way, and for the love of God hold me not in\nutter despite.\" Then he smote upon his breast, he sighed and wept most\ntenderly, since he knew no better prayer than tears. Then he turned him\nabout, and leaped once again. \"Lady,\" said he, \"as God is my Saviour,\nnever have I turned this somersault before. Never has tumbler done such\na feat, and, certes, it is not bad. Lady, what delight is his who may\nharbour with you in your glorious manor. For God's love, Lady, grant me\nsuch fair hostelry, since I am yours, and am nothing of my own.\" Once\nagain he did the vault of Metz; again he danced and tumbled. Then when\nthe chants rose louder from the choir, he, too, forced the note, and\nput forward all his skill. So long as the priest was about that Mass,\nso long his flesh endured to dance, and leap and spring, till at the\nlast, nigh fainting, he could stand no longer upon his feet, but fell\nfor weariness on the ground. From head to heel sweat stood upon him,\ndrop by drop, as blood falls from meat turning upon the hearth. \"Lady,\"\nsaid he, \"I can no more, but truly will I seek you again.\" Fire\nconsumed him utterly. He took his habit once more, and when he was\nwrapped close therein, he rose to his feet, and bending low before the\nstatue, went his way. \"Farewell,\" said he, \"gentlest Friend. For God's\nlove take it not to heart, for so I may I will soon return. Not one\nHour shall pass but that I will serve you with right good will, so I\nmay come, and so my service is pleasing in your sight.\" Thus he went\nfrom the crypt, yet gazing on his Lady. \"Lady,\" said he, \"my heart is\nsore that I cannot read your Hours. How would I love them for love of\nyou, most gentle Lady! Into your care I commend my soul and my body.\"\n\nIn this fashion passed many days, for at every Hour he sought the crypt\nto do service, and pay homage before the Image. His service was so much\nto his mind that never once was he too weary to set out his most\ncunning feats to distract the Mother of God, nor did he ever wish for\nother play than this. Now, doubtless, the monks knew well enough that\nday by day he sought the crypt, but not a man on earth--save God\nalone--was aware of aught that passed there; neither would he, for all\nthe wealth of the world, have let his goings in be seen, save by the\nLord his God alone. For truly he believed that were his secret once\nespied he would be hunted from the cloister, and flung once more into\nthe foul, sinful world, and for his part he was more fain to fall on\ndeath than to suffer any taint of sin. But God considering his\nsimplicity, his sorrow for all he had wrought amiss, and the love which\nmoved him to this deed, would that this toil should be known; and the\nLord willed that the work of His friend should be made plain to men,\nfor the glory of the Mother whom he worshipped, and so that all men\nshould know and hear, and receive that God refuses none who seeks His\nface in love, however low his degree, save only he love God and strive\nto do His will.\n\nNow think you that the Lord would have accepted this service, had it\nnot been done for love of Him? Verily and truly, no, however much this\njuggler tumbled; but God called him friend, because he loved Him much.\nToil and labour, keep fast and vigil, sigh and weep, watch and pray,\nply the sharp scourge, be diligent at Matins and at Mass, owe no man\nanything, give alms of all you have--and yet, if you love not God with\nall your heart, all these good deeds are so much loss--mark well my\nwords--and profit you naught for the saving of your soul. Without\ncharity and love, works avail a man nothing. God asks not gold, neither\nfor silver, but only for love unfeigned in His people's hearts, and\nsince the tumbler loved Him beyond measure, for this reason God was\nwilling to accept his service.\n\nThus things went well with this good man for a great space. For more\nyears than I know the count of, he lived greatly at his ease, but the\ntime came when the good man was sorely vexed, for a certain monk\nthought upon him, and blamed him in his heart that he was never set in\nchoir for Matins. The monk marvelled much at his absence, and said\nwithin himself that he would never rest till it was clear what manner\nof man this was, and how he spent the Hours, and for what service the\nconvent gave him bread. So he spied and pried and followed, till he\nmarked him plainly, sweating at his craft in just such fashion as you\nhave heard. \"By my faith,\" said he, \"this is a merry jest, and a fairer\nfestival than we observe altogether. Whilst others are at prayers, and\nabout the business of the House, this tumbler dances daintily, as\nthough one had given him a hundred silver marks. He prides himself on\nbeing so nimble of foot, and thus he repays us what he owes. Truly it\nis this for that; we chant for him, and he tumbles for us. We throw him\nlargesse: he doles us alms. We weep his sins, and he dries our eyes.\nWould that the monastery could see him, as I do, with their very eyes;\nwillingly therefore would I fast till Vespers. Not one could refrain\nfrom mirth at the sight of this simple fool doing himself to death with\nhis tumbling, for on himself he has no pity. Since his folly is free\nfrom malice, may God grant it to him as penance. Certainly I will not\nimpute it to him as sin, for in all simplicity and good faith, I firmly\nbelieve, he does this thing, so that he may deserve his bread.\" So the\nmonk saw with his very eyes how the tumbler did service at all the\nHours, without pause or rest, and he laughed with pure mirth and\ndelight, for in his heart was joy and pity.\n\nThe monk went straight to the Abbot and told him the thing from\nbeginning to end, just as you have heard. The Abbot got him on his\nfeet, and said to the monk, \"By holy obedience I bid you hold your\npeace, and tell not this tale abroad against your brother. I lay on you\nmy strict command to speak of this matter to none, save me. Come now,\nwe will go forthwith to see what this can be, and let us pray the\nHeavenly King, and His very sweet, dear Mother, so precious and so\nbright, that in her gentleness she will plead with her Son, her Father,\nand her Lord, that I may look on this work--if thus it pleases Him--so\nthat the good man be not wrongly blamed, and that God may be the more\nbeloved, yet so that thus is His good pleasure.\" Then they secretly\nsought the crypt, and found a privy place near the altar, where they\ncould see, and yet not be seen. From there the Abbot and his monk\nmarked the business of the penitent. They saw the vaults he varied so\ncunningly, his nimble leaping and his dancing, his salutations of Our\nLady, and his springing and his bounding, till he was nigh to faint. So\nweak was he that he sank on the ground, all outworn, and the sweat fell\nfrom his body upon the pavement of the crypt. But presently, in this\nhis need, came she, his refuge, to his aid. Well she knew that\nguileless heart.\n\nWhilst the Abbot looked, forthwith there came down from the vault a\nDame so glorious, that certainly no man had seen one so precious, nor\nso richly crowned. She was more beautiful than the daughters of men,\nand her vesture was heavy with gold and gleaming stones. In her train\ncame the hosts of Heaven, angel and archangel also; and these pressed\nclose about the minstrel, and solaced and refreshed him. When their\nshining ranks drew near, peace fell upon his heart; for they contended\nto do him service, and were the servants of the servitor of that Dame\nwho is the rarest Jewel of God. Then the sweet and courteous Queen\nherself took a white napkin in her hand, and with it, gently fanned her\nminstrel before the altar. Courteous and debonair, the Lady refreshed\nhis neck, his body and his brow. Meekly she served him as a handmaid in\nhis need. But these things were hidden from the good man, for he\nneither saw nor knew that about him stood so fair a company.\n\nThe holy angels honour him greatly, but they can no longer stay, for\ntheir Lady turns to go. She blesses her minstrel with the sign of God,\nand the holy angels throng about her, still gazing back with delight\nupon their companion, for they await the hour when God shall release\nhim from the burden of the world, and they possess his soul.\n\nThis marvel the Abbot and his monk saw at least four times, and thus at\neach Hour came the Mother of God with aid and succour for her man.\nNever doth she fail her servants in their need. Great joy had the Abbot\nthat this thing was made plain to him. But the monk was filled with\nshame, since God had shown His pleasure in the service of His poor\nfool. His confusion burnt him like fire. \"Dominus,\" said he to the\nAbbot, \"grant me grace. Certainly this is a holy man, and since I have\njudged him amiss, it is very right that my body should smart. Give me\nnow fast or vigil or the scourge, for without question he is a saint.\nWe are witnesses to the whole matter, nor is it possible that we can be\ndeceived.\" But the Abbot replied, \"You speak truly, for God has made us\nto know that He has bound him with the cords of love. So I lay my\ncommandment upon you, in virtue of obedience, and under pain of your\nperson, that you tell no word to any man of that you have seen, save to\nGod alone and me.\" \"Lord,\" said he, \"thus I will do.\" On these words\nthey turned them, and hastened from the crypt; and the good man, having\nbrought his tumbling to an end, presently clothed himself in his habit,\nand joyously went his way to the monastery.\n\nThus time went and returned, till it chanced that in a little while the\nAbbot sent for him who was so filled with virtue. When he heard that he\nwas bidden of the Abbot, his heart was sore with grief, for he could\nthink of nothing profitable to say. \"Alas!\" said he, \"I am undone; not\na day of my days but I shall know misery and sorrow and shame, for well\nI trow that my service is not pleasing to God. Alas! plainly doth He\nshow that it displeases Him, since He causes the truth to be made\nclear. Could I believe that such work and play as mine could give\ndelight to the mighty God! He had no pleasure therein, and all my toil\nwas thrown away. Ah me, what shall I do? what shall I say? Fair, gentle\nGod, what portion will be mine? Either shall I die in shame, or else\nshall I be banished from this place, and set up as a mark to the world\nand all the evil thereof. Sweet Lady, St. Mary, since I am all\nbewildered, and since there is none to give me counsel, Lady, come thou\nto my aid. Fair, gentle God, help me in my need. Stay not, neither\ntarry, but come quickly with Your Mother. For God's love, come not\nwithout her, but hasten both to me in my peril, for truly I know not\nwhat to plead. Before one word can pass my lips, surely will they bid\nme 'Begone.' Wretched that I am, what reply is he to make who has no\nadvocate? Yet, why this dole, since go I must?\" He came before the\nAbbot, with the tears yet wet upon his cheeks, and he was still weeping\nwhen he knelt upon the ground. \"Lord,\" prayed he, \"for the love of God\ndeal not harshly with me. Would you send me from your door? Tell me\nwhat you would have me do, and thus it shall be done.\" Then replied the\nAbbot, \"Answer me truly. Winter and summer have you lived here for a\ngreat space; now, tell me, what service have you given, and how have\nyou deserved your bread?\" \"Alas!\" said the tumbler, \"well I knew that\nquickly I should be put upon the street when once this business was\nheard of you, and that you would keep me no more. Lord,\" said he, \"I\ntake my leave. Miserable I am, and miserable shall I ever be. Never yet\nhave I made a penny for all my juggling.\" But the Abbot answered, \"Not\nso said I; but I ask and require of you--nay, more, by virtue of holy\nobedience I command you--to seek within your conscience and tell me\ntruly by what craft you have furthered the business of our monastery.\"\n\"Lord,\" cried he, \"now have you slain me, for this commandment is a\nsword.\" Then he laid bare before the Abbot the story of his days, from\nthe first thing to the last, whatsoever pain it cost him; not a word\ndid he leave out, but he told it all without a pause, just as I have\ntold you the tale. He told it with clasped hands, and with tears, and\nat the close he kissed the Abbot's feet, and sighed.\n\nThe holy Abbot leaned above him, and, all in tears, raised him up,\nkissing both his eyes. \"Brother,\" said he, \"hold now your peace, for I\nmake with you this true covenant, that you shall ever be of our\nmonastery. God grant, rather, that we may be of yours, for all the\nworship you have brought to ours. I and you will call each other\nfriend. Fair, sweet brother, pray you for me, and I for my part will\npray for you. And now I pray you, my sweet friend, and lay this bidding\nupon you, without pretence, that you continue to do your service, even\nas you were wont heretofore--yea, and with greater craft yet, if so you\nmay.\" \"Lord,\" said he, \"truly is this so?\" \"Yea,\" said the Abbot, \"and\nverily.\" So he charged him, under peril of discipline, to put all\ndoubts from his mind; for which reason the good man rejoiced so greatly\nthat, as telleth the rhyme, he was all bemused, so that the blood left\nhis cheeks, and his knees failed beneath him. When his courage came\nback, his very heart thrilled with joy; but so perilous was that\nquickening that therefrom he shortly died. But theretofore with a good\nheart he went about his service without rest, and Matins and Vespers,\nnight and day, he missed no Hour till he became too sick to perform his\noffice. So sore was his sickness upon him that he might not rise from\nhis bed. Marvellous was the shame he proved when no more was he able to\npay his rent. This was the grief that lay the heaviest upon him, for of\nhis sickness he spake never a word, but he feared greatly lest he\nshould fall from grace since he travailed no longer at his craft. He\nreckoned himself an idle man, and prayed God to take him to Himself\nbefore the sluggard might come to blame. For it was bitter to him to\nconsider that all about him knew his case, so bitter that the burden\nwas heavier than his heart could bear, yet there without remedy he must\nlie. The holy Abbot does him all honour; he and his monks chant the\nHours about his bed, and in these praises of God he felt such delight\nthat not for them would he have taken the province of Poitou, so great\nwas his happiness therein. Fair and contrite was his confession, but\nstill he was not at peace; yet why say more of this, for the hour had\nstruck, and he must rise and go.\n\nThe Abbot was in that cell with all his monks; there, too, was company\nof many a priest and many a canon. These all humbly watched the dying\nman, and saw with open eyes this wonder happen. Clear to their very\nsight, about that lowly bed, stood the Mother of God, with angel and\narchangel, to wait the passing of his soul. Over against them were set,\nlike wild beasts, devils and the Adversary, so they might snatch his\nspirit. I speak not to you in parable. But little profit had they for\nall their coming, their waiting, and their straining on the leash.\nNever might they have part in such a soul as his. When the soul took\nleave of his body, it fell not in their hands at all, for the Mother of\nGod gathered it to her bosom, and the holy angels thronging round,\nquired for joy, as the bright train swept to Heaven with its burthen,\naccording to the will of God. To these things the whole of the\nmonastery was witness, besides such others as were there. So knew they\nand perceived that God sought no more to hide the love He bore to His\npoor servant, but rather would that his virtues should be plain to each\nman in that place; and very wonderful and joyful seemed this deed to\nthem. Then with meet reverence they bore the body on its bier within\nthe abbey church, and with high pomp commended their brother to the\ncare of God; nor was there monk who did not chant or read his portion\nthat day within the choir of the mighty church.\n\nThus with great honour they laid him to his rest, and kept his holy\nbody amongst them as a relic. At that time spake the Abbot plainly to\ntheir ears, telling them the story of this tumbler and of all his life,\njust as you have heard, and of all that he himself beheld within the\ncrypt. No brother but kept awake during that sermon. \"Certes,\" said\nthey, \"easy is it to give credence to such a tale; nor should any doubt\nyour words, seeing that the truth bears testimony to itself, and\nwitness comes with need; yea, without any doubt have we full assurance\nthat his discipline is done.\" Great joy amongst themselves have all\nwithin that place.\n\nThus endeth the story of the minstrel. Fair was his tumbling, fair was\nhis service, for thereby gained he such high honour as is above all\nearthly gain. So the holy Fathers narrate that in such fashion these\nthings chanced to this minstrel. Now, therefore, let us pray to God--He\nWho is above all other--that He may grant us so to do such faithful\nservice that we may win the guerdon of His love.\n\nHere endeth the Tumbler of Our Lady.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAY OF THE LITTLE BIRD\n\n\nOnce upon a time, more than a hundred years ago, there lived a rich\nvillein whose name I cannot now tell, who owned meadows and woods and\nwaters, and all things which go to the making of a rich man. His manor\nwas so fair and so delightsome that all the world did not contain its\npeer. My true story would seem to you but idle fable if I set its\nbeauty before you, for verily I believe that never yet was built so\nstrong a keep and so gracious a tower. A river flowed around this fair\ndomain, and enclosed an orchard planted with all manner of fruitful\ntrees. This sweet fief was builded by a certain knight, whose heir sold\nit to a villein; for thus pass baronies from hand to hand, and town and\nmanor change their master, always falling from bad to worse. The\norchard was fair beyond content. Herbs grew there of every fashion,\nmore than I am able to name. But at least I can tell you that so sweet\nwas the savour of roses and other flowers and simples, that sick\npersons, borne within that garden in a litter, walked forth sound and\nwell for having passed the night in so lovely a place. Indeed, so\nsmooth and level was the sward, so tall the trees, so various the\nfruit, that the cunning gardener must surely have been a magician, as\nappears by certain infallible proofs.\n\nNow in the middle of this great orchard sprang a fountain of clear,\npure water. It boiled forth out of the ground, but was always colder\nthan any marble. Tall trees stood about the well, and their leafy\nbranches made a cool shadow there, even during the longest day of\nsummer heat. Not a ray of the sun fell within that spot, though it were\nthe month of May, so thick and close was the leafage. Of all these\ntrees the fairest and the most pleasant was a pine. To this pine came a\nsinging bird twice every day for ease of heart. Early in the morning he\ncame, when monks chant their matins, and again in the evening, a little\nafter vespers. He was smaller than a sparrow, but larger than a wren,\nand he sang so sweetly that neither lark nor nightingale nor blackbird,\nnay, nor siren even, was so grateful to the ear. He sang lays and\nballads, and the newest refrain of the minstrel and the spinner at her\nwheel. Sweeter was his tune than harp or viol, and gayer than the\ncountry dance. No man had heard so marvellous a thing; for such was the\nvirtue in his song that the saddest and the most dolent forgot to\ngrieve whilst he listened to the tune, love flowered sweetly in his\nheart, and for a space he was rich and happy as any emperor or king,\nthough but a burgess of the city or a villein of the field. Yea, if\nthat ditty had lasted a hundred years, yet would he have stayed the\ncentury through to listen to so lovely a song, for it gave to every man\nwhilst he hearkened, love, and riches, and his heart's desire.\n\nBut all the beauty of the pleasaunce drew its being from the song of\nthe bird; for from his chant flowed love which gives its shadow to the\ntree, its healing to the simple, and its colour to the flower. Without\nthat song the fountain would have ceased to spring, and the green\ngarden become a little dry dust, for in its sweetness lay all their\nvirtue.\n\nThe villein, who was lord of this domain, walked every day within his\ngarden to hearken to the bird. On a certain morning he came to the well\nto bathe his face in the cold spring, and the bird, hidden close\nwithin the pine branches, poured out his full heart in a delightful\nlay, from which rich profit might be drawn.\n\n\"Listen,\" chanted the bird in his own tongue, \"listen to my voice oh,\nknight, and clerk, and layman, ye who concern yourselves with love, and\nsuffer with its dolours: listen, also, ye maidens, fair and coy and\ngracious, who seek first the gifts and beauty of the world. I speak\ntruth and do not lie. Closer should you cleave to God than to any\nearthly lover, right willingly should you seek His altar, more firmly\nshould you hold to His commandment than to any mortal's pleasure. So\nyou serve God and Love in such fashion, no harm can come to any, for\nGod and Love are one. God loves sense and chivalry; and Love holds them\nnot in despite. God hates pride and false seeming; and Love loveth\nloyalty. God praiseth honour and courtesy; and fair Love disdaineth\nthem not. God lendeth His ear to prayer; neither doth Love refuse it\nher heart. God granteth largesse to the generous; but the grudging man,\nand the envious, the felon and the wrathful, doth He abhor. But\ncourtesy and honour, good sense and loyalty, are the leal vassals of\nLove, and so you hold truly to them, God and the beauty of the world\nshall be added to you besides.\"\n\nThus told the bird in his song.\n\nBut when he saw the villein beneath the pine hearkening to his words,\nstraight he changed his note, for well he knew him to be covetous and\ndisloyal, and so he sang in quite another fashion.\n\n\"Oh, river, cease to flow; crumble, thou manor, keep and tower; let the\ngrass wither with the rose, and the tall tree stand bare, for the\ngentle dames and knights come no more who once delighted in my song,\nand to whom this fountain was dear. In place of the brave and generous\nknights, set upon honour, stands this envious churl, greedy of naught\nbut money. Those came to hear my song for solace, and for love of love;\nhe but to eat and drink the more, and for ease of his gluttony.\"\n\nAnd when the bird had thus spoken he took his flight.\n\nNow the villein, who had listened to this song, thought within himself\nthat might he snare so marvellous a bird, very easily could he sell him\nat a great price; or if he might not sell him, at least he could set\nhim fast in a cage and hearken his lay at pleasure both early and late.\nSo he climbed within the tree and sought and searched and pried until\nhe marked the branch from whence the bird was wont to sing. There he\nset a cunning snare, and waited to see what time should make clear. At\nthe hour of vespers the bird returned to the orchard, and lighting upon\nthe branch was fast taken in the net. Then the villein came forth, and\nmounting quickly, joyously seized him in his hand.\n\n\"Small profit will you have of your labour,\" said the bird, \"for I can\npay but a poor ransom.\"\n\n\"At least I shall be paid in songs,\" answered the villein. \"You were\nwont to sing for your own pleasure, now you will carol for mine.\"\n\n\"Think not so,\" replied the bird. \"He who is used to the freedom of\nwood and meadow and river cannot live prisoned in a cage. What solace\nmay I find there, or joy? Open your hand, fair sweet friend, for be\nassured no captive has a heart for songs.\"\n\n\"By my faith, then, you shall be served at table.\"\n\n\"Never will you have dined worse, for there is nothing of me. I pray\nyou to let me go, for it were a sin to slay me.\"\n\n\"By my faith, you talk and talk; the more you plead, the less will I\ngrant.\"\n\n\"Certes,\" answered the bird, \"you are in your right, for such is the\nlaw. Many a time have I heard tell that the uncharitable granteth no\nalms. But there is a proverb that teaches that often man gives in his\nown interest what cannot be taken from him by force. Now, if you\nrelease me from this net I will make you free of three secrets which\nare little known to men of your lineage, and from which you may draw\nmuch profit.\"\n\n\"Tell me these secrets,\" said the villein, \"and I will open my hand.\"\n\n\"Such faith have I in you,\" answered the bird, \"that I will speak only\nwhen you free me from the snare.\"\n\nThe villein opened his hand, and the bird flew to a place of surety.\nHis feathers were all ruffled, for he had been grossly handled by a\nglove not of silk but of wool, so he preened and plumed himself\ncarefully with his beak. But the villein grew impatient, and urged him\nto pay his ransom. Now the bird was full of guile, so presently he made\nanswer to the churl.\n\n\"Hear now the first of my three weighty secrets--Do not believe all\nthat you may hear.\"\n\nThe villein frowned with anger, and answered that he knew it well.\n\n\"Fair friend, forget it never,\" replied the bird.\n\n\"Much I fear that I did foolishly in letting you from the snare. This\nsecret was plain to me before; but now tell me the two others.\"\n\n\"They are fair and wise,\" said the bird. \"Listen well to my second\nweighty secret--Do not regret what you have never lost.\"\n\n\"You mock me,\" cried the villein, \"and do wrong to the faith you\nplighted with me. You pledged your word to tell me three secrets known\nbut little to men of such lineage as mine, and you give me musty\nproverbs told over by all the world. Certes, what manner of man is he\nwho weeps over what he has never had!\"\n\n\"Shall I tell it once again,\" replied the bird, \"for great fear have I\nlest it should travel from your mind.\"\n\n\"By my head,\" answered the villein, \"I am a fairer scholar than you\nthink. These two proverbs have naught to teach me; but hold truly to\nour covenant and bargain, and let the third secret contain a graver\nmatter.\"\n\n\"Listen well to my third secret,\" said the bird, \"for he who receives\nit shall never be poor.\"\n\n\"Ah, tell me this secret quickly,\" cried the churl, \"for it draws near\nthe hour of meat, and truly, beyond all things, do I desire to grow\nrich.\"\n\nNow when the bird heard him--\n\n\"This be thy punishment, oh, thou false churl--What you hold in your\nhand, never throw between your feet.\"\n\nThen was the villein all wrathful; but when words came to him to speak,\nhe said--\n\n\"And are these your three mighty secrets! Why, these are but children's\nriddles, which I have known ever since I was born. You have but lied to\nme, and of all your teaching had I full knowledge long before.\"\n\n\"By my faith,\" responded the bird, \"had you known my third secret never\nwould you have let me from your hand.\"\n\n\"You say well,\" said the villein, \"but at least knew I the two other\nproverbs.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said the bird, with malice, \"but this proverb was worth a hundred\nof the others.\"\n\n\"In what manner?\" inquired the villein.\n\n\"What, know you not what has chanced to you? Had you slain me when I\nwas in your power that day would have been the happiest of your life.\nFor in my body is a jewel, so precious and so rare, that it weighs at\nleast three ounces. Yea, the virtue of this stone is such that he who\nowns it has but to wish, and lo, his desire is fulfilled.\"\n\nWhen the villein heard this thing he beat upon his breast, he tore his\nraiment, and disfigured his face with his nails, crying out that he was\nwretched and undone. The bird from his refuge in the tree rejoiced\ngreatly to observe the churl's miserable plight, and said nothing till\nhis enemy's clothes were torn to rags, and his hands sore wounded in\nmany places. Then he spake--\n\n\"Miserable churl, when you held me fast in your rude hand, easy was it\nto know that I was no larger than a sparrow or a finch, and weighed\nless than half an ounce. How, then, could a precious stone, three\nounces in weight, be hid in my body? Now will I prove to you that of my\nthree secrets you understood not a single one. You asked me what man\nwas fool enough to weep over that which he had never lost, and even now\nI watch your tears fall for a jewel which was never yours, nor will be\never. You had faith in all that I was pleased to tell you, trusting all\nyou heard; and in your folly you flung the bird you held in hand\nbetween your very feet. Fair friend, con over my three secrets, and\nlearn wisdom even from the counsel of a bird.\"\n\nWhen he had spoken thus he took his flight, and from that hour the\norchard knew him no more. With the ceasing of his song the leaves\nwithered from the pine, the garden became a little dry dust, and the\nfountain forgot to flow. Thus the rich villein lost his pleasaunce,\nwhich once was fair beyond content. And remember well, fair lords and\ndames, that truly speaks the proverb, \"He who covet another's good, oft\nloses his own,\" as we may learn from the \"Lay of the Little Bird.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE DIVIDED HORSECLOTH\n\n\nEach owes it to his fellows to tell as best he may, or, better still,\nto write with fair enticing words, such deeds and adventures as are\ngood and profitable for us to know. For as men come and go about their\nbusiness in the world, many things are told them which it is seemly to\nkeep in remembrance. Therefore, it becomes those who say and relate,\ndiligently and with fair intent to keep such matters in thought and\nstudy, even as did our fathers before us. Theirs is the school to which\nwe all should pass, and he who would prove an apt scholar, and live\nbeyond his day, must not be idle at his task. But the world dims our\nfine gold: the minstrel is slothful, and singers forget to sing,\nbecause of the pain and travail which go to the finding of their songs.\nSo without waiting for any to-morrow, I will bring before you a certain\nadventure which chanced, even as it was told to me.\n\nSome seven years ago it befell that a rich burgess of Abbeville\ndeparted from the town, together with his wife, his only son, and all\nhis wealth, his goods and plenishing. This he did like a prudent man,\nsince he found himself at enmity with men who were stronger and of more\nsubstance than he. So, fearing lest a worse thing should bechance him,\nfrom Abbeville he went up to Paris. There he sought a shop and\ndwelling, and paying his service, made himself vassal and burgess of\nthe King. The merchant was diligent and courteous, his wife smiling and\ngracious, and their son was not given over to folly, but went soberly,\neven as his parents taught him. Much were they praised of their\nneighbours, and those who lived in the same street often set foot in\ntheir dwelling. For very greatly are those loved and esteemed by their\nfellows who are courteous in speech and address. He who has fair words\nin his mouth receives again sweet words in his ear, and foul words and\nfoul deeds bring naught but bitterness and railing. Thus was it with\nthis prudent merchant. For more than seven years he went about his\nbusiness, buying and selling, concerning himself with matters of which\nhe had full knowledge, putting by of his earnings a little every day,\nlike a wise and worthy citizen. So this wealthy merchant lived a happy\nblameless life, till, by the will of God, his wife was taken from him,\nwho had been his companion for some thirty years. Now these parents had\nbut one only child, a son, even as I have told you before. Very\ngrievously did he mourn the death of her who had cherished him so\nsoftly, and lamented his mother with many tears, till he came nigh to\nswoon. Then, to put a little comfort in his heart, his father said to\nhim--\n\n\"Fair son, thy mother is dead, and we will pray to God that He grant\nher mercy in that day. But dry now thine eyes and thy face, for tears\ncan profit thee nothing. By that road we all must go, neither can any\nman pass Death upon the way, nor return to bring us any word. Fair son,\nfor thee there is goodly comfort. Thou art a young bachelor, and it is\ntime to take thee a wife. I am full of years, and so I may find thee a\nfair marriage in an honourable house I will endow thee with my\nsubstance. I will now seek a bride for thee of birth and breeding--one\nof family and descent, one come of ancient race, with relations and\nfriends a gracious company, a wife from honest folk and from an honest\nhome. There, where it is good and profitable to be, I will set thee\ngladly, nor of wealth and moneys shalt thou find a lack.\"\n\nNow in that place were three brethren, knights of high lineage, cousins\nto mighty lords of peerage, bearing rich and honourable blazons on\ntheir shields. But these knights had no heritage, since they had pawned\nall that they owned of woods and houses and lands, the better to take\ntheir pleasure at the tourney. Passing heavy and tormented were these\nbrethren because in no wise might they redeem their pledge. The eldest\nof these brothers had a daughter, but the mother of the maid was dead.\nNow this damsel owned in Paris a certain fair house, over against the\nmansion of the wealthy merchant. The house was not of her father's\nheritage, but came to her from her mother, who had put the maid in ward\nto guardians, so that the house was free from pledge. She received in\nrent therefrom the sum of twenty Paris pounds every year, and her dues\nwere paid her right willingly. So the merchant, esteeming her a lady of\nfamily and estate, demanded her hand in marriage of her father and of\nall her friends. The knight inquired in his turn of the means and\nsubstance of the merchant, who answered very frankly--\n\n\"In merchandise and in moneys I have near upon fifteen hundred pounds.\nShould I tell you that I had more, I should lie, and speak not the\ntruth. I have besides one hundred Paris pounds, which I have gained in\nhonest dealings. Of all this I will give my son the half.\"\n\n\"Fair sir,\" made answer the knight, \"in no wise can this be agreed to.\nHad you become a Templar, or a White or a Black monk you would have\ngranted the whole of your wealth either to the Temple or your Abbey. By\nmy faith, we cannot consent to so grudging an offer, certes, sir\nmerchant, no.\"\n\n\"Tell me then what you would have me do.\"\n\n\"Very willingly, fair, dear sir. We would that you grant to your son\nthe sum and total of your substance, so that he be seised of all your\nwealth, and this in such fashion that neither you, nor any in your\nname, may claim return of any part thereof. If you consent to this the\nmarriage can be made, but otherwise he shall never wed our child and\nniece.\"\n\nThe merchant turned this over for a while, now looking upon his son,\nnow deep in thought. But very badly he was served of all his thought\nand pondering. For at the last he made reply to him and said--\n\n\"Lord, it shall even be done according to your will. This is our\ncovenant and bargain, that so your daughter is given to my son I will\ngrant him all that I have of worth. I take this company as witness that\nhere I strip myself of everything I own, so that naught is mine, but\nall is his, of what I once was seised and possessed.\"\n\nThus before the witnesses he divested himself utterly of all his\nwealth, and became naked as a peeled wand in the eyes of the world, for\nthis merchant now had neither purse nor penny, nor wherewithal to break\nhis fast, save it were given him by his son. So when the words were\nspoken and the merchant altogether spoiled, then the knight took his\ndaughter by the hand and handfasted her with the bachelor, and she\nbecame his wife.\n\nFor two years after this marriage the husband and the dame lived a\nquiet and peaceful life. Then a fair son was born to the bachelor, and\nthe lady cherished and guarded him fondly. With them dwelt the merchant\nin the same lodging, but very soon he perceived that he had given\nhimself a mortal blow in despoiling himself of his substance to live on\nthe charity of others. But perforce he remained of their household for\nmore than twelve years, until the lad had grown up tall, and began to\ntake notice, and to remember that which often he heard of the making of\nhis father's marriage. And well he promised himself that it should\nnever go from mind.\n\nThe merchant was full of years. He leaned upon his staff, and went bent\nwith age, as one who searches for his lost youth. His son was weary of\nhis presence, and would gladly have paid for the spinning of his\nshroud. The dame, who was proud and disdainful, held him in utter\ndespite, for greatly he was against her heart. Never was she silent,\nbut always was she saying to her lord--\n\n\"Husband, for love of me, send your father upon his business. I lose\nall appetite just for the sight of him about the house.\"\n\n\"Wife,\" answered he, \"this shall be done according to your wish.\"\n\nSo because of his wife's anger and importunity, he sought out his\nfather straightway, and said--\n\n\"Father, father, get you gone from here. I tell you that you must do\nthe best you can, for we may no longer concern ourselves with you and\nyour lodging. For twelve years and more we have given you food and\nraiment in our house. Now all is done, so rise and depart forthwith,\nand fend for yourself, as fend you must.\"\n\nWhen the father heard these words he wept bitterly, and often he cursed\nthe day and the hour in which he found he had lived too long.\n\n\"Ah, fair, sweet son, what is this thou sayest to me! For the love of\nGod turn me not from thy door. I lie so close that thou canst not want\nmy room. I require of thee neither seat in the chimney corner, nor soft\nbed of feathers, no, nor carpet on the floor; but only the attic, where\nI may bide on a little straw. Throw me not from thy house because I\neat of thy bread, but feed me without grudging for the short while I\nhave to live. In the eyes of God this charity will cover all thy sins\nbetter than if thou went in haircloth next the flesh.\"\n\n\"Fair father,\" replied the bachelor, \"preach me no preachings, but get\nyou forth at once, for reason that my wife would have you gone.\"\n\n\"Fair son, where then shall I go, who am esteemed of nothing worth?\"\n\n\"Get you gone to the town, for amongst ten thousand others very easily\nyou may light on good fortune. Very unlucky you will be if there you\ncannot find a way to live. Seek your fortune bravely. Perchance some of\nyour friends and acquaintance will receive you into their houses.\"\n\n\"Son, how then shall men take me to their lodging, when you turn me\nfrom the house which I have given you? Why should the stranger welcome\nthat guest whom the son chases from his door? Why should I be received\ngladly by him to whom I have given naught, when I am evilly entreated\nof the rich man for whose sake I go naked?\"\n\n\"Father,\" said he, \"right or wrong, I take the blame upon my own head;\nbut go you must because it is according to my will.\"\n\nThen the father grieved so bitterly that for a little his very heart\nwould have broken. Weak as he was, he raised himself to his feet and\nwent forth from the house, weeping.\n\n\"Son,\" said he, \"I commend thee to God; but since thou wilt that I go,\nfor the love of Him give me at least a portion of packing cloth to\nshelter me against the wind. I am asking no great matter; nothing but a\nlittle cloth to wrap about me, because I am but lightly clad, and fear\nto die for reason of the cold.\"\n\nThen he who shrank from any grace of charity made reply--\n\n\"Father, I have no cloth, so neither can I bestow, nor have it taken\nfrom me.\"\n\n\"Fair, sweet son, my heart trembles within me, so greatly do I dread\nthe cold. Give me, then, the cloth you spread upon your horse, so that\nI come to no evil.\"\n\nSo he, seeing that he might not rid himself of his father save by the\ngranting of a gift, and being desirous above all that he should part,\nbade his son to fetch this horsecloth. When the lad heard his father's\ncall he sprang to him, saying--\n\n\"Father, what is your pleasure?\"\n\n\"Fair son,\" said he, \"get you to the stable, and if you find it open\ngive my father the covering that is upon my horse. Give him the best\ncloth in the stable, so that he may make himself a mantle or a habit,\nor any other sort of cloak that pleases him.\"\n\nThen the lad, who was thoughtful beyond his years, made answer--\n\n\"Grandsire, come now with me.\"\n\nSo the merchant went with him to the stable, exceedingly heavy and\nwrathful. The lad chose the best horsecloth he might find in the\nstable, the newest, the largest, and the most fair; this he folded in\ntwo, and drawing forth his knife, divided the cloth in two portions.\nThen he bestowed on his grandfather one half of the sundered\nhorsecloth.\n\n\"Fair child,\" said the old man, \"what have you done? Why have you cut\nthe cloth that your father has given me? Very cruelly have you treated\nme, for you were bidden to give me the horsecloth whole. I shall\nreturn and complain to my son thereof.\"\n\n\"Go where you will,\" replied the boy, \"for certainly you shall have\nnothing more from me.\"\n\nThe merchant went forth from the stable.\n\n\"Son,\" said he, \"chastise now thy child, since he counts thy word as\nnothing but an idle tale, and fears not to disobey thy commandment.\nDost thou not see that he keeps one half of the horsecloth?\"\n\n\"Plague take thee!\" cried the father; \"give him all the cloth.\"\n\n\"Certes,\" replied the boy, \"that will I never do, for how then shall\nyou be paid? Rather will I keep the half until I am grown a man, and\nthen give it to you. For just as you have chased him from your house,\nso I will put you from my door. Even as he has bestowed on you all his\nwealth, so, in my turn, will I require of you all your substance.\nNaught from me shall you carry away, save that only which you have\ngranted to him. If you leave him to die in his misery, I wait my day,\nand surely will leave you to perish in yours.\"\n\nThe father listened to these words, and at the end sighed heavily. He\nrepented him of the evil that he purposed, and from the parable that\nhis child had spoken took heed and warning. Turning himself about\ntowards the merchant, he said--\n\n\"Father, return to my house. Sin and the Enemy thought to have caught\nme in the snare, but, please God, I have escaped from the fowler. You\nare master and lord, and I render all that I have received into your\nhands. If my wife cannot live with you in quiet, then you shall be\nserved and cherished elsewhere. Chimney corner, and carpet, pillow and\nbed of feathers, at your ease you shall have pleasure in them all. I\ntake St. Martin to witness that never will I drink stoup of wine,\nnever carve morsel from dish, but that yours shall be the richer\nportion. Henceforth you shall live softly in the ceiled chamber, near\nby a blazing fire, clad warmly in your furred robe, even as I. And all\nthis is not of charity, but of your right, for, fair sweet father, if I\nam rich it is because of your substance.\"\n\nThus the brave witness and the open remonstrance of a child freed his\nfather from the bad thoughts that he harboured. And deeply should this\nadventure be considered of those who are about to marry their children.\nLet them not strip themselves so bare as to have nothing left. For he\nwho gives all, and depends upon the charity of others, prepares a rod\nfor his own back.\n\n\n\n\nSIR HUGH OF TABARIE\n\n\nIn the years when Saladin was King, there lived a Prince in Galilee,\nwho was named Sir Hugh of Tabarie. On a day he was with other Christian\nmen who gave battle to the Turks, and, since it pleased God to cast His\nchivalry behind Him, Sir Hugh was taken prisoner, and many another\nstout knight with him. When dusk closed down on the field, the Prince\nwas led before Saladin, who, calling him straightway to mind, rejoiced\ngreatly and cried--\n\n\"Ah, Sir Hugh, now are you taken.\"\n\n\"Sire,\" answered the brave knight, \"the greater grief is mine.\"\n\n\"By my faith, Hugh, every reason have you for grief, since you must\neither pay your ransom or die.\"\n\n\"Sire, I am more fain to pay ransom than to die, if by any means I may\nfind the price you require of me.\"\n\n\"Is that truly so?\" said the King.\n\n\"Sire,\" said Sir Hugh, \"in the fewest words, what is the sum you demand\nof me?\"\n\n\"I ask of you,\" replied the King, \"one hundred thousand besants.\"\n\n\"Sire, such a sum is too great a ransom for a man of my lands to pay.\"\n\n\"Hugh,\" said the King, \"you are so good a knight, and so hardy, that\nthere is none who hears of your prison and this ransom, but will gladly\nsend of his riches for your ease.\"\n\n\"Sire,\" said he, \"since thus it must be, I promise to pay the sum you\nrequire, but what time do you grant me to find so mighty a ransom?\"\n\n\"Hugh,\" said the King, \"I accord you the grace of one year. If within\nthe year you count me out the tale of these besants, I will take it\ngladly; but if you fail to gain it, then must you return to your\nprison, and I will hold you more willingly still.\"\n\n\"Sire, I pledge my word and my faith. Now deliver me such a safe\nconduct that I may return in surety to my own land.\"\n\n\"Hugh, before you part I have a privy word to speak to you.\"\n\n\"Sire, with all my heart, and where?\"\n\n\"In this tent, close by.\"\n\nWhen they were entered into the pavilion, the Emperor Saladin sought to\nknow of Sir Hugh in what fashion a man was made knight of the Christian\nchivalry, and required of him that he should show it to his eyes.\n\n\"Sire, whom then should I dub knight?\"\n\n\"Myself,\" answered the King.\n\n\"Sire, God forbid that I should be so false as to confer so high a gift\nand so fair a lordship even upon the body of so mighty a prince as\nyou.\"\n\n\"But wherefore?\" said the King.\n\n\"For reason, sire, that your body is but an empty vessel.\"\n\n\"Empty of what, Sir Hugh?\"\n\n\"Sire, of Christianity and of baptism.\"\n\n\"Hugh,\" said he, \"think not hardly of me because of this. You are in my\nhand, and if you do the thing that I require of you, what man is there\nto blame you greatly when you return to your own realm. I seek this\ngrace of you, rather than of another, because you are the stoutest and\nmost perfect knight that ever I may meet.\"\n\n\"Sire,\" said he, \"I will show you what you seek to know, for were it\nbut the will of God that you were a christened man, our chivalry would\nbear in you its fairest flower.\"\n\n\"Hugh,\" said he, \"that may not be.\"\n\nThereupon Sir Hugh made ready all things necessary for the making of a\nknight; and having trimmed the hair and beard of the King in seemly\nfashion, he caused him to enter within a bath, and inquired--\n\n\"Sire, do you understand the meaning of this water?\"\n\n\"Hugh, of this I know nothing.\"\n\n\"Sire, as the little child comes forth from the waters of baptism clean\nof sin, so should you issue from this bath washed pure of all stain and\nvillainy.\"\n\n\"By the law of the Prophet, Sir Hugh, it is a fair beginning.\"\n\nThen Sir Hugh brought the Sultan before an untouched bed, and having\nlaid him therein, he said--\n\n\"Sire, this bed is the promise of that long rest in Paradise which you\nmust gain by the toils of chivalry.\"\n\nSo when the King had lain softly therein for a little space, Sir Hugh\ncaused him to stand upon his feet, and having clothed him in a fair\nwhite vesture of linen and of silk, said--\n\n\"Sire, this spotless stole you first put on is but the symbol of a body\nheld and guarded clean.\"\n\nAfterwards he set upon the King a gown of scarlet silk, and said--\n\n\"Sire, this vermeil robe keeps ever in your mind the blood a knight\nmust shed in the service of his God and the defence of Holy Church.\"\n\nThen taking the King's feet in his hands, he drew thereon shoes of\nbrown leather, saying--\n\n\"Sire, these brown shoes with which you are shod, signify the colour of\nthat earth from which you came, and to which you must return; for\nwhatever degree God permits you to attain, remember, O mortal man, that\nyou are but dust.\"\n\nThen Sir Hugh raised the Sultan to his feet, and girt him with a white\nbaldrick, saying--\n\n\"Sire, this white cincture I belt about your loins is the type of that\nchastity with which you must be girded withal. For he who would be\nworthy of such dignity as this must ever keep his body pure as any\nmaid.\"\n\nAfter this was brought to Sir Hugh a pair of golden spurs, and these he\ndid upon the shoes with which the Sultan was shod, saying--\n\n\"Sire, so swiftly as the destrier plunges in the fray at the prick of\nthese spurs, so swiftly, so joyously, should you fight as a soldier of\nGod for the defence of Holy Church.\"\n\nThen at the last Hugh took a sword, and holding it before the King,\nsaid--\n\n\"Sire, know you the three lessons of this glaive?\"\n\n\"What lessons are these?\"\n\n\"Courage, justice and loyalty. The cross at the hilt of his sword gives\ncourage to the bearer, for when the brave knight girds his sword upon\nhim he neither can, nor should, fear the strong Adversary himself.\nAgain, sire, the two sharp edges of the blade teach loyalty and\njustice, for the office of chivalry is this, to sustain the weak\nagainst the strong, the poor before the rich, uprightly and loyally.\"\n\nThe King listened to all these words very heedfully, and at the end\ninquired if there was nothing more that went to the making of a\nknight.\n\n\"Sire, there is one thing else, but that I dare not do.\"\n\n\"What thing is this?\"\n\n\"It is the accolade.\"\n\n\"Grant me now this accolade, and tell me the meaning thereof.\"\n\n\"Sire, the accolade is a blow upon the neck given with a sword, and the\nsignificance thereof is that the newly made knight may always bear in\nmind the lord who did him that great courtesy. But such a stroke will I\nnot deal to you, for it is not seemly, since I am here your prisoner.\"\n\nThat night Saladin, the mighty Sultan, feasted in his chamber, with the\nfifty greatest lords of his realm, emirs, governors and admirals, and\nSir Hugh of Tabarie sat on a cushion at his feet. At the close of the\nbanquet Sir Hugh rose up before the King and said--\n\n\"Sire, grant me grace. I may not forget that you bade me to seek out\nall fair and honourable lords, since there is none who would not gladly\ncome to my help in this matter of my ransom. But, fair Sir King, in all\nthe world shall I never find a lord so wise, so hardy, and so courteous\nas yourself. Since you have taught me this lesson, it is but just and\nright that I should pray you to be the first to grant me aid herein.\"\n\nThen Saladin laughed loudly out of a merry heart, and said--\n\n\"Pray God that the end be as sweet as the beginning. Truly, Sir Hugh, I\nwill not have it on my conscience that you miss your ransom because of\nany meanness of mine, and therefore, without guile, for my part I will\ngive you fifty thousand good besants.\"\n\nThen the great Sultan rose from his throne, and taking Prince Hugh with\nhim, came to each of the lords in turn--emir, governor and\nadmiral--and prayed of him aid in the business of this ransom. So all\nthe lords gave largely out of a good heart, in such measure that Sir\nHugh presently acquitted himself of his ransom, and returned to his own\nrealm from amongst the Paynim.\n\n\n\n\nTHE STORY OF KING FLORUS AND OF THE FAIR JEHANE\n\n\nHere begins the story of a certain King who was named King Florus of\nAusay. This King Florus was a very stout knight, and a gentleman of\nproud descent. He was wedded to the daughter of the Prince of Brabant,\na gentlewoman of high lineage. Very fair was the maid when she became\nhis dame, slender of shape and dainty of fashion, and the story telleth\nthat she was but fifteen summers old when King Florus became her lord,\nand he was but of seventeen years. A right happy life they passed\ntogether, as becometh bride and groom who wed fondly in their youth;\nyet because he might have no child of her King Florus was often dolent,\nand she for her part was vexed full grievously. This lady was very\ngracious of person, and very devout towards God and Holy Church. She\ngave alms willingly, and was so charitable that she nourished and\nclothed the needy, kissing their hands and feet. Moreover, so constant\nand private in service was she to the lepers of the lazar house, both\nmen and women, that the Holy Ghost dwelt within her. Her lord, King\nFlorus, so long as his realm had peace, rode forth as knight-errant to\nall the tournaments in Allemaigne and France and many other lands of\nwhich the noise reached him; thereon he spent much treasure, and gained\ngreat honour thereby.\n\nBut now my tale ceases to speak of him, and telleth of a knight who\ndwelt in the marches of Flanders and of Hainault. This knight was wise\nin counsel, and brave of heart, very sure and trusty. He had to wife a\nright fair lady, of whom he had one daughter, young and fresh, named\nJehane, a maid of some twelve years. Many sweet words were spoken of\nthis maiden, for in all the country round was none so fair. Her mother\nprayed often to her lord that he should grant the girl in marriage, but\nso given were all his thoughts to the running of tourneys that he\nconsidered nothing of the trothing of his child, though his wife\nadmonished him ever on his return from the jousts.\n\nThis knight had for squire a man named Robert, the bravest squire in\nany Christian realm. His prowess and his praise were such that oft he\naided his lord to bear away the prize from the tournaments whereat he\nran. So great was his praise that his lady spake him thus--\n\n\"Robert, more careth my lord for these joustings than for any words I\nspeak, which thing is grievous to me, for I would that he gave care and\npains to wed this daughter of mine. I pray you, therefore, for love of\nme, that if you may, you tell him that very ill he does, and is greatly\nto be blamed, not to marry his own fair child, for there is no knight\nof these parts, however rich his state, who would not gladly welcome\nsuch a bride.\"\n\n\"Lady,\" said Robert, \"you have well spoken. Very readily will I speak\nthereof, and since my lord asks often of my counsel, every hope have I\nthat he will take heed to my words.\"\n\n\"Robert,\" said the lady, \"you will find me no niggard, so you do this\ntask.\"\n\n\"Lady,\" said Robert, \"your prayer is guerdon enough for me. Be assured\nI will do all that I may.\"\n\n\"I am content,\" returned the lady.\n\nNow within a little space the knight made ready to fare to a\ntournament very far from his land. When he came to the field, he (with\na certain knight in whose company he rode) was joined to one party, and\nhis banner was carried to the lodging of his lord. The tilting began,\nand such deeds did the knight, by the cunning service of his squire,\nthat he bore off the honour and the prize of that tourney from the one\nside and the other. On the second day the knight prepared to return to\nhis own country; so Robert took him often to task and blamed him\ngreatly that he had not bestowed his fair daughter in marriage. Having\nheard this many times, at the end his lord replied--\n\n\"Robert, thou and thy lady give me no peace in the matter of the\nmarriage of my daughter; but at present I see and know of none in my\nparts to whom I am content to give her.\"\n\n\"Ah, sir,\" cried Robert, \"there is no knight in your realm who would\nnot receive her right joyously.\"\n\n\"Robert, fair friend, they are worth nothing, not one of them; neither\nwill I bestow her there with my good will. I know of no man in the\nworld who is worthy of her, save one man only, and he, forsooth, is no\nknight.\"\n\n\"Sir, tell me his name,\" answered Robert, \"and I will find means to\nspeak to him so privily that the marriage shall be made.\"\n\n\"Certes, Robert,\" returned the knight, \"meseems thou art very desirous\nthat my daughter shall be wedded.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" quoth Robert, \"you speak truly, for it is full time.\"\n\n\"Robert,\" said the knight, \"since thou art so hot to carol at her\nwedding, she shall soon enough be married if thou accord thereto.\"\n\n\"Certes, sir,\" said Robert, \"right willingly will I consent thereto.\"\n\n\"To that you pledge your word?\" demanded the knight.\n\n\"Truly, sir, yes,\" answered Robert.\n\n\"Robert, thou hast served me very faithfully, and ever have I found\nthee skilled and true. Such as I am, that thou hast made of me; for by\nthine aid at the tourneys have I gained five hundred pounds of rent.\n'Twas but a short time since that I had but five hundred; whereas now I\nhave one thousand pounds from rent of land. This, therefore, I owe to\nthee, and I acquit me of my debt by giving thee my fair daughter, so\nthou art willing to take her at my hand.\"\n\n\"Ah, sir,\" cried Robert, \"for the pity of God, say not thus. I am too\nlow a man to snatch at so high a maiden, nor dare I pretend to one so\nrich and gracious as my demoiselle, since there is no knight in all the\nrealm, whate'er his breeding, who would not count it honour to be her\nlord.\"\n\n\"Robert, know of a surety that never shall knight of this country call\nher his; but I will bestow her on thee, if thou refusest her not, and\nfor her dowry shall she bring thee four hundred pounds from rent of my\nlands.\"\n\n\"Ah, sir,\" said Robert, \"you are pleased to make a mock of me.\"\n\n\"Robert,\" said the knight, \"be assured this is no jest.\"\n\n\"Ah, sir, neither my lady nor her mighty kin will endure to consent\nthereto.\"\n\n\"Robert,\" said the knight, \"this matter concerns none of them. Hold, I\ngive thee my glove, and I invest thee with four hundred pounds of my\nland, and this is my warrant for the delivery thereof.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said Robert, \"I will not refuse so goodly a gift, since it is\ngiven with so true a heart.\"\n\n\"Robert,\" replied the knight, \"the grant is sealed.\"\n\nSo the knight granted him his glove, and invested him with rights in\nthat fair maiden and her land.\n\nThus they passed upon their ways until it fortuned that this knight\nreturned to his own house. When he was entered therein, his wife--that\ncomely dame--received him right sweetly, and said--\n\n\"Husband, for the love of God, give thought at this time to the\nmarriage of our maid.\"\n\n\"Dame,\" said her lord, \"thou hast spoken so often of this matter that I\nhave trothed her already.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" inquired the lady, \"to whom?\"\n\n\"Certes, dame, I have pledged her to a man who will ever be loyal and\ntrue. I have given her to Robert, my squire.\"\n\n\"To Robert! Alas the day,\" quoth the lady. \"Robert is but a naked man,\nnor is there a knight, however noble, in all this realm who would not\nhave taken her gladly. Certainly Robert shall have none of her.\"\n\n\"Dame, have her he shall, for I have delivered to him as my daughter's\nportion four hundred pounds in rent of land, and all his rights therein\nI warrant and will maintain.\"\n\nWhen the lady heard this thing she was sore troubled, and said to her\nlord that of a surety should Robert never possess her maid.\n\n\"Dame,\" said her husband, \"have her he shall, with good will or with\nbad will, for I have made a covenant with him, and will carry out my\nbargain.\"\n\nWhen the lady heard these words of her lord she sought her chamber, and\nwept and lamented very grievously. After her tears were shed then she\nsent to seek her brothers and other kinsmen of her house, and showed\nthem of that thing her lord would do, and they said--\n\n\"Lady, what have we to do herein? We have no care to go counter to your\nlord, for he is a stout knight, weighty of counsel and heavy of hand.\nMoreover, can he not do as he will with his daughter, and his land\nbesides? Know you well that for this cause will none of us hang shield\nabout his neck.\"\n\n\"Alas,\" said the lady, \"never may my heart find happiness again, if\nthus I lose my child. At the least, fair lords, I pray and require you\nto show him that should he make this marriage he acts not rightly, nor\nafter his own honour.\"\n\n\"Lady,\" said they, \"this we will do full willingly.\"\n\nSo they sought out the knight and acquitted themselves of their task,\nand he answered them in courteous wise--\n\n\"Fair lords, I will tell you what I can do for your love. So it be your\npleasure, I will defer this marriage on such understanding as I now\ndeclare. You are great lords, and are rich in gold and lands. Moreover,\nyou are near of kin to this fair maid of mine, whom very tenderly I\nlove. If on your part you will endue her with four hundred pounds of\nrent on your lands, I, on mine, will disavow this bond of marriage, and\nwill wed the girl according to your wise counsel.\"\n\n\"In the name of God,\" answered they with one accord, \"would you spoil\nus of all the wealth in our wallets?\"\n\n\"Since, then,\" replied the knight, \"you may not do this thing, suffer\nme to do as I will with my own.\"\n\n\"Sir, with right good mind,\" answered they.\n\nThen the knight sent for his chaplain, and before him affianced Robert\nand his fair daughter together, appointing a certain day for the\nmarriage. But on the third day Robert prayed his lord that he would\ndub him knight, since it was not seemly that he should take a wife so\nfair and of such high station till he was of her degree. His lord\nagreed thereto with a glad heart, and on the morrow granted him his\ndesire; therefore after the third day he married the fair maid with\ngreat joy and festival.\n\nAt the hour Messire Robert was made knight he spake thus to his lord--\n\n\"Sir, once when I was in grievous peril of death, I vowed to seek St.\nJames's shrine on the morrow of that day I gained my spurs. I pray you\nbe not wroth with me if to-morrow morn it becomes my honour to wend\nthither directly after this marriage, for in no wise will I fail to\nobserve my vow.\"\n\n\"Certes, Messire Robert, if you do this despite to my daughter, and go\nlonely upon your road, very rightly will you be held to blame.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said he, \"so it pleases God, I shall soon return, but go I must\non peril of my soul.\"\n\nWhen a certain knight of the lord's household heard these words,\ngreatly he reproached Messire Robert for parting from his bride at such\nan hour, but Robert answered him that he durst not break his oath.\n\n\"Truly,\" said the knight, who was named Raoul, \"truly if you wend thus\nto St. James's shrine, leaving so fair a bride but a wedded maid, very\nsurely will I win her love ere you return. Certain proofs, moreover,\nwill I give that I have had my way with her; and to this will I pledge\nmy lands against the lands our lord has granted you, for mine are fully\nworth the rents of yours.\"\n\n\"My wife,\" answered Messire Robert, \"does not come of a race to deal me\nso shrewd a wrong, and since I give no credence to your words,\nwillingly will I make the wager, if so it pleases you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Raoul, \"and to this you pledge your faith?\"\n\n\"Yea,\" said Messire Robert, \"willingly. And you?\"\n\n\"I, too, pledge my faith. Now let us seek our lord forthwith, and set\nbefore him our bargain.\"\n\n\"That is my desire also,\" said Messire Robert.\n\nThen they went straight to their lord and laid before him this wager,\nand plighted troth to observe their covenant. So in the morning Messire\nRobert was married to the fair maiden, and when the bridal Mass was\nended, incontinent he parted from the hall, without tasting the wedding\nmeats, and set forth on his way, a pilgrim to Compostella.\n\nNow ceaseth the tale to speak of him, and telleth of Raoul, who was hot\nin thought as to how he might gain the wager and have to do with the\nfair lady. So relateth the tale that the lady behaved very discreetly\nwhilst her husband was on pilgrimage, for she spent much time upon her\nknees in church, praying God to bring her lord again. For his part\nMessire Raoul was in a heat in what manner he might win the wager, for\nmore and more it seemed to him that he should lose his land. He sought\nspeech with an old dame who attended on the lady, promising that so she\nbrought him in such a place and hour that he might speak privily to\nMadame Jehane, and have his will, then he would deal so largely with\nher, that never in her life should she be poor.\n\n\"Certes, sir,\" said the crone, \"you are so lovely a knight, so sweet in\nspeech and so courteous, that verily it is my lady's duty to set her\nlove upon you, and it will be my pleasure to toil in your service.\"\n\nSo the knight took forty sous from his pouch, and gave them to her that\nshe might buy a kirtle. The old woman received them greedily, and\nhiding the money in a secret place promised to speak to her lady. The\nknight bade farewell, and went his way, but the crone tarried in that\nplace, and when her lady entered from the church said straitly--\n\n\"Lady, for God's love, tell me truly, when my lord went to Compostella\ndid he leave you a maid?\"\n\n\"Why ask you such a question, Dame Hersent?\"\n\n\"Because, lady, I believe you to be a virgin wife!\"\n\n\"Certes, Dame Hersent, and that I am, nor do I know woman who would be\naught else in my case.\"\n\n\"Lady,\" returned Dame Hersent, \"ah, the pity of it! If you but knew the\njoy that women have in company of the man they love, you would say that\nthere is no fonder happiness to be found on earth. Greatly I marvel,\ntherefore, that you love not, _par amours_, seeing that every lady\nloveth with her friend. Were the thing but pleasing to you, fair\nfalleth the chance, for well I know a knight, comely of person, sweet\nand wise of speech, who asks naught better than to set on you his love.\nVery rich is he, and lovelier far than the shamed recreant who has left\nyou in this plight. If you are not too fearful to grant him grace, you\ncan have of him all that you please to ask, and such joy moreover as no\nlady can hope for more.\"\n\nWhilst the crone was speaking, the lady, who was but a woman, felt her\nsenses stir within. Curiously she inquired who this knight should be.\n\n\"Who is he, lady? God above! one has no fear to cry his name! Who\nshould it be but that lovely lord, so courteous, so bold, Messire\nRaoul, of your father's house, the sweetest heart of all the world.\"\n\n\"Dame Hersent,\" said the lady, \"you will do well to let these words be,\nfor I have no wish to do myself such wrong, neither come I of such\nstock as goes after shame.\"\n\n\"Dame,\" replied the old woman, \"I know it well; but never can you have\nthe joy of maid with man.\"\n\nThus ended their discourse; but presently Sir Raoul came again to the\ncrone, and she made plain to him how she had spoken to her lady, and in\nwhat fashion she was answered.\n\n\"Dame Hersent,\" said the knight, \"so should a virtuous lady reply; but\nI pray you speak again with her of this matter, for the archer does not\nwing the bird with a first arrow; and, stay, take these twenty sous,\nand buy a lining to your coat.\"\n\nSo that ancient dame took the gift, and wearied the lady with enticing\nwords, but nothing came of all her proffers.\n\nSlowly or quickly thus passed the days, till came the tidings that Sir\nRobert was on his way from Compostella, and was already near to Paris.\nVery speedily this news was noised abroad, and Sir Raoul, fearing\ngreatly to lose his lands, again sought speech with the crone. Then\nsaid the old woman that in no wise could she snare the bird, but that\nfor the great love she bore him this thing she would do--so he would\nrecompense her service--namely, that she would put matters in such a\ncase that none should be in the house save himself and the lady, and\nthen he could act according to his pleasure, whether she would or\nwhether she would not. So Raoul answered that he desired no other\nthing.\n\n\"This I will do,\" said the old woman. \"Messire shall come again in\neight days, and on that day shall my lady bathe within her bower. I\nwill see that all her household are forth from the castle, so may you\ncome privily to her chamber, and have your desire of her, whether she\ncry yea or whether she cry nay.\"\n\n\"You have fairly spoken,\" answered he.\n\nHard upon this came letters from Messire Robert that he would be at\nthe castle on Sunday. On the Thursday, therefore, the crone caused the\nbath to be heated in the bower, and the lady disarrayed herself to\nenter therein. Then the old woman sent messages to Sir Raoul that he\nshould come speedily, and moreover she caused all the household to go\nforth from that place. Sir Raoul came to the bower, and entering,\nsaluted the lady, but she deigned no reply to his greeting, and said--\n\n\"Sir Raoul, of a truth I thank you for this courtesy, yet you might\nhave asked if such a visit would be according to my wish. Accursed may\nyou be for a most ungentle knight.\"\n\nBut Sir Raoul made reply--\n\n\"Madame, for God's sake have pity upon me, for I die for love of you.\nLady, as you hope for grace, so grant grace to me.\"\n\n\"Sir Raoul,\" cried she, \"never for pity will I grant you this day, or\nany day, the grace of my love. Know well that if you do not leave me\nalone in peace certainly will I tell your lord, my father, the honour\nthat you require of me, for I am no such woman as you think.\"\n\n\"Nay, lady, is it so indeed?\"\n\n\"Yes, and very surely,\" replied she.\n\nThen Sir Raoul sprang forward, and clasping her in his arms (for he was\nvery mighty) bore her towards her bed. As they strove he saw beneath\nher right breast a black spot upon the groin, and thought within\nhimself that here was certain proof that he had had to do with her. But\nas he carried her towards the bed his spurs caught within the serge\nvalence about the foot thereof, so that they fell together, the lord\nbelow and the lady above; whereupon she rose lightly to her feet, and\nseizing a billet of wood from the hearth, smote him upon the head so\nshrewdly that the blood dropped upon the rushes from the wound. When\nSir Raoul knew his wound to be both deep and large no more he desired\nto play, so he arose from the floor and departed straightway from that\nchamber to his own lodging, a long mile thence, and sought a surgeon\nfor his hurt. For her part the faithful lady called upon Dame Hersent,\nand returning to her bath, complained to her of this strange adventure\nwith the knight.\n\nVery great and rich was the feast that the father of the fair lady\nordained against the home-coming of Sir Robert. Many a lord was bidden\nto his hall, and amongst these my lord, Sir Raoul, his knight; but he\nsent messages that he might not come, for reason of his sickness. On\nthe Sunday came Sir Robert, and was sweetly welcomed of all; but the\nfather of the fair lady sought out Sir Raoul, nor would hold him\nexcused from the feast because of his grievous wound. Therefore he\ntired his face and his wound the best that he was able, and went to\nhall, where all day long the lords and ladies sat at meat and drink,\nand rose for morris and to dance.\n\nWhen closed the night Sir Robert sought his chamber, and very\ngraciously the lady received him, as it becometh every wife to receive\nher husband. On the morrow again the guests were gathered about the\nboard, but after dinner uprose Sir Raoul demanding that Messire Robert\nshould pay his wager, since he had had to do with his wife, by sign and\ntoken of a certain black spot beneath her right breast.\n\n\"Of that I know nothing,\" answered Sir Robert, \"for I have not looked\nso boldly upon her.\"\n\n\"I require you by the faith that you have pledged me to take heed, and\nto do me justice herein.\"\n\n\"That will I, truly,\" answered Sir Robert.\n\nWhen came the night once more, then Sir Robert observed his wife\ncuriously, and marked the black spot upon her white body, whereat the\ngreater grief was his. In the morning he sought out Sir Raoul, and\nowned before his lord that he had lost the bet. Sick at heart was he\nthroughout the day. When darkness came he went to the stable, and\nsaddling his palfrey, issued forth from the courtyard, taking with him\nwhat he might carry of his wealth. So he set forth on the road to\nParis, and coming to the city sojourned therein for some three days.\nThere the tale ceaseth to speak of him, and telleth of his wife.\n\nVery dolent and right heavy was the fair lady that thus her lord had\nfled his house. Very long and right greatly she considered the reason\nof his flight. She wept and lamented her widowhood, even till such time\nas her father entered her chamber, and said that it were much better\nthat she had never wed, since she had brought him to shame, him, and\nall her house, and told her how and why. When she heard this thing she\nwas sick of heart, and swore that never had she done such deed; but her\nwords profited her nothing, for though a woman gave her body to be\nburned, yet would none believe her clean of sin, once such blame is set\nupon her.\n\nVery early in the night the lady rose from the bed, and taking what\nwealth she had in her coffer, saddled a palfrey and took the road. She\nhad sheared her dainty tresses to the shoulder, and in all points was\nclad as a boy. In this manner came she to Paris, seeking for her\nhusband, for to her heart she declared that never would she give over\nher search until they were met together once more. So she rode at\nadventure, a squire searching for her lord. Now on a morning she\ndeparted from Paris, and riding on the way to Orleans came to Tombe\nIsoire, and there met with Sir Robert, her husband. Her heart was very\nfull as she drew close and saluted him, and he rendered her greeting\nfor greeting, saying--\n\n\"Fair friend, God give you heart's desire.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said she, \"from whence come you?\"\n\n\"Certes, fair friend, I am of Hainault.\"\n\n\"Sir, and whither go you?\"\n\n\"Forsooth, fair friend, little I know where my path may lead me, nor\nhave I home where I may dwell. Where Fortune hales me, thither I must\ngo, and the Dame looks not kindly on me, for I have lost the thing that\nmost I loved in all the world, and she hath lost me. Moreover with her\nwent house and lands that were fair and deep. But tell me, what is your\nname, and whither doth God bring you?\"\n\n\"Certes, sir,\" answered Jehane, \"I purpose to seek Marseilles, near by\nthe sea, where as I hope there is noise of war. There, if I may, will I\nenter the service of some hardy captain and learn the trade of arms, so\nit be God's pleasure. For such is my plight that in nowise can I stay\nin my own country. To my eyes, sir, you seem a knight whom I would\nserve very gladly, if such was your will, nor of my fellowship could\nyou take any harm.\"\n\n\"Fair friend,\" answered Messire Robert, \"truly am I a belted knight,\nand in what place the battle is set, there would I gladly ride. But\ntell me now, what is your name?\"\n\n\"Sir, my name is John.\"\n\n\"It is right welcome,\" said the knight.\n\n\"And you, sir, what is your name?\"\n\n\"John, my name is Robert.\"\n\n\"Sir Robert, join me to your company as squire, and I will serve you to\nthe utmost of my power.\"\n\n\"John, so would I do gladly, but I have so little money in my pouch,\nthat ere three days are gone I must sell my very steed; therefore I\nmay take no squire.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said John, \"be not troubled thereat, for God will provide, if so\nit seems good to Him. But where are you set to dine?\"\n\n\"John, my dinner is a simple business, for I have nothing in my purse\nsave three sous of Paris.\"\n\n\"Sir, be not troubled thereat, for on my part I have with me nearly ten\npounds of Tournay money, and these are as your own, since your wallet\nis not heavy to your wish.\"\n\n\"Fair friend, thanks, and thanks again.\"\n\nThe two comrades rode at a brisk pace to Montlhery, where John found\nmeat for his lord, and they ate together. When they had eaten they\nsought their chamber, the knight lying in a fair bed, and John sleeping\nin another, at his feet. Refreshed with sleep, John rose and did the\nharness upon their horses, so they mounted and passed upon their way.\nJourneying thus at last they lighted at Marseilles upon the Sea, but to\ntheir grief they might not hear the rumour of any war. There for the\ntime my story ceases to speak of the two of them, and returns to\nMessire Raoul, that false knight, who, by leasing, had wrongly gained\nthe land of Sir Robert.\n\nFor more than seven years did Messire Raoul hold the lands of Sir\nRobert against law and right. Then a sore sickness took hold upon him,\nand afflicted him so grievously that very near he came to death. Much\nhe feared the wrong he had wrought to that fair lady, the daughter of\nhis lord, and to her husband besides, for by reason of his malice were\nthey utterly undone. So great was his sin that he dared not show the\nmatter to the priest, but tossed upon his bed in utter unrest. On a\ncertain day when his sickness lay too heavy upon him he bade his\nchaplain draw near his bed, for this priest was a wise confessor, loyal\nand true, and very close to the sick man's heart. Then he spake--\n\n\"Father--my father in God, if not according to the flesh--the time is\ncome when I must die. For God's love give me now your counsel, as you\nare a ghostly man, for on my soul there lies a sin so ugly and so black\nthat scarcely may I hope to be anealed.\"\n\nThe priest prayed him to speak more plainly, so that he might aid him\nto the utmost of his power, wherefore Sir Raoul brought himself to tell\nthe story that you have heard. At the end he begged the chaplain for\nthe love of God to show him what he must do to obtain the grace of\npardon for a sin so dark.\n\n\"Sir,\" said the priest, \"be not altogether cast down, for so you are\nwilling to do such penance as I lay upon you, I will take your sin on\nme and on my own soul, and you shall be clean.\"\n\n\"Now tell me of this penance,\" said the knight.\n\n\"Sir, within a year of your recovery from this sickness must you take\nthe cross and pass beyond the sea, and in all places where men ask the\nreason of your pilgrimage, there you must tell the story of this bitter\nwrong. Moreover, this day must you give hostages to God that thus you\nwill do.\"\n\n\"All this will I do gladly.\"\n\n\"Sir, what rich pledge can you offer, therefore?\"\n\n\"The best,\" replied the knight. \"You, yourself, shall be hostage and\nsurety for me; and on my honour as a knight well will I redeem my\npledge.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said the priest, \"in the hand of God am I set as your pledge.\"\n\nThe sick man turned from death to life, and soon was altogether healed.\nA full year passed away, and yet he had not taken the cross. Right\noften the holy man reminded him of his bond, but he treated the\ncovenant as a jest. Then the chaplain told him straitly that except he\ndischarged him as his surety before God, he would tell the whole matter\nto the father of the fair lady whom he had utterly destroyed. When the\nknight heard this he said to the chaplain that within six months would\nhe seek the sea for the springtide crossing, and thereto he plighted\nfaith. But now the story ceases to speak of Messire Raoul, and returns\nto King Florus of Ausay, of whom it has told nought for a great while.\n\nA right happy life led King Florus and his wife together, as becomes\nbride and groom who wed fondly in their youth, but very dolent and sore\nof heart were they that they might get no child. The lady caused Masses\nto be sung, and was urgent in prayer for her desire, but since it was\nnot according to the will of God, no gain she got thereby. On a day\nthere came to the castle of King Florus a holy hermit who dwelt deep\nwithin the great forest of Ausay, in a very desolate place. The queen\nreceived him very gladly, and because he was a wise man and a holy,\nwould be shriven by him of her sins. So she bared him her secret wound,\nand told him of her grief that she might have no child by her lord.\n\n\"Ah, madame,\" said the holy man, \"it becometh you patiently to suffer\nthe pleasure of our Lord. When it is His will, then shall the barren\nbecome a joyful mother of children.\"\n\n\"Certes, sir,\" said the lady, \"would that it were now, for less dear am\nI to my lord therefor. Moreover the high barons of this realm cast the\nthing against me, and give counsel to my lord that he should put the\nbarren woman away and take another bride.\"\n\n\"Truly, madame,\" said the holy man, \"grievously would he sin against\nGod and Holy Church by such a deed.\"\n\n\"Ah, sir, pray you to God for me that I may bear a child to my lord,\nfor much I doubt that he will put me away.\"\n\n\"Madame,\" said the holy man, \"prayers of mine are little worth, save by\nthe will of God, yet such as they are you shall have them willingly.\"\n\nHardly had this holy man departed from the lady, when the barons of the\nrealm drew together before the King, and counselled him that he should\nput away his wife, since by her he might have no child, and take\nanother bride. Moreover, if he would not abide by their counsel, then\nwould they withdraw their fealty, for in no case should the kingdom\nremain without an heir. King Florus feared his barons greatly, and gave\ncredence to their word, so he promised to send his wife to her kindred,\nand prayed the lords to seek him another queen, which thing was\naccorded between them. When the lady knew thereof she was stricken to\nthe heart, but nothing might she do, for well she understood that her\nlord was purposed to forsake her. Therefore she sent to seek that\nhermit who was her confessor, and when he was come she set before him\nthis business of the barons, and how they would bring another wife to\nher husband. \"So I pray you, fair father, to aid me with counsel as to\nwhat I must do.\"\n\n\"Lady,\" said the holy man, \"if it be thus, you must suffer it as best\nyou may, for against king and barons you can make no head.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said the gentle lady, \"you speak truly; so, if it pleases God, I\nwill dwell as an anchoress near to you, for then shall I serve God all\nthe days of my life, and yet draw some stay and comfort from your\npresence.\"\n\n\"Lady,\" said the prudent man, \"that were too hazardous a thing, for\nyou are too tender in years, and fair and fresh. But I will tell you\nwhat to do. Near by my hermitage is a convent of White Nuns, very quiet\nand devout. If you go thither, right gladly will they receive you, as\nwell by reason of your blameless life as of your high degree.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said she, \"wisely have you spoken, and this I will do, since so\nyou counsel me.\"\n\nOn the morrow King Florus spake to his wife, and said--\n\n\"Since you may have no child by me, needs must we say farewell. I tell\nyou truly that the parting presses hardly upon me, for never again\nshall woman lie so nearly to my heart as you have lain.\"\n\nThen might he speak no more because of tears, and the lady wept with\nhim.\n\n\"Husband,\" said she, \"for God's love have pity upon me, for where may I\nhide myself, and what may I find to do?\"\n\n\"Wife, so it pleases God, your good days are not yet past, for\nhonourably and in rich estate shall you return to your own friends in\nyour own land.\"\n\n\"Lord,\" said the dame, \"I require none of this gear. So it please you,\nI will bestow me in a certain convent of nuns, if it will receive me,\nand there I will serve God all my life; for since I lose your love I am\nshe whose heart shall never harbour love again.\"\n\nSo King Florus and the lady wept together very bitterly.\n\nOn the third day the Queen set forth to her convent; and the fresh\nQueen came to the palace in great pomp, and held revel and festival\nwith her friends. For four years did King Florus possess this lady, yet\nnever might he get an heir. So now the story ceases to speak of King\nFlorus, and turns again to Messire Robert and to John, who were come\nto Marseilles.\n\nVery sad was Sir Robert when he came to the city that he might hear of\nno arming in all the land; so he said to John--\n\n\"What shall we do? You have lent me much money, for the which I owe you\nmore than thanks. I will give it you again, though I have to sell my\nvery palfrey, to discharge me of the debt.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said John, \"if it please you give heed to me, and I will show\nyou what we have to do. There remain yet to us one hundred Tournay\nsous. If you grant me leave, I will turn our two good horses into\nbetter money. With this I will make French bread, for I am the lightest\nbaker of whom you have heard, and I doubt but little that we shall gain\nour money and our livelihood besides.\"\n\n\"John,\" said Sir Robert, \"I am content that you should do according to\nyour will.\"\n\nThe next day John sold his two horses for ten pounds Tournay. With\nthese he bought corn, and carried it to the mill. Afterwards he bought\nbaskets and set to work at his oven to bake good French bread. So white\nand so fresh were these loaves of his baking that he sold more than the\nbest baker of the town, and prospered so greatly that within two years\nhe had put by well one hundred pounds for their need.\n\nThen said John to his lord--\n\n\"Would it not be good to hire a fair large house, with cellarage for\nwine, that we might offer hostelry and lodging to wealthy folk from\nhome?\"\n\n\"John,\" answered Sir Robert, \"your will is mine, for every reason have\nI for content with you.\"\n\nThen John hired a house, both fair and great, and there gave lodging to\nhonest folk, gaining money very plenteously. He clad his lord in costly\nraiment, so that Sir Robert bestrode his own palfrey, and sat at meat\nand drink with the most honourable of the town. Moreover John caused\nhis board to be furnished with all manner of wines and store, so that\nhis companions marvelled greatly at the abundance thereof. With all\nthis so bravely did John prosper that within four years he had put by\nmore than three hundred pounds, besides the furnishing of inn and\nbakery, which very well was worth another fifty pounds. But here the\nstory ceases to speak of John and Sir Robert, and turneth again to tell\nof Messire Raoul.\n\nNow telleth the tale that the chaplain pressed Sir Raoul right\nearnestly that he should pass beyond the sea, and thus discharge his\nsurety from the bond, for much he feared that the knight would yet find\nreason to remain. So instant was the priest in pleading, that Sir Raoul\nsaw well that go he must. He made him ready for his journey, spending\nmoney without stint, and at the end set forth upon the road, him and\nhis three squires. He drew presently to Marseilles-on-Sea, and there\nsought lodging at the French Hostelry owned by Sir Robert and by John.\nWhen John set eyes upon him he knew him well, because he had seen him\nmany times, and for reason of the scar of the wound that he had given\nhim. The knight sojourned in the town for fifteen days, till he might\nfind passage in some vessel going oversea. Whilst he was dwelling at\nthe inn John took him apart and asked him of the purpose of his\njourney, whereat Messire Raoul told him openly all the occasion\nthereof, just as the tale hath related already. John listened to his\nstory, but answered naught for good or evil. Presently Sir Raoul caused\nhis harness and his gear to be bestowed on the nave, and mounted in the\nship, but for eight days it might not depart from forth the harbour. On\nthe ninth day the vessel sailed from port on its way to the Holy\nSepulchre. Thus Sir Raoul did his pilgrimage, and there made honest\nconfession of his sins. In sign of penitence his confessor charged him\nstrictly to restore to the knight and his lady the fief he held in\nscorn of law and right; and Sir Raoul promised straitly that when he\ncame again to his own land he would carry out the wishes of his heart.\nSo parting from Jerusalem he voyaged to Acre, and took passage in the\nfirst homing ship, as a man who desires above all things to look upon\nthe face of his own country. He adventured on the sea, and fared so\nspeedily, by night as by day, that in less than three months he cast\nanchor at the port of Aigues Mortes. Parting from the harbour he stayed\nnot till he was come to Marseilles, where he rested eight days at the\ninn owned by Sir Robert and John, which inn men called the French\nHostelry; but Sir Robert did not recall him to mind, for he thought but\nlittle of Sir Raoul. At the end of eight days he set forth from\nMarseilles with his three squires, and at length returned to his own\nhome, where his household received him gladly, for he was a great lord,\nvery rich in land and in store. His chaplain inquired of him if any had\nasked the reason for his journey.\n\n\"Yes,\" said he, \"in three places, to wit, Marseilles, Acre, and\nJerusalem. Moreover that priest who shrived me counselled me to give\nback his lands to my lord, Sir Robert, so I may find him, or if I may\nnot hear of him, to his wife or his heirs.\"\n\n\"Certes,\" said the chaplain, \"he gave you godly counsel.\"\n\nSo Messire Raoul dwelt in his own house for a great while in peace and\nease; and there the tale ceaseth to speak of him, and returns to\nMessire Robert and to John.\n\nSir Robert and John dwelt as citizens in Marseilles for the space of\nsix years. At the end of six years had they put by in a sure place the\nsum of six hundred pounds. John and his business prospered exceedingly,\nfor so gentle was he and diligent, that he was beloved of all his\nneighbours. Men spake almost too well of him, and he maintained his\nlord in such estate and worship that it was marvellous to see. When the\nend of the seventh year drew near, John sought occasion to speak\nsoberly to Sir Robert his lord, and said--\n\n\"Sir, we have dwelt a great while in this city, and have been so\nfortunate in our dealings that we have gained nearly six hundred pounds\nin money and in silver vessels.\"\n\n\"Certes,\" said Sir Robert, \"all this, John, is not mine, but yours, for\nyou have earned it.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said John, \"saving your grace, it is not mine, but yours, for\nyou are my own true lord, and never, please God, will I take another.\"\n\n\"John, I thank you heartily,\" said Robert. \"I hold you not as servant,\nbut as comrade and as friend.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said John, \"all my days have I given you loyal service, and so\nwill I ever do.\"\n\n\"By my faith,\" said Sir Robert, \"what you require of me, that is my\npleasure. But as to returning to my own country, I know not what to\nsay. So much have I lost there that never can it be made up to me.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" answered John, \"fret not over your loss, for, so God pleases,\nyou shall hear good news when you come into your own land. And be not\nfearful of anything, for in whatever place we shall be, please God, I\nshall gather enough for me and for you.\"\n\n\"Certes, John,\" said Sir Robert, \"I will do that which pleases you, and\nlodge wheresoe'er you will.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said John, \"now will I sell our goods and make ready for the\njourney, for we shall part within fifteen days.\"\n\nSo John sold all the fair furnishing of his houses, and bought thereout\nthree horses, a palfrey for his lord, another for himself, and a pack\nhorse for the road. Then they bade farewell to their neighbours and to\nthe most worshipful citizens of the town, who grieved sorely at their\ngoing.\n\nSir Robert and John travelled so hardily that in less than three weeks\nthey drew to their own country, and Sir Robert caused it to be told to\nhis lord, whose daughter he had wedded, that he was near at hand. The\nlord was merry at heart, for much he hoped that his daughter might be\nwith her husband; and so she was, but hid in the trappings of a squire.\n\nThe lord greeted Robert warmly, but when he could learn no tidings of\nhis daughter, his mirth was turned into sorrow; nevertheless he made a\nrich banquet for Sir Robert, and bade his knights and his neighbours to\nthe feast. Amongst these came Sir Raoul who held Sir Robert's land in\nhis despite. Great was the merriment on that day and the morrow, and\nduring all this joy Sir Robert told to John the story of his wager, and\nof the manner in which Sir Raoul spoiled him of his land.\n\n\"Sir,\" said John, \"challenge him to combat as a false traitor, and I\nwill fight the battle in your stead.\"\n\n\"John,\" said Sir Robert, \"this you shall not do.\"\n\nThus they left the matter till the morrow, when John came to Sir\nRobert, and said that he was purposed to speak to the father of his\nwife. So they sought the lord, and John spake him thus--\n\n\"Sir, you are, after God, the lord of my master Sir Robert, who in the\nyears that are gone married your child. As you know, a wager was made\nbetween him and Sir Raoul, who said that ere Sir Robert came home from\nSt. James's shrine he would gain the lady to his wish. Sir Raoul spake\nfalsely, and is a most disloyal and traitor knight, for never had he\npart or share in your daughter's love. All which I am ready to prove\nupon his body.\"\n\nThen Robert strode forth and said--\n\n\"John, fair friend, this business is mine alone, nor because of it\nshall you hang shield about your neck.\"\n\nSo Sir Robert held forth his gage to his lord, and Sir Raoul tendered\ngage of battle in return, though but fearfully; for needs must he\ndefend himself, or be proclaimed recreant and traitor. Thus were the\npledges given, and the day for the ordeal by battle pronounced to be\nfifteen days thence without appeal.\n\nNow hearken well to this strange story of John, and what he did. John,\nwho more sweetly was named Madame Jehane, had in the house of her\nfather a certain cousin, who was a fair demoiselle of some twenty-five\nyears. To this cousin Jehane went and discovered the whole matter,\ntelling her all the story, from the first thing to the last. She prayed\nher, moreover, to keep the business hidden, until such time and hour as\nshe should make herself known to her father. The cousin--to whom Jehane\nwas very well known--promised readily to conceal the matter, saying\nthat never should the secret be made plain by her fault. Then was the\nchamber of her cousin made fresh and ready for Madame Jehane. Therein\nfor the two weeks before the battle Jehane bathed and perfumed her, and\ntook her ease as best she might, for well had she reason to look her\nfairest. Also she caused women to shape closely to her figure four\ngoodly gowns; one was of scarlet, one of vair, one of peacock blue,\nand one of trailing silk. Thus with rest and peace she came once more\nto the fulness of her beauty, and was so dainty, fresh and fair, that\nno lady showed her peer in all the world.\n\nAs for Sir Robert, very greatly was he discomforted during all these\nfifteen days at the loss of John his squire, for he knew nothing of his\nfate. Nevertheless on the appointed day he got himself into his\nharness, and prepared him for the battle stoutly and with a good heart.\n\nOn the appointed day the two knights entered within the lists together.\nDrawing apart for a little space, they rushed furiously the one on the\nother, and gave such mighty strokes with the blades of their great\nswords that their horses were borne to the ground beneath them. Sir\nRaoul was wounded lightly in the left side, so Sir Robert getting first\nupon his feet came swiftly to him, and smote him with all his force\nupon the helm. So mighty was the blow that the sword sheared clear\nthrough the helmet to the coif of steel, but the coif was so strong\nthat the head was not wounded; nevertheless of that stroke he reeled so\nthat had he not caught at his saddle, certainly he had fallen to the\nearth. Then Sir Raoul, who was a very stout champion, struck Sir Robert\nso fiercely upon the headpiece that he was all bemused, and the sword\nglancing downwards upon the shoulder hacked off the mail of the\nhauberk, but did him no hurt. Thereat Sir Robert smote him again with\nall the strength that he was able, and the blow lighting upon the\nbuckler carried away a quarter of the shield. When Sir Raoul knew the\nhardiness of his foe much he feared for the issue of the combat, and\nwell he wished himself once more beyond the sea, and Sir Robert settled\nsafely on his land. However, he put forward all his prowess, and\npressed Sir Robert so grimly that with one great stroke he clove to the\nboss upon the very middle of Sir Robert's shield. For his part Sir\nRobert struck fairly at Sir Raoul's helm, but he thrust his shield\nbefore him, and that mighty blow passing clean through the buckler came\nfull upon the charger's neck, so that horse and rider tumbled to the\nground. Messire Raoul climbed stoutly to his feet, as a valiant man who\nhad often ridden with the spears, but Sir Robert lighted from his\nsteed, for he would not deign to fight at vantage with a foe on foot.\n\nNow strove the two knights together, hand to hand, in such fashion that\nshield and helm and hauberk were hewn in pieces, and the blood ran from\ntheir bodies by reason of their trenchant glaives. Had they been able\nto deal such blows as in the first passage of their arms, very quickly\nboth one and the other had been slain, for of their shields scarce\nenough held together to cover their gauntlets. The fear of death or\nshame was now before their eyes, and the nearness of their persons\nsummoned them to bring this judgment to an end. Sir Robert gripped his\nsword in both hands, and with all the greatness of his strength smote\nSir Raoul upon the helm. Half the shattered headpiece fell upon his\nshoulders, and the sword cutting through the coif made a grisly wound.\nSo bewildered was Sir Raoul at the stroke that he was beaten to the\nknee; but he rose lightly again, though, since he knew that his head\nwas naked, very fearful was he of death. He ran therefore at Sir\nRobert, smiting with all his power at the remnants of his shield.\nThrough shield and helmet went the glaive to the depth of full three\nfingers, but the wearied sword coming full upon the coif of steel brake\nin pieces, for the armourer's work was very strong. When Sir Raoul\nlooked upon the shards of his sword, and remembered that his head was\nnaked, much he doubted of his end. Nevertheless he stooped to the\nground, and seizing a great stone in both his hands flung it at Sir\nRobert with all his might. Sir Robert stepped aside quickly, avoiding\nthe cast, and ran in upon his adversary, who turned his back and took\nto flight about the lists. So Sir Robert cried that save his foe\nadmitted himself recreant and shamed he would slay him with the sword.\n\n\"Gentle knight,\" answered Sir Raoul, \"I yield thee what remaineth of my\nsword, and throw myself entirely on thy grace. Show mercy on me, gentle\nknight, and pray thy lord and mine that he have pity upon me, and spare\nmy life. Take back thy land that I have held against both law and\nright, and therewith take my own; for all I said against that fair and\nspotless lady was just foul lies.\"\n\nWhen my lord, Sir Robert, heard these words he thought within himself\nthat Sir Raoul might do no more. Therefore he prayed his lord so\nurgently to pardon Sir Raoul for this felony, that his prayer was\naccorded on such terms that Sir Raoul should abide over sea for all his\ndays.\n\nIn such fashion Sir Robert won back his land, and added that of Sir\nRaoul besides. But in this thing he found little comfort, for grief of\nheart over the fair and faithful lady from whom he had parted.\nMoreover, in no wise could he forget John, his squire, who was lost to\nhim also. His lord, too, shared in his sorrow, for reason that he might\nnever gain tidings of his one fair child.\n\nBut Madame Jehane, who had spent two weeks in her cousin's chamber in\nall ease and comfort, when she heard that her husband had gained the\nbattle, was greatly content. As we know, she had caused her women to\nshape closely to her person four goodly gowns, and of these she arrayed\nherself in the most rich, which was of cloth of silk, banded with fine\nArabian gold. So shapely was she of body, so bright of face, and so\ngracious of address that nothing more lovely could be found in all the\nworld, so that her very cousin, even, marvelled at her exceeding\nbeauty. For the bathing, the tiring, and ease of mind and body of the\npast fifteen days had given her back her early freshness, as was\nwonderful to see. Very sweet, very ravishing showed Madame Jehane in\nher silken robe banded with gold. So when she was ready she called to\nher cousin, and said--\n\n\"How seem I to thee?\"\n\n\"Why, dame, the prettiest person in all the world.\"\n\n\"Now, fair cousin, I will tell thee what thou shalt do. Go thou\nstraight to my father, and tell him to be heavy no more, but rather\nmerry and glad, because thou bringest him good news of his daughter.\nTell him that she is sound and well, and that so he come with thee, he\nshall see her with his eyes. Then lead him here, and he will greet me\nagain, I deem, right willingly.\"\n\nThe maiden answered that gladly would she give the message, so she\nsought out the father of Madame Jehane, and said as she was bidden.\nWhen the lord heard thereof he wondered at this strange thing, and\ngoing after the damsel found his daughter in her chamber. When he saw\nher face he cast his arms about her neck, shedding tears of joy and\npity, yea, such was his happiness that scarcely could he find a word.\nWhen he might speak he asked where she had been so long a while.\n\n\"Fair father,\" said the lady, \"you shall hear it in good time. But, for\nthe love of God, cause my mother to come to me speedily, for I die\ntill I see her once again.\"\n\nThe lord sent incontinent for his wife, and when she was come into the\nchamber where her daughter lay, and saw and knew her face, straight she\nfell down in a swoon for joy, and might not speak for a great space.\nBut when her senses were come to her again no man could conceive the\njoy and festival she made above her child.\n\nWhilst mother and daughter held each other fast, the father of the fair\nlady went in quest of Sir Robert, and meeting him said thus--\n\n\"Fair sweet son, very joyful news have I to share with you.\"\n\n\"Certes,\" said Sir Robert, \"of joy have I great need, but God alone can\nhelp my evil case, for sad at heart am I for the loss of my sweet wife,\nand sad, besides, for the loss of him who did me more good than any\nother in the world, for John, my faithful squire.\"\n\n\"Sir Robert,\" said the lord, \"spoil not your life for John; squires can\nbe met with at every turning. But as to your wife, I have a certain\nthing to tell, for I come from her but now, and know well that she is\nthe most peerless lady in all the world.\"\n\nWhen Messire Robert heard this he fell a-trembling with joy, and said\nto his lord--\n\n\"Ah, sir, for God's love bring me to see that this is true!\"\n\n\"Right willingly,\" said the lord, \"come now with me.\"\n\nThe lord went before and Robert followed after, till they were come to\nthe chamber where mother and daughter yet clasped each other close,\nweeping with joy the one upon the other. When they knew their husbands\nnear they drew apart, and as soon as Sir Robert saw his wife he ran to\nher with open arms, and embraced her. So they kissed each the other\nwith many little kisses, and wept for joy and pity. Yea, they held each\nto the other in this fashion whilst a man might run ten acres of land,\nnor ceased enlacing. Then the lord commanded that the tables should be\nspread for supper; so they ate with mirth and merriment.\n\nAfter supper, when the songs and the dances were done, they went to\ntheir beds, neither was Sir Robert parted from the Lady Jehane, for\nthey were right happy to be met together again, and talked of many\nthings. At the last Sir Robert asked of her where she had been so great\na time, and she said--\n\n\"Husband, it is over long a story to tell, but you shall hear it all at\na more convenient season. Tell me, rather, what you have done, and\nwhere you have been all this while.\"\n\n\"Wife,\" said Sir Robert, \"I will tell you gladly.\"\n\nSo he told her all the tale she knew by rote, and of John his squire,\nwho gained him bread, and said that so distressed was he at the loss of\nhis companion that never would he give over the search till he had\nfound him, yea, that he would saddle with the morn and part.\n\n\"Husband,\" said the lady, \"that would be madness. Are you set again to\nleave me, and what shall I do thereof?\"\n\n\"Certes, lady, I can do none other; for never man did such things for\nhis friend as he has done for me.\"\n\n\"Husband,\" said the wife, \"what he did for you was but his duty; he did\nno more than what he should have done.\"\n\n\"Wife,\" said Messire Robert, \"by your speech you should have known\nhim.\"\n\n\"Truly,\" answered the lady, \"truly, I should know him well, for never\naught of what he did was hid from me.\"\n\n\"Lady,\" said Sir Robert, \"I marvel at such words.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said she, \"there is no need for wonder. If I tell you, yea and\nverily, that such a thing is true, will you honestly believe my word?\"\n\n\"Wife,\" said he, \"on my honour.\"\n\n\"Believe, then, what I am about to tell you, for know assuredly that I\nam that very John whom you would seek and this is how it happed. When I\nwas told the matter of the wager, and of the treason of Messire Raoul;\nwhen, too, I knew that you were fled because of your grief at my\nfaithlessness, and by reason of the land that for ever you had lost,\nthen was I more cast down than any woman since woman first was made. So\nI clipped my hair close to my head, and taking all the money in my\nchest, about ten pounds Tournay, I arrayed me in the guise of a squire,\nand followed after you to Paris, coming up with you at Tombe Isoire.\nFrom there we companied together, even to Marseilles, where I served\nyou as my own liege lord for near seven years, nor do I grudge you\nvarlet's service. And know for truth that I am innocent and clean of\nthat deed the foul knight fastened upon me, as clearly now appears, for\nhe has been put to shame in open field, and has publicly confessed his\ntreason.\"\n\nHaving spoken thus, Madame Jehane embraced Sir Robert, her lord, and\nkissed him very sweetly on the mouth. When Messire Robert was persuaded\nthat she, indeed, was John, his faithful squire, his joy was greater\nfar than thought or words may express, and much he marvelled that so\nhigh a lady could prove so lowly and so serviceable. For which thing he\nloved her the more dearly all the days of his life.\n\nThus came together these two parted lovers; thus, on their own domain,\nwhich was both broad and fair, they lived a happy life, as becometh\nlovers in their youth. Often Sir Robert rode to tournaments in the\ntrain of his lord, and much honour he gained and such wealth, moreover,\nthat his land became twice as great as that he had. After the death of\nthe father and mother of Lady Jehane he became the heir to all their\nsubstance. So stout a knight was he, that by his prowess he was made a\ndouble banneret, and was worth four thousand pounds in land. Yet always\nmust he be a childless man, to his exceeding grief, though for more\nthan ten years he was with his wife after the combat with Sir Raoul.\n\nAfter the term of ten years, by the will of God--which is mightier than\nthe strength of man--the pains of death gat hold upon him. He met death\nlike a brave knight, assoiled by the rites of Holy Church, and was laid\nin his grave with great honour. His wife, the fair lady, mourned so\ngrievously upon him, that all about her felt pity for her sorrow. Yet,\nduring the days, the sharpness of her grief was assuaged, and she came\nto take a little comfort, though as yet it was but a little.\n\nThe Lady Jehane bore herself during her widowhood as a devout and\nkindly lady, devoted to God and Holy Church. Very humble was she and\nright charitable, dearly cherishing the poor and needy. So good was she\nthat no tongue might say aught of her but praise; and so fair that all\nwho looked upon her owned that she was the mirror of all ladies in the\nworld for beauty and for virtue. But now for a little space the tale\nceases to speak of her, and returns to tell of King Florus, for it has\nbeen dumb of him o'erlong.\n\nKing Florus of Ausay lay at his own castle sorely grieved and vexed at\nthe departure of his first wife, for she whom the barons had seated in\nher chair, though fresh and gracious, might not bring that peace of\nheart which was that lady's gift. Four years they lived together, yet\nnever might have an heir. At the end thereof the pains of death seized\nthe lady, so she was buried amidst the weeping of her friends, and with\nsuch fair state and service as were fitting to the dignity of a queen.\n\nKing Florus remained a widower for above two years. He was yet a young\nman, for he was no more than forty-five years of age, and his barons\nprayed him that he would seek another wife.\n\n\"Certes,\" answered King Florus, \"I desire not greatly to do this thing,\nfor I have had two wives, yet might not get an heir by either. Moreover\nthe first wife that I had was so virtuous and so fair, and so dearly\ndid I love her in my heart for her exceeding goodlihead, that never is\nshe absent from my thoughts. I tell you truly that never again will I\nwed till I may meet a woman sweet and good as she. God rest her soul,\nfor as I hear she passed away in that White convent where she was\nwithdrawn.\"\n\n\"Ah, sire,\" said a knight who was in his private counsel, \"many a\ncomely dame goes about the realm whom you have never seen. One at least\nI know who for kindness and for beauty has not her like in all the\nworld. If you but saw her fairness, if you but knew her worth, you\nwould own that fortunate indeed were he--yea, though a king--who might\nown such rich treasure. She is a gentlewoman, discreet, and rich in\nmoney and in lands, and, if you will, I can tell you many a tale of her\ndiscretion and of her worth.\"\n\nThe King replied that gladly would he hear; so the knight related how\nthe lady set out to follow after her lord, how she came up with him and\nbrought him to Marseilles, and the many kindnesses and the great\nservices she rendered him, just as the tale hath told before. Thereat\nKing Florus marvelled much, and said privily to the knight that very\ngladly would he become the husband of such a wife.\n\n\"Sire,\" answered the knight, who was near neighbour to Madame Jehane,\n\"I will seek the lady, if such is your good pleasure, and will speak\nher so fairly, if I may, that in marriage you twain may be one.\"\n\n\"Yea,\" said King Florus, \"get you speedily to horse, and I pray you to\nbe diligent in your embassy.\"\n\nThe knight passed straightway upon his errand, and without any tarrying\ncame to the land where dwelt that lovely lady whom the tale calls\nMadame Jehane. He found her in a certain castle of hers, and she\nwelcomed him gladly as a neighbour and a friend. When they might have\nsome private speech together, the knight conveyed to her the\ncommandment of King Florus, that she should ride to him and be wedded\nas his wife. When the lady heard his word she smiled more sweetly than\never siren sang, and answered softly to the knight--\n\n\"Your king knows less of women, nor is he so courteous, as fame has\nbruited, to command that I should hasten to him that he may take me as\nhis wife. Certes, I am not a handmaid to ride to him for wages. But\ntell your king rather to come to me if he finds my love so desirable\nand sweet, and woo me to receive him as husband and as spouse. For\ntruly the lord should pray and require the lady, and not the lady the\nlord.\"\n\n\"Lady,\" answered the knight, \"all that you have told me will I tell\nhim again; but I doubt that he will come for pride.\"\n\n\"Sir knight,\" said the lady, \"he will do the thing that pleases him;\nbut in this matter he shows neither courtesy nor reason.\"\n\n\"Lady,\" said the knight, \"in God's name, so let it be. With leave I\ntake farewell to seek my lord the King, and will tell him as I am\nbidden. So if there is any over-word give it me before I part.\"\n\n\"Yea,\" said the lady. \"Take to him my greeting, and add my fairest\nthanks for the honour to which he calls me.\"\n\nThe knight parted from the lady forthwith, and on the fourth day\nreturned to King Florus of Ausay, whom he found in his chamber, deep in\nbusiness with his privy council. The knight saluted the King, who gave\nhim his salutation again, and seating him by his side, asked how it\nchanced in this matter of the lady. Then the knight gave the message\nwith which she charged him; how she would not come, for she was no\nkitchen-maid to haste at his bidding for her wages; but that rather\nshould a lord pray and require of a lady; how that she sent him her\nfairest greeting, and her sweetest thanks for the honour he craved of\nher.\n\nWhen King Florus heard these words, he pondered in his seat, nor did\nany man speak for a great space.\n\n\"Sire,\" said a knight, who was of his inmost mind, \"what do you\nconsider so deeply? Certes, all these words most richly become a\ndiscreet and virtuous lady, and--so help me God--she is both wise and\nbrave. In good faith you will do well to fix upon a day when you can\nseek her, and send her greetings and letters that on such a day you\nwill arrive to do her honour, and to crave her as your bride.\"\n\n\"Certes,\" said King Florus, \"I will send her letters that I will lie at\nher castle for Easter, and that she make all ready to receive her\nhusband and her King.\"\n\nThen King Florus bade the knight who was his messenger to prepare\nhimself within three days to carry these tidings to his lady. On the\nthird day the knight set forth, and, riding hard, brought messages to\nthe lady that the King would spend Easter at her castle. So she\nanswered that since it was God's will it was woman's too, and that she\nwould take counsel with her friends, and would array herself to receive\nhim as the honour of a lady and his greatness required. At these words\nthe knight returned to his lord, King Florus, and gave him the answer\nof the fair lady as you have heard. So King Florus of Ausay made him\nready for his journey, and with a great company set forth to the\ncountry of this fair dame. When he was come there he took and married\nher with great pomp and festival. Then he brought her to his own realm,\nwhere she was welcomed of all most gladly. And King Florus joyed\nexceedingly over his wife because of her great beauty, and because of\nthe right judgment and high courage that were in her.\n\nWithin the year that the King had taken her to wife the fair Jehane was\ndelivered of a daughter, and afterwards she rejoiced as the mother of a\nson. The boy was named Florence, and the girl Flora. The boy Florence\nwas very goodly to see, and after he was made knight was esteemed the\nhardiest warrior of his day, insomuch that he was chosen to be Emperor\nof Constantinople. A mighty prince was he, and wrought great mischief\nand evil to the Paynims. As to the Princess Flora, she became the Queen\nof her father's realm, and the son of the King of Hungary took her as\nwife, so was she lady of two kingdoms.\n\nSuch honour as this God gave to the fair lady because of her true and\nloyal heart. For many years King Florus lived happily with his virtuous\nwife, and when it was the will of God that his days should end, he took\nback to his Maker a stainless soul. The lady endured to live but six\nmonths after him, and departed from this world as became so good and\nloyal a dame with a quiet mind.\n\nHere finishes the tale of King Florus and the fair Jehane.\n\n\n\n\nOF THE COVETOUS MAN AND OF THE ENVIOUS MAN\n\n\nOnce upon a time, more than one hundred years ago, there lived two\ncompanions, who spent their days together very evilly. The one of these\ncomrades was so brimmed with envy, that you might find no heart so rank\nwith the gall of bitterness. The other was so filled with covetousness,\nthat nothing sufficed of all that could be given to him. Now\ncovetousness is so foul a vice, that often she bringeth many men to\nshame. Covetousness lendeth out her money upon usury, and deceiveth\nwith her balances, so that he who lendeth may have the greater gain.\nBut envy is the worser sin, since she grudges joy to others, and is\ndesirous of all the wealth of all the world.\n\nOn a day the envious man and the covetous man were about their business\ntogether, and they came upon St. Martin walking in the fields. But the\nsaint had been but a little space in their company when he perceived\nvery clearly the evil desires that were rooted in the hidden places of\ntheir hearts. Thus they fared till they lighted on two beaten paths,\none going this way, and the other that, and a chapel stood between the\nways. There St. Martin stayed his steps, and beckoned to these\nevil-minded men.\n\n\"Lords,\" said he, \"I take this path to the right that I may enter\nwithin the church. I am St. Martin, who bestowed his cloak on the\nbeggar, and that you may always keep in mind this meeting I will give,\nin turn, to each of you a gift. He who makes known to me his prayer\nshall have his desire granted forthwith. But to him who refrains from\nwords, straightway shall be given twice as much as is bestowed upon his\nfellow.\"\n\nSo when St. Martin was gone, the covetous man considered within himself\nthat if he left his companion to require a gift, he would receive twice\nas much as him, and sweetly enjoy a double gain.\n\n\"Make your prayer, fair fellow, to the holy saint,\" said he, \"for very\nsurely you will receive of him all that you may ask. Ask largely of\nhim, for he will largely give. If you go prudently about the matter you\nwill be wealthy all your life.\"\n\nBut he whose heart was brimmed with venom and envy dared not to ask\naccording to his desire, for reason that he feared to die of grief and\nmalice that his comrade's portion should be larger than his. Thus for a\ngreat while they kept their tongues from speech, turning the business\nover, this way and that.\n\n\"Wait no longer, lest a mischief befall you,\" cried at last the\ncovetous man. \"Yea you or nay you, I must have the double of your\nshare, for all your cunning and caution. Ask, or I will beat you more\ngrievously than ever yet was beaten donkey at Pont.\"\n\n\"Sire,\" answered the envious man, \"pray I will, since it is better to\nreceive a gift than stripes. If I require of the saint, money or houses\nor lands, very surely will you receive of his bounty twice that he\ngiveth to me. But, so I am able, of all these shall you get nothing.\nHoly St. Martin, I pray and require of your clemency that I may lose\none of my eyes, so that my fellow may lose both of his; thus shall he\nbe pained and grieved in double measure.\"\n\nVery careful was the saint to observe his covenant, and of four eyes\nthese comrades lost three, since the envious man became one-eyed, and\nthe covetous man a poor blind beggar. Thus these fair friends were\nruined by their gain. But sorrow may he have who lets his heart be\ntroubled by their wretched plight, for these men were not of sterling\ngold, but of false alloy.\n\n\n\n\nOF A JEW WHO TOOK AS SURETY THE IMAGE OF OUR LADY\n\n\nSo many marvels are written of the sweet miracles of Our Lady, that\namongst them I scarce know which to choose. Yet, alas! I have not that\nlong leisure to set them forth before you every one. Then must it be\nwith me as with him who walks abroad through summer meadows deep in\nflowers. Before, behind, on either side, he sees the countless blossoms\nof the field. Blue, vermeil, gold, they dance upon the green. Then,\nsince he may not gather all, he plucks a rose, a lily, here and there,\nas he may find them to his hand. So from amongst the number of Our\nLady's lovely deeds I pluck a leaf, one here, one there, and wreathe\nthis artless garland, lest I have naught to cast before her feet.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn days long past--as the scribe hath truly written--there lived in the\nstrong city of Byzantium a certain citizen, who held Our Lady very\ndear. Rich he was, and of great worship, because of his wealth and of\nthe praise of men. To keep his station in the eyes of his fellows, he\nspent his substance so largely, and thereto so wantonly, that in a\nlittle while he had wasted all his goods, and naught remained to do but\nthat he must sell his very lands. Yet so rich of heart was this burgess\nthat not poverty even might make him knot his purse. He still kept open\nhouse, and gave goodly cheer to all, ever borrowing more and more,\nspending and vending, wasting and hasting to scatter everything he had.\nFor of poverty he had neither heed nor fear, so long as he might find\na man to lend. But at the last he was utterly undone. All his friends\npassed him by when they saw how deeply he was sunk in debt, and that to\nno lender did he e'er repay what he owed. For he who borrows, never\npaying back again, neither seeking from others that which is his due,\nvery quickly loses his credit, yea, though he be the King of France.\n\nThe good citizen was sore vexed, and knew not what to do or say, when\nhe found that his creditors pressed him hardly, and that he was wholly\ndisappointed of those friends in whom he put his trust. Sore was his\nsorrow, deep his distress, and bitter his shame, his wrath and sadness,\nwhen by no means whatever might he grant his customary bounty, nor of\nhis charity give alms and benefits to the poor. So long as he was a man\nof worship, with store of gold and silver, great were his doles to\nthose of low estate. But such was the malice wherewith Dame Fortune\npursued him, and such the shame and loss she set upon him, that he had\nnothing left to give to others, or to keep for himself. And since Dame\nFortune looked upon him with a frowning countenance, there was none to\nwelcome him with a smiling face.\n\nNow this unhappy burgess knew not what to do, for some of his\nacquaintance gazed the other way, whilst men, to whom he had done\nnaught but good, jested upon him openly in the street. Doubtless such\nis the way of the world to those honest folk who are cast beneath at\nthe turn of Fortune's wheel. Therefore those to whom he had shown the\ngreatest kindness requited him with the utmost despite, counting him\nviler than a dog; and those, who in his day of prosperity loved and\naffected his company, were the very men who now mocked and despised\nhim. Well say the Scriptures, Put not your trust in man. For in these\ndays faith is so rare and so forgetful, that the son fails the father\nin his peril, and the mother may not count upon her maid. Mad is he who\nstrips himself for others, for so soon as he comes before them naked,\nthen they cry, \"Beggar, begone!\"\n\nWhen this citizen, who for so long a while had known such great honour,\nsaw himself so scorned, and found that in all the town he had neither\nkinsman nor friend, he knew not what to say or do, nor whom to take for\ncounsel in his need. So, by the will of God, he turned in his despair\nto a certain Jew, the richest in all the city. Him he sought out\nstraightway, with a face aflame, and said--\n\n\"Master Jew, here is my case. All my daughters, all my sons, all my\nfriends, and, very surely, all of those to whom I have done most good\nin this world, have failed me utterly and every one. I am stripped of\nall my substance. Foolish have I been, and unlucky, since I wasted all\nI had on those very clerks and laymen who desert me now. I am a\nmerchant of great knowledge, and so you will lend me of your treasure,\nI count to gain so largely, that never shall I have to pray another for\na loan; for of your wealth will I make such usage that all will think\nthe more of me thereby.\"\n\n\"Because you have dealt so generously with others,\" answered the Jew,\n\"in this very hour will I lend you freely of my moneys if you can give\nme pledge or surety for them.\"\n\nBut the Christian made answer to him--\n\n\"Fair, sweet friend, all my kinsfolk and acquaintance have cast me\nutterly behind them, neither care they for me any more, notwithstanding\nthat they thrive by reason of my gifts and toil. I can offer no kinsman\nas surety, nor have I a friend in the world. But though I can give\nneither pledge nor surety, strive how I may, yet I swear to you now on\nmy faith and conscience, that, without fail, I will repay you your loan\nand your substance on the very day that the debt becomes due.\"\n\n\"If things are thus, I can lend you nothing,\" answered the Jew; \"for\ngrievously I doubt that you may not carry out your bargain.\"\n\n\"Fair, sweet friend,\" he made reply, \"since then I neither have, nor\nthink to have, a pledge to offer, take now in pledge, I pray you, my\nMaker, in whom is all my faith, this Jesus Christ, the King of Heaven,\nthe King of kings, the God of gods. If you have not your money returned\non the very day that you shall name, I swear to you by God, fair\nbrother Jew, and by His Mother, so tender and so dear, that I will\nbecome your villein and your serf, in such wise and fashion as any\nother slave of yours; so that with a ring about my neck you may sell me\nin the market-place, just as any brute beast.\"\n\nNow in his heart the Jew greatly desired and longed to make this\nChristian his bondsman. Therefore, laughing, he replied--\n\n\"I believe but little that Jesus Christ, the son of Mary, whom our\nforefathers crucified on a cross of wood, was truly God. But inasmuch\nas He was doubtless a holy man, and a prophet of mighty name, if you\nwill put Him in pledge in such manner that you will serve me all your\nlife should you fail me in this our bargain, why, I will take your\npledge without demur.\"\n\n\"Fairly have you spoken,\" said he, \"by my soul. Let us go straightway\nto the church of Our Lady, the most glorious Mother of God.\"\n\nA great company of Christians and of Jews went with them to the church,\nand many a clerk and layman was witness to their device and covenant.\nWithout any delay, the wretched merchant kneeled him down before the\nStatue, whilst the hot tears rushed to his eyes, and over-ran and\nwetted all his face, because of the poverty which drove him to this\ndeed. The unhappy man knew not what to do in his plight, but he cast\nhis burden upon the Lord, and, weeping, prayed God's precious Mother\nthat she would deign to set wretchedness and bondage far from him. But\nvery fearful was he, and sore adread in his heart.\n\nWhen he had prayed his prayer to Our Lady, he sprang lightly to his\nfeet, and said--\n\n\"Friend Jew, by my soul see here my Surety. In giving you this Child\nand this Image, I give you Jesus Christ, Himself, as pledge. He created\nme, and He fashioned me. 'Tis He Who is my bond for your moneys. A\nricher pledge you may not think to have, so help me God, now and for\nevermore.\"\n\nHe placed the hand of the Child in that of the Jew, and forthwith\ndelivered the pledge and plighted faith. Then, yet upon his knees, most\npitifully, with eyes all wet, he cried aloud in the hearing of\nChristian and of Jew--\n\n\"Fair Lord God, most merciful, most mighty and most sure, at the end of\nthis business, I beseech Thee with clasped hands, fair, kindest Father,\nthat by the pleadings of Thy sweet Mother, if it should happen that on\nthe appointed day for any cause I may not give again the wealth I owe\nthe Jew, then of Thy courtesy pay Thou my debt, and without an hour's\ndelay redeem Thy pledge and faith. For if but one single day I fail to\nkeep faith, then his serf must I be all the days of my life, save only\nthat I break my oath sworn on this Image.\"\n\nHe rose lightly to his feet, though with a tearful face, and the Jew\nstraightway counted out to him a great sum of money, to deal with in\nthe future as he had dealt with his own. But he had lost the desire to\nplay, for he remembered too plainly that of such mirth comes\nbitterness. The scalded man hates boiling water, and well he knew, and\nclearly he perceived, that he who is in rags goes shivering in the\nwind.\n\nThe honest merchant--whom God kept in charge--went forth with a light\nheart, that leaped and fluttered in his breast, because of the wealth\nhe had in seisin. He bargained for a bark that lay in harbour, and\nsince he had much skill in such business, he stored the ship with\ndivers kinds of merchandise. Then putting his trust in God, and\ncommending body and goods to His keeping, he hoisted sail, and set\nforth upon the water. He voyaged to divers lands, and trafficked with\nthe merchants thereof to such purpose, that before the year had gone by\nhe was no more in dread of beggary. God increased his store, so that he\nprospered in every market. But the gains and riches of the merchant in\nnowise made him grudging of his substance. Freely was given to him,\nfreely he gave to others, for the love of God Who for every man ripens\nHis harvest.\n\nIn a short while the merchant became very rich. One market opened\nanother market, and money made more money. So greatly did his substance\nmultiply that at the end, the story tells us, he might not keep the\ncount of his wealth. So to set field by field, and house by house, he\ntravelled in many strange lands. One day darkened, and the next day\ndawned, but he never gave thought to that certain day when he must\nreturn to the Jew the loan of which he had made so fruitful a use. He\ncalled it not to mind until there was but one single day between him\nand the appointed time, and as it chanced he bethought him thereof\nwhen he was at sea. He well-nigh swooned when the day came to his\nheart and memory.\n\n\"Ah, gentle Lady of the King of Glory! sweet Maid and debonair!\" cried\nhe; \"unhappy wretch, what can I do?\"\n\nSo sore was his grief that with clenched hands he beat upon his breast,\nand presently with locked teeth fell fainting to the deck, where he lay\nsenseless for a great space. The sailors ran to his succour, and,\npressing about him, cried out and lamented his evil case, for certainly\nthey deemed that he was dead. Passing heavy were they at this sad\nmischance, for not one word could they draw from his lips, nor for all\ntheir pains might they find in him either pulse or breath. When he was\nreturned a little from his swoon, he addressed himself to prayer,\nweeping and sighing for a great while, because for grief he found no\nwords to say.\n\n\"Alas!\" cried he, \"alas, my luckless lot! What a besotted merchant have\nI been! How foully has misfortune stolen upon me! How has the Adversary\nbeguiled me, and snared my thoughts, that I might not better mark the\nappointed day! Surely on the tables of my heart should it have been\nwritten that for pledge I gave Jesus Christ, and His Mother, sweet and\ndear. Alas! very right is it that I should go heavy, and that my heart\nshould be sick and sad, since never by day nor by night have I taken\nthought how to return that mighty debt which so affrights me now.\nAffrighted, alas! much cause have I to fear. Were a bird now to quit\nthe ship, yet should he not wing to Byzantium in thirty days--no, nor\nin forty. Foul fall the day, for I am quite undone. Alas! for the shame\nI have brought upon my kin. Very great riches are very little worth,\nsince thus am I snared and taken.\"\n\nIn this manner the good merchant made his complaint, and with many\nsighs bewailed his wretched plight. But when he had eased his heart\nwith words, the Holy Spirit wrought upon him, so that his courage came\nto him again, and he said--\n\n\"What is here for tears? Rather should I take comfort in that He, Who\nhath power over all, is holden as my pledge. Let me place the matter in\nHis mighty hand, nor concern myself overmuch with what is His business\nmore than mine. I owe the money, but He will pay my debt; and thus by\nHis balm shall I be healed. On the morrow must I repay the money that I\nowe, but there is yet a full night before the money need be counted to\nthe Jew. I will not concern myself greatly with this matter, but\ncommend myself humbly to His will. No other thing is there to do, for\nnone can deliver me from my trouble, save Him alone. He is my Surety,\nand very surely will He discharge me from this debt, for without Him\nthere is no redemption.\"\n\nThen straightway the merchant took a strong, clamped coffer, and sealed\nwithin it the debt which he must now restore the Jew. Without waiting\nfor the morrow, he cast it into the sea with his own hand, and with\ntears commended it to that great Lord and God Who holds every man in\nHis good keeping, and to Whom earth and sea are ministers and servants\nalike. So He Who is of such high and puissant majesty, that naught He\nwills to do is burdensome or heavy to Him, was pleased to steer that\ncoffer with its precious load of besants through the waters, so that it\nmade more than a thousand leagues in that one night. Thus with the dawn\nit drew right to Byzantium, and on the appointed day the casket and the\ntreasure came to the shore.\n\nNow by the will of God it chanced that the rich Jew, who lent the\nChristian of his moneys, lived in a fair dwelling near by the sea. A\ncertain servant of his rose early from his bed to walk on the shore in\nthe cool summer dawn, and spied the casket, which had but just drawn to\nland. So, without taking off his raiment, he sprang into the sea that\nhe might lay hold upon it; but he was not able, for the coffer tossed\ngrievously whenever he would make it his own. Very covetous was the\nvarlet of this coffer, yet might he never set his hand upon it. For the\ncasket moved warily, as though it would say, \"Go your road, since in\nnowise am I yours.\"\n\nSo presently the servant sought his lord, and returned with him to the\nshore. And forthwith the coffer drew to the very feet of the Jew, and\nseemed to him to say--\n\n\"Fair Sir Jew, receive your own. By me God redeems the merchant from\nhis debt, and henceforth he is free, quite free of you.\"\n\nThen the Jew entered swiftly within his door, bearing the casket with\nhim, and when he had counted over its great riches, he hid the treasure\nin a privy place at the foot of his bed, so that none might know of the\nmatter. Moreover, he found within a certain letter news that, very\nsoon, this merchant, who so far had voyaged in so many lands, would\nseek Byzantium in ships laden with tissues and broideries and all\nmanner of stuffs and merchandise. So the friends and acquaintance of\nthe merchant rejoiced greatly at his prosperity, and the whole city\nwelcomed him with mirth and festival. All men made much of his\nhome-coming, and clerk and layman joined alike in the feast.\n\nWhen the Jew heard the noise of the joyous greeting vouchsafed to the\ncitizen, he rose up quickly, and sought him out without delay. They\nspoke at great length together, and many words passed between the\ntwain. At the last the Jew made mention of his money, as if he sought\nto know when payment should be made. For presently in his merry talk,\nyet laughing, he took the Christian by the hand, and wagging his head\nfrom side to side, said--\n\n\"Oh, faithful Christian! oh, faithful Christian!\"\n\nThereat the burgess began to smile, and made reply that he would learn\nthe meaning of those words.\n\n\"By the Law, it means that I have lent you monies in heaped-up measure\nfrom my wealth, to be repaid me on a day now gone. Since you have\nfailed in bond and faith, now holds the bargain, that should you break\nyour covenant, though but for one single day, then all the years of\nyour life must you labour as my serf. If now you throw me back your\nbond, then I must reckon your Holy Faith and your plighted word as\nworth just two grains of dust upon a balance.\"\n\nThen he, whose only hope was in God, made answer to the Jew, and said--\n\n\"I owe you nothing, since all that was your due has been paid to the\nuttermost doit.\"\n\nVery cunning was this Jew; therefore he replied--\n\n\"Many an honest man was witness to the loan, but what witness can you\nbring to the payment of the debt? There is little new in such a plea as\nyours.\"\n\n\"Right easily can I find proof of quittance, and to spare. All this\nwould make me fear, indeed, were not such a mighty Surety at my side.\nBut so you will come with me to the church, where my pledge was taken,\nvery surely will I show you proof of the redemption of my bond.\"\n\nSo they, and a great company with them, went to the minster, which was\nfilled altogether with the press.\n\nThen the citizen, hoping all things of his God, and rooted deeply in\nhis trust, bowed himself down with clasped hands right humbly to the\nfloor before the Image of Our Lady. From his very heart, with all his\nsoul, he prayed and required of her that she would obtain of her sweet\nSon to hearken to his prayer, and his words were broken by his sighs.\nAfterwards he cried with a clear voice in the hearing of them all, and\nsaid--\n\n\"Lord Jesus, so truly as Thou art the very Son of God, witness for me\nto this Hebrew of the truth as it is known to Thee. Very God of Very\nGod, exalt now Thine honour, and for the glory of Thy Name make clear\nwhether I have discharged me of this debt or not.\"\n\nThen the Image made answer in these very words--\n\n\"It is a true testimony that to the appointed day this Jew has been\npaid in full whatsoever you have had of him. In proof whereof the\ncasket yet remains hid in a privy place beneath his bed, from whence he\ntook the debt I paid him in your place.\"\n\nWhen the Jew heard this marvel he was filled with confusion, and was\ngreatly astonied, so that he knew not what to say, nor what to do. So\nby the grace and lovingkindness of the Holy Spirit that very day he was\nbaptized, and became a christened man, nor did he ever after waver in\nthat faith.\n\nSo every year it was the gracious custom of all good citizens to keep\nthis wonder in remembrance with dances and midnight revelry, with feast\nand high solemnity. And this holy day was observed in Byzantium, the\nmighty city, which Constantine, the noble Emperor, afterwards called\nConstantinople.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAY OF GRAELENT\n\n\nNow will I tell you the adventure of Graelent, even as it was told to\nme, for the lay is sweet to hear, and the tune thereof lovely to bear\nin mind.\n\nGraelent was born in Brittany of a gentle and noble house, very comely\nof person and very frank of heart. The King who held Brittany in that\nday made mortal war upon his neighbours, and commanded his vassals to\ntake arms in his quarrel. Amongst these came Graelent, whom the King\nwelcomed gladly, and since he was a wise and hardy knight, greatly was\nhe honoured and cherished by the Court. So Graelent strove valiantly at\ntourney and at joust, and pained himself mightily to do the enemy all\nthe mischief that he was able. The Queen heard tell the prowess of her\nknight, and loved him in her heart for reason of his feats of arms and\nof the good men spake of him. So she called her chamberlain apart, and\nsaid--\n\n\"Tell me truly, hast thou not often heard speak of that fair knight,\nSir Graelent, whose praise is in all men's mouths?\"\n\n\"Lady,\" answered the chamberlain, \"I know him for a courteous\ngentleman, well spoken of by all.\"\n\n\"I would he were my friend,\" replied the lady, \"for I am in much unrest\nbecause of him. Go thou and bid him come to me, so he would be worthy\nof my love.\"\n\n\"Passing gracious and rich is your gift, lady, and doubtless he will\nreceive it with marvellous joy. Why, from here to Troy there is no\npriest even, however holy, who in looking on your face would not lose\nHeaven in your eyes.\"\n\nThereupon the chamberlain took leave of the Queen, and seeking Graelent\nwithin his lodging, saluted him courteously, and gave him the message,\npraying him to come without delay to the palace.\n\n\"Go before, fair friend,\" answered the knight, \"for I will follow you\nat once.\"\n\nSo when the chamberlain was gone, Graelent caused his grey horse to be\nsaddled, and mounting thereon, rode to the castle, attended by his\nsquire. He descended without the hall, and passing before the King,\nentered within the Queen's chamber. When the lady saw him she embraced\nhim closely, and cherished and honoured him sweetly. Then she made the\nknight to be seated on a fair carpet, and to his face praised him for\nhis exceeding comeliness. But he answered her very simply and\ncourteously, saying nothing but what was seemly to be said. Then the\nQueen kept silence for a great while, considering whether she should\nrequire him to love her for the love of love; but at the last, made\nbold by passion, she asked if his heart was set on any maid or dame.\n\n\"Lady,\" said he, \"I love no woman, for love is a serious business, not\na jest. Out of five hundred who speak glibly of love, not one can spell\nthe first letter of his name. With such it is idleness, or fulness of\nbread, or fancy, masking in the guise of love. Love requires of his\nservants chastity in thought, in word and in deed. If one of two lovers\nis loyal, and the other jealous and false, how may their friendship\nlast, for love is slain! But sweetly and discreetly love passes from\nperson to person, from heart to heart, or it is nothing worth. For what\nthe lover would, that would the beloved; what she would ask of him,\nthat should he go before to grant. Without accord such as this, love is\nbut a bond and a constraint. For above all things love means sweetness,\nand truth, and measure; yea, loyalty to the loved one and to your word.\nAnd because of this I dare not meddle with so high a matter.\"\n\nThe Queen heard Graelent gladly, finding him so tripping of tongue, and\nsince his words were wise and courteous, at the end she discovered to\nhim her heart.\n\n\"Friend, Sir Graelent, though I am a wife, yet have I never loved my\nlord. But I love you very dearly, and what I have asked of you, will\nyou not go before to grant?\"\n\n\"Lady,\" said he, \"give me pity and forgiveness, but this may not be. I\nam the vassal of the King, and on my knees have pledged him loyalty and\nfaith, and sworn to defend his life and honour. Never shall he have\nshame because of me.\"\n\nWith these words Sir Graelent took his leave of the Queen, and went his\nway.\n\nSeeing him go in this fashion, the Queen commenced to sigh. She was\ngrieved in her very heart, and knew not what to do. But whatever\nchanced she would not renounce her passion, so often she required his\nlove by means of soft messages and costly gifts, but he refused them\nall. Then the Queen turned from love to hate, and the greatness of her\npassion became the measure of her wrath, for very evilly she spoke of\nGraelent to the King. So long as the war endured, Graelent remained in\nthat realm. He spent all that he had upon his company, for the King\ngrudged wages to his men. The Queen persuaded the King to this,\ncounselling him that by withholding the pay of the sergeants, Graelent\nmight in no wise flee the country, nor take service with another lord.\nSo at the end Graelent was wonderfully downcast, nor was it strange\nthat he was sad, for there remained nothing which he might pledge, but\none poor steed, and when this was gone, no horse had he to carry him\nfrom the realm.\n\nIt was now the month of May, when the hours are long and warm. The\nburgess with whom Graelent lodged had risen early in the morning, and\nwith his wife had gone to eat with neighbours in the town. No one was\nin the house except Graelent, no squire, nor archer, nor servant, save\nonly the daughter of his host, a very courteous maid. When the hour for\ndinner was come she prayed the knight that they might sit at board\ntogether. But he had no heart for mirth, and seeking out his squire,\nbade him bridle and saddle his horse, for he had no care to eat.\n\n\"I have no saddle,\" replied the squire.\n\n\"Friend,\" said the demoiselle, \"I will lend you bridle and saddle as\nwell.\"\n\nSo when the harness was done upon him, Graelent mounted his horse, and\nwent his way through the town, clad in a cloak of sorry fur, which he\nhad worn overlong already. The townsfolk in the street turned and\nstared upon him, making a jest of his poverty, but of their jibes he\ntook no heed, for such act but after their kind, and seldom show\nkindliness or courtesy.\n\nNow without the town there spread a great forest, thick with trees, and\nthrough the forest ran a river. Towards this forest Graelent rode, deep\nin heavy thought, and very dolent. Having ridden for a little space\nbeneath the trees, he spied within a leafy thicket a fair white hart,\nwhiter even than snow on winter branches. The hart fled before him, and\nGraelent followed so closely in her track that man and deer presently\ncame together to a grassy lawn, in the midst of which sprang a\nfountain of clear, sweet water. Now in this fountain a demoiselle\ndisported herself for her delight. Her raiment was set on a bush near\nby, and her two maidens stood on the bank, busied in their lady's\nservice. Graelent forgot the chase at so sweet a sight, since never in\nhis life had he seen so lovely a dame. For the lady was slender in\nshape and white, very gracious and dainty of colour, with laughing eyes\nand an open brow--certainly the most beautiful thing in all the world.\nGraelent dared not draw nigh the fountain for fear of troubling the\ndame, so he came softly to the bush to set hands upon her raiment. The\ntwo maidens marked his approach, and at their fright the lady turned,\nand calling him by name, cried with great anger--\n\n\"Graelent, put my raiment down, for it will profit you little even if\nyou carry it away, and leave me naked in this wood. But if you are\nindeed too greedy of gain to remember your knighthood, at least return\nme my shift, and content yourself with my mantle, since it will bring\nyou money, as it is very good.\"\n\n\"I am not a merchant's son,\" answered Graelent merrily, \"nor am I a\nhuckster to sell mantles in a booth. If your cloak were worth the spoil\nof three castles I would not now carry it from the bush. Come forth\nfrom your bathing, fair friend, and clothe yourself in your vesture,\nfor you have to say a certain word to me.\"\n\n\"I will not trust myself to your hand, for you might seize upon me,\"\nanswered the lady; \"and I tell you frankly that I put no faith in your\nword, nor have had any dealings with your school.\"\n\nThen Graelent answered still more merrily--\n\n\"Lady, needs must I suffer your wrath. But at least I will guard your\nraiment till you come forth from the well; and, fairest, very dainty\nis your body in my eyes.\"\n\nWhen the lady knew that Graelent would not depart, nor render again her\nraiment, then she demanded surety that he would do her no hurt. This\nthing was accorded between them, so she came forth from the fountain,\nand did her vesture upon her. Then Graelent took her gently by the left\nhand, and prayed and required of her that she would grant him love for\nlove. But the lady answered--\n\n\"I marvel greatly that you should dare to speak to me in this fashion,\nfor I have little reason to think you discreet. You are bold, sir\nknight, and overbold, to seek to ally yourself with a woman of my\nlineage.\"\n\nSir Graelent was not abashed by the dame's proud spirit, but wooed and\nprayed her gently and sweetly, promising that if she granted him her\nlove he would serve her in all loyalty, and never depart therefrom all\nthe days of his life. The demoiselle hearkened to the words of\nGraelent, and saw plainly that he was a valiant knight, courteous and\nwise. She thought within herself that should she send him from her,\nnever might she find again so sure a friend. Since then she knew him\nworthy of her love, she kissed him softly, and spoke to him in this\nmanner--\n\n\"Graelent, I will love you none the less truly, though we have not met\nuntil this day. But one thing is needful that our love may endure.\nNever must you speak a word by which this hidden thing may become\nknown. I will furnish you with deniers in your purse, with cloth of\nsilk, with silver and with gold. Night and day will I stay with you,\nand great shall be the love between us twain. You shall see me riding\nat your side, you may talk and laugh with me at your pleasure, but I\nmust never be seen of your comrades, nor must they know aught\nconcerning your bride. Graelent, you are loyal, brave and courteous,\nand comely enough to the view. For you I spread my snare at the\nfountain; for you shall I suffer heavy pains, as well I knew before I\nset forth on this adventure. Now must I trust to your discretion, for\nif you speak vainly and boastfully of this thing, then am I undone.\nRemain now for a year in this country, which shall be for you a home\nthat your lady loves well. But noon is past, and it is time for you to\ngo. Farewell, and a messenger shortly shall tell you that which I would\nhave you do.\"\n\nGraelent took leave of the lady, and she sweetly clasped and kissed him\nfarewell. He returned to his lodging, dismounted from his steed, and\nentering within a chamber, leaned from the casement, considering this\nstrange adventure. Looking towards the forest, he saw a varlet issue\ntherefrom riding upon a palfrey. He drew rein before Graelent's door,\nand taking his feet from the stirrup, saluted the knight. So Graelent\ninquired from whence he rode, and of his name and business.\n\n\"Sir,\" answered he, \"I am the messenger of your lady. She sends you\nthis destrier by my hand, and would have me enter your service, to pay\nyour servitors their wages and to take charge of your lodging.\"\n\nWhen Graelent heard this message he thought it both good and fair. He\nkissed the varlet upon the cheek, and accepting his gift, caused the\ndestrier--which was the noblest, the swiftest and the most speedy under\nthe sun--to be led to the stable. Then the varlet carried his baggage\nto his master's chamber, and took therefrom a large cushion and a rich\ncoverlet which he spread upon the couch. After this he drew thereout a\npurse containing much gold and silver, and stout cloth fitting for the\nknight's apparel. Then he sent for the host, and paying him what was\nowing, called upon him to witness that he was recompensed most largely\nfor the lodging. He bade him also to seek out such knights as should\npass through the town to refresh and solace themselves in the company\nof his lord. The host was a worthy man. He made ready a plenteous\ndinner, and inquired through the town for such poor knights as were in\nmisease by reason of prison or of war. These he brought to the hostelry\nof Sir Graelent, and comforted them with instruments of music, and with\nall manner of mirth. Amongst them sat Graelent at meat, gay and\ndebonair, and richly apparelled. Moreover, to these poor knights and\nthe harpers Graelent gave goodly gifts, so that there was not a citizen\nin all the town who did not hold him in great worship, and regard him\nas his lord.\n\nFrom this moment Graelent lived greatly at his ease, for not a cloud\nwas in his sky. His lady came at will and pleasure; all day long they\nlaughed and played together, and at night she lay softly at his side.\nWhat truer happiness might he know than this? Often, besides, he rode\nto such tournaments of the land as he was able, and all men esteemed\nhim for a stout and worthy knight. Very pleasant were his days and his\nlove, and if such things might last for ever he had nothing else to ask\nof life.\n\nWhen a full year had passed by, the season drew to the feast of\nPentecost. Now it was the custom of the King to summon at that tide his\nbarons and all who held their fiefs of him to his Court for a rich\nbanquet. Amongst these lords was bidden Sir Graelent. After men had\neaten and drunk the whole day, and all were merry, the King commanded\nthe Queen to put off her royal robes, and to stand forth upon the\ndais. Then he boasted before the company--\n\n\"Lord barons, how seems it to you? Beneath the sky is there a lovelier\nqueen than mine, be she maid, dame or demoiselle?\"\n\nSo all the lords made haste to praise the Queen, and to cry and affirm\nthat in all the world was neither maid nor wife so dainty, fresh and\nfair. Not a single voice but bragged of her beauty, save only that of\nGraelent. He smiled at their folly, for his heart remembered his\nfriend, and he held in pity all those who so greatly rejoiced in the\nQueen. So he sat with covered head, and with face bent smiling to the\nboard. The Queen marked his discourtesy, and drew thereto the notice of\nthe King.\n\n\"Sire, do you observe this dishonour? Not one of these mighty lords but\nhas praised the beauty of your wife, save Graelent only, who makes a\nmock of her. Always has he held me in envy and despite.\"\n\nThe King commanded Graelent to his throne, and in the hearing of all\nbade the knight to tell, on his faith as vassal to his liege, for what\nreason he had hid his face and laughed.\n\n\"Sire,\" answered Graelent to the King, \"sire, hearken to my words. In\nall the world no man of your lineage does so shameful a deed as this.\nYou make your wife a show upon a stage. You force your lords to praise\nher just with lies, saying that the sun does not shine upon her peer.\nOne man will tell the truth to your face, and say that very easily can\nbe found a fairer dame than she.\"\n\nRight heavy was the King when he heard these words. He conjured\nGraelent to tell him straightly if he knew a daintier dame.\n\n\"Yes, sire, and thirty times more gracious than the Queen.\"\n\nThe Queen was marvellously wrathful to hear this thing, and prayed her\nhusband of his grace to compel the knight to bring that woman to the\nCourt of whose beauty he made so proud a boast.\n\n\"Set us side by side, and let the choice be made between us. Should she\nprove the fairer, let him go in peace; but if not, let justice be done\non him for his calumny and malice.\"\n\nSo the King bade his guards to lay hands on Graelent, swearing that\nbetween them never should be love nor peace, nor should the knight\nissue forth from prison, until he had brought before him her whose\nbeauty he had praised so much.\n\nGraelent was held a captive. He repented him of his hasty words, and\nbegged the King to grant him respite. He feared to have lost his\nfriend, and sweated grievously with rage and mortification. But though\nmany of the King's house pitied him in his evil case, the long days\nbrought him no relief, until a full year went by, and once again the\nKing made a great banquet to his barons and his lieges. Then was\nGraelent brought to hall, and put to liberty, on such terms that he\nwould return bringing with him her whose loveliness he had praised\nbefore the King. Should she prove so desirable and dear as his boast,\nthen all would be well, for he had nought to fear. But if he returned\nwithout his lady, then he must go to judgment, and his only hope would\nbe in the mercy of the King.\n\nGraelent mounted his good horse and parted from the Court, sad and\nwrathful. He sought his lodging, and inquired for his servant, but\nmight not find him. He called upon his friend, but the lady did not\nheed his voice. Then Graelent gave way to despair, and preferred death\nto life. He shut himself within his chamber, crying upon his dear one\nfor grace and mercy, but from her he got neither speech nor comfort.\nSo, seeing that his love had withdrawn herself from him by reason of\nhis grievous fault, he took no rest by night or day, and held his life\nin utter despite. For a full year he lived in this piteous case, so\nthat it was marvellous to those about him that he might endure his\nlife.\n\nOn the day appointed, the sureties brought Graelent where the King was\nset in hall with his lords. Then the King inquired of Graelent where\nwas now his friend.\n\n\"Sire,\" answered the knight, \"she is not here, for in no wise might I\nfind her. Now do with me according to your will.\"\n\n\"Sir Graelent,\" said the King, \"very foully have you spoken. You have\nslandered the Queen, and given all my lords the lie. When you go from\nmy hands never will you do more mischief with your tongue.\"\n\nThen the King spoke with a high voice to his barons.\n\n\"Lords, I pray and command you to give judgment in this matter. You\nheard the blame that Graelent set upon me before all my Court. You know\nthe deep dishonour that he fastened on the Queen. How may such a\ndisloyal vassal deal honestly with his lord, for as the proverb tells,\n'Hope not for friendship from the man who beats your dog!'\"\n\nThe lords of the King's household went out from before him, and\ngathered themselves together to consider their judgment. They kept\nsilence for a great space, for it was grievous to them to deal harshly\nwith so valiant a knight. Whilst they thus refrained from words a\ncertain page hastened unto them, and prayed them not to press the\nmatter, for (said he) \"even now two young maidens, the freshest maids\nin all the realm, seek the Court. Perchance they bring succour to the\ngood knight, and, so it be the will of God, may deliver him from\nperil.\" So the lords waited right gladly, and presently they saw two\ndamsels come riding to the palace. Very young were these maidens, very\nslender and gracious, and daintily cloaked in two fair mantles. So when\nthe pages had hastened to hold their stirrup and bridle, the maidens\ndismounted from their palfreys, and entering within the hall came\nstraight before the King.\n\n\"Sire,\" said one of the two damsels, \"hearken now to me. My lady\ncommands us to pray you to put back this cause for a while, nor to\ndeliver judgment therein, since she comes to plead with you for the\ndeliverance of this knight.\"\n\nWhen the Queen heard this message she was filled with shame, and made\nspeed to get her from the hall. Hardly had she gone than there entered\ntwo other damsels, whiter and more sweetly flushed even than their\nfellows. These bade the King to wait for a little, since their mistress\nwas now at hand. So all men stared upon them, and praised their great\nbeauty, saying that if the maid was so fair, what then must be the\nloveliness of the dame. When, therefore, the demoiselle came in her\nturn, the King's household stood upon their feet to give her greeting.\nNever did woman show so queenly to men's sight as did this lady riding\nto the hall. Passing sweet she was to see, passing simple and gracious\nof manner, with softer eyes and a daintier face than girl of mother\nborn. The whole Court marvelled at her beauty, for no spot or blemish\nmight be found in her body. She was richly dressed in a kirtle of\nvermeil silk, broidered with gold, and her mantle was worth the spoil\nof a king's castle. Her palfrey was of good race, and speedy; the\nharness and trappings upon him were worth a thousand livres in minted\ncoin. All men pressed about her, praising her face and person, her\nsimplicity and queenlihead. She came at a slow pace before the King,\nand dismounting from the palfrey, spoke very courteously in this\nfashion--\n\n\"Sire,\" said she, \"hearken to me, and you, lord barons, give heed to my\npleading. You know the words Graelent spake to the King, in the ears of\nmen, when the Queen made herself a show before the lords, saying that\noften had he seen a fairer lady. Very hasty and foolish was his tongue,\nsince he provoked the King to anger. But at least he told the truth\nwhen he said that there is no dame so comely but that very easily may\nbe found one more sweet than she. Look now boldly upon my face, and\njudge you rightly in this quarrel between the Queen and me. So shall\nSir Graelent be acquitted of this blame.\"\n\nThen gazing upon her, all the King's household, lord and lackey, prince\nand page, cried with one voice that her favour was greater than that of\nthe Queen. The King himself gave judgment with his barons that this\nthing was so; therefore was Sir Graelent acquitted of his blame, and\ndeclared a free man.\n\nWhen judgment was given the lady took her leave of the King, and\nattended by her four damsels departed straightway from the hall upon\nher palfrey. Sir Graelent caused his white horse to be saddled, and\nmounting, followed hotly after her through the town. Day after day he\nrode in her track, pleading for pity and pardon, but she gave him\nneither good words nor bad in answer. So far they fared that at last\nthey came to the forest, and taking their way through a deep wood rode\nto the bank of a fair, clear stream. The lady set her palfrey to the\nriver, but when she saw that Graelent also would enter therein she\ncried to him--\n\n\"Stay, Graelent, the stream is deep, and it is death for you to\nfollow.\"\n\nGraelent took no heed to her words, but forced his horse to enter the\nriver, so that speedily the waters closed above his head. Then the lady\nseized his bridle, and with extreme toil brought horse and rider back\nagain to land.\n\n\"Graelent,\" said she, \"you may not pass this river, however mightily\nyou pain yourself, therefore must you remain alone on this shore.\"\n\nAgain the lady set her palfrey to the river, but Graelent could not\nsuffer to see her go upon her way without him. Again he forced his\nhorse to enter the water; but the current was very swift and the stream\nwas very deep, so that presently Graelent was torn from his saddle, and\nbeing borne away by the stream came very nigh to drown. When the four\nmaidens saw his piteous plight they cried aloud to their lady, and\nsaid--\n\n\"Lady, for the love of God, take pity on your poor friend. See how he\ndrowns in this evil case. Alas, cursed be the day you spake soft words\nin his ear, and gave him the grace of your love. Lady, look how the\ncurrent hurries him to his death. How may your heart suffer him to\ndrown whom you have held so close! Aid him, nor have the sin on your\nsoul that you endured to let the man who loved you die without your\nhelp.\"\n\nWhen the lady heard the complaint of her maidens, no longer could she\nhide the pity she felt in her heart. In all haste she turned her\npalfrey to the river, and entering the stream clutched her lover by the\nbelt. Thus they won together to the bank. There she stripped the\ndrowned man of his raiment, and wrapping him fast in her own dry mantle\ncherished him so meetly that presently he came again to life. So she\nbrought him safely into her own land, and none has met Sir Graelent\nsince that day.\n\nBut the Breton folk still hold firmly that Graelent yet liveth with his\nfriend. His destrier, when he escaped him from the perilous river,\ngrieved greatly for his master's loss. He sought again the mighty\nforest, yet never was at rest by night or day. No peace might he find,\nbut ever pawed he with his hoofs upon the ground, and neighed so loudly\nthat the noise went through all the country round about. Many a man\ncoveted so noble a steed, and sought to put bit and bridle in his\nmouth, yet never might one set hands upon him, for he would not suffer\nanother master. So each year in its season, the forest was filled with\nthe cry and the trouble of this noble horse which might not find its\nlord.\n\nThis adventure of the good steed and of the stout knight, who went to\nthe land of Faery with his love, was noised abroad throughout all\nBrittany, and the Bretons made a lay thereof which was sung in the ears\nof many people, and was called a Lay of the Death of Sir Graelent.\n\n\n\n\nTHE THREE THIEVES\n\n\nThis story tells that once upon a time there were three thieves faring\ntogether, who had robbed many people, both church folk and lay. One of\nthese thieves was named Travers, but though he was in the company of\ntwo robbers, yet he was not altogether such as they. They, indeed, were\nthieves by descent as well as by choice, for their father was hanged\nfor his misdeeds. The one was called Haimet, and the other Barat, but\nwhich was the more cunning workman at his trade it would be hard to\ntell.\n\nThe three companions were passing one day through a high and leafy\nwood, when Haimet spied a magpie's nest hidden within an oak. He went\nbeneath the tree, and his sharp eyes quickly perceived that the bird\nwas sitting upon her eggs. This thing he showed to Travers, and\nafterwards to his brother.\n\n\"Friends,\" said he, \"would not he be a good thief who might take these\neggs, and so softly descend the tree that the magpie knew nought\nthereof?\"\n\n\"There is no man in the world who can do such a feat,\" answered Barat.\n\n\"Certes, there is such a man,\" said Haimet, \"and you shall see him at\nhis task, if you will only look at me.\"\n\nHaimet set hands upon the oak, and climbed lightly up the great tree,\nas one who had no fear to fall. He came to the nest, and parting the\nstraw softly from beneath, drew forth the eggs coyly and delicately.\nThen he descended to the ground with a merry heart, and addressing\nhimself to his comrades, showed the eggs that he had stolen.\n\n\"Friends,\" said he, \"here are the eggs, ready for boiling upon a fire!\"\n\n\"Truly,\" said Barat, \"no man's fingers are nimbler than yours, and if\nyou can only return the eggs to the nest, why I will own freely that\nyou are the most cunning thief of us all.\"\n\n\"Certes,\" answered Haimet, \"they shall be set again beneath the bird,\nand not a shell of them all shall be broken.\"\n\nSo he came again to the oak, and mounted swiftly into the tree, hand\nover hand. Now he had gone but a little way when Barat hastened to the\ntree, and climbed therein even more lightly and surely than his\nbrother. He followed him secretly from branch to branch, for Haimet was\nintent upon his task, and gave no thought to those he had left below.\nThen, whilst Haimet returned the eggs to the rifled nest, he stole the\nvery breeches from his legs, and forthwith descended to the ground.\nWhen Travers saw this he was sick at heart, because he knew well he\nmight never do such feats as these. Presently Haimet came down to his\ncompanions, and said--\n\n\"Friends, how seems it to you? Fingers like mine should pick up a good\nliving.\"\n\n\"I know not how it looks to me,\" answered Barat. \"Your fingers are\nquick enough, but your brains must be very dull, since they cannot\nprocure you even hosen for your legs.\"\n\n\"Yes, truly, I have hosen, and those altogether new, for it was but the\nother day I laid hands upon the cloth, and they reach to my very\nankles.\"\n\n\"Are they so long as that?\" said Barat; \"shew them to us, and hide them\nnot away.\"\n\nThen Haimet lifted his tunic and stared upon his legs, for he was\nwithout breeches.\n\n\"Lord!\" said he, \"how can this have chanced? Where, then, are my\nhosen?\"\n\n\"I do not think that you have any, fair fellow,\" said Travers. \"There\nis no such thief as Barat, from here to Nevers, or so it seems to me.\nCunning indeed is the thief who can steal from a thief. But for my part\nI am not meant for your trade, for I cannot spell even its A B C. A\nhundred times should I be taken in my simplicity, where you would\nescape by guile. I will return to my own village where I was married to\nmy wife. Mad must I have been to forsake it to become a thief. I am\nneither fool nor idler, and know well how to toil in the fields, to\nwinnow and to reap. With the help of God I am yet strong enough to gain\nmy bread, so I go my way, and commend you to God His keeping.\"\n\nSo Travers parted from the company of the two thieves, and travelled by\nhill and dale till he came at last to his own country. His comely wife,\nDame Maria, bore him no grudge for his absence, but welcomed his return\nwith much joy, as was her husband's due. He settled down amongst his\nfriends and acquaintance, and earned his living honestly and well. He\nprospered greatly, so that he had enough and to spare, both of this and\nof that. Now, towards Christmas, Travers killed a pig which he had\nfattened all the year. He hung the bacon from a rafter of his house,\nbut better had he done, and much trouble would he have escaped, had he\nsold it in the village, as you will see who read this story.\n\nOn a day when Travers was cutting fagots within a coppice, Haimet and\nBarat, seeking what they might find, lighted on his house, and found\nDame Maria spinning at her wheel. Then said these rogues whose business\nit was to cozen the simple--\n\n\"Dame, where is your husband?\"\n\n\"Gentles,\" answered she, unknowing of these cheats, \"he is in the wood,\ngathering fagots for the fire.\"\n\n\"May God prosper his work,\" said they devoutly.\n\nSo they seated themselves, and looked about the house, high and low, at\nlarder and hearth-stone, in every nook and corner. Presently Barat,\nraising his head, saw the side of bacon hanging from the rafters. He\ndrew the attention of Haimet to the meat, saying--\n\n\"Travers pains himself greatly to hide this bacon in his room. He fears\nlest we should live a little at his cost, or taste his savoury meat.\nYet taste we will, if so we may.\"\n\nThen they took their leave, and going a short distance, hid themselves\nbehind a hedge, where each set to work upon the sharpening of a stake.\n\nWhen Travers returned to his home--\n\n\"Husband,\" said his wife, Dame Maria, \"two men have sought you who\nfrightened me greatly, for I was alone in the house, and they would not\ntell me their business. They were mean and shifty to look upon, and\nthere is not a thing in all the room that they have not taken stock\nof--not the bacon, nor anything else--knife, reaping-hook, nor axe, for\ntheir eyes were in every place at once.\"\n\n\"Well I know who they are and what they want of me,\" said Travers, \"for\nthey have seen me often. We have lost our bacon, I promise you, since\nBarat and Haimet have come to seek it for themselves. It is to no\npurpose that we have cured it in the smoke, of that I am very sure. In\nan evil hour I killed my pig, and certainly it were better to have sold\nit last Saturday when I was able.\"\n\n\"Husband,\" answered the wife, \"if you take the bacon down from the\nceiling, perchance these thieves may not find it when they come.\"\n\nTherefore, because of the importunity of his wife, Travers mounted on a\nstool and cut the cord, so that the bacon fell upon the floor. But not\nknowing where to bestow the meat, they let it remain even where it had\nfallen, having first covered it with the vessel in which they kneaded\ntheir bread. Then, sad at heart, they went to bed to take what rest\nthey might.\n\nWhen the night was come, those who were so desirous of the bacon came\nto the house, and with their stakes made a hole in the wall near to the\nthreshold, a hole so large that you might have trundled a mill-stone\ntherein. Thereby they entered softly, and groped warily about the\nhouse. Now Barat went from stool to table till he came beneath the\nrafter from whence the bacon hung. He knew by touch that the cord was\nsevered, and he whispered in his brother's ear that he had not found\nthe meat, \"But,\" said the thief, \"Travers is a fool if he thinks to\nconceal it for long.\"\n\nThen they listened in the darkness of the room to the breathing of\nthose upon the bed.\n\nTravers did not dare to sleep, and finding that his wife was becoming\ndrowsy, roused her, saying--\n\n\"Wife, this is no time for sleep. I shall go about the house to see\nthat all is fast.\"\n\n\"Do not leave me,\" answered his wife.\n\nBut Travers, who was a prudent man, rose from his bed to make sure of\nall his goods. He came to the kneading trough, and raising it a little\nfrom the ground, felt the bacon safely beneath. Then taking a great axe\nin his hand he went out to visit his cow in her byre.\n\nBarat came swiftly to the bed, like the bold and cunning thief he was.\n\n\"Marion,\" said he, \"fair sister, I have a certain thing to ask you, but\ndare not do so, for fear you think me mad.\"\n\n\"That I will never deem you, husband, by St. Paul; but I will counsel\nyou to the best of my power.\"\n\n\"I slept so soundly that I cannot remember where we bestowed the bacon\nyester night, so bemused am I with dreams.\"\n\n\"God help you, husband, to find more seasonable jests; is it not hid\nbeneath the bin upon the floor?\"\n\n\"In God's name, sister, you speak truly, and I will go to feel if it is\nyet there.\"\n\nBeing desirous to keep his word, Barat lifted the trough and drew forth\nthe bacon. Then he rejoined Haimet, who was near by, and the two\nthieves hastened towards the coppice, making much of each other because\nof the success of their trick.\n\nNow Travers returned to his bed, first carefully fastening his doors.\n\n\"Certes,\" said his wife, \"dazed you must have been to ask me what had\nbecome of our bacon.\"\n\n\"God help me,\" cried Travers, \"when did I ask you this question?\"\n\n\"Why, but now, husband.\"\n\n\"Sister, our bacon has walked off. Never shall we see it more, unless I\nmay steal it from these thieves. But they are the most cunning robbers\nin all the land.\"\n\nTravers went out forthwith in quest of the rogues who had carried off\nhis bacon. He took a short cut through a field of wheat, and following\nthe path very swiftly, presently found himself between the tricksters\nand the wood. Haimet was very near to cover, but Barat went more\nheavily, seeing that his load was right heavy. So Travers, being\nanxious to take his own again, quickened his steps, and coming to him\nsaid--\n\n\"Give it to me, for you are weary, seeing you have carried it so long a\nroad. Sit down now, and take a little rest.\"\n\nBarat, thinking that he had met with Haimet, gladly placed the bacon on\nthe shoulders of Travers, and went his way. But Travers turned him back\nto his own house, and hastened towards his home by the nearest path.\nNow Barat, deeming that Haimet followed after, ran towards the wood\nuntil he overtook his brother. When he knew him again he had great\nfear, because he thought him behind. But when Haimet saw him stagger,\nhe cried out, \"Let me bear the bacon for a while. I think it little\nlikely that I shall fall beneath its weight, as you are near to do.\nCertainly you are overdone.\"\n\n\"God give me health,\" answered Barat, \"for Travers has made a fool of\nus. It is he who carries his bacon on his own shoulders. But the game\nis not finished yet, and I have yet a throw to make.\"\n\nTravers proceeded on his way in quietness and peace, as one who had\nnought to fear from any man. But Barat, wet with haste, overtook him in\nthe end. He had taken off his shirt and wrapped it about his head like\na coif, and as much as he was able bore himself in the semblance of a\nwoman.\n\n\"Alas,\" cried he, \"very nearly am I dead by reason of the loss and\nmischief dealt me by these wicked men. God, what has become of my\nhusband, who has suffered so many things at their hands?\"\n\nThinking that his wife was speaking to him, Travers held forth the\nbacon.\n\n\"Sister,\" said he, \"God is yet above the Devil. You see we have again\nour own.\"\n\nThen he, who never thought to lay hands upon the meat, seized upon it\ngreedily.\n\n\"Do not wait for me, husband, but get to bed as quickly as you can, for\nnow you may sleep without any fear.\"\n\nSo Travers returned to his own house, and Barat hastened to his\nbrother, bearing the bacon with him.\n\nWhen Travers found his wife in tears--\n\n\"Certes, Mary,\" said he, \"all this has come upon us by reason of our\nsins. I thought to charge your shoulders with our bacon in the garden,\nbut now I know well that these rogues have bestowed it upon theirs.\nHeavens, I wonder where he learned to play the part of a woman so\nbravely in manner and in speech! Hard is the lesson I am set to learn\nin school, because of a flitch of bacon. But, please God, I will find\nthem this night, yea, though I walk till I have no sole to my shoe, and\nsupplant them yet.\"\n\nTravers took the path leading to the wood, and entering in the coppice,\nsaw the red blaze of a fire which these two thieves had litten. He\nheard their voices lifted in dispute, so he concealed himself behind an\noak, and listened to their words. At the end Barat and Haimet agreed\nthat it were better to eat the bacon forthwith, lest a new cast of the\ndice should go against them. Whilst they went to seek dry cones and\nbrushwood for the fire, Travers crept privily to the oak beneath which\nit was burning. But the wood was damp and green, so that more smoke and\nsmother came from that fire than flame. Then Travers climbed into the\ntree, and by the aid of bough and branch came at last to the place\nwhere he would be. The two thieves returned presently with cones and\nbrambles. These they threw upon the fire in handfuls, saying that very\nsoon it would grill their bacon, and Travers hearkened to their speech.\nHe had stripped himself to his shirt, and hung from a limb of the oak\nby his arm. Now, in a while, Haimet lifted his eyes to the tree, and\nsaw above him the hanged man, tall, grotesque and horrible to see,\nnaked in his very shirt.\n\n\"Barat,\" whispered he, \"our father is spying upon us. Behold him\nhanging from this branch in a very hideous fashion. Surely it is he\ncome back to us, is it not?\"\n\n\"God help me,\" cried Barat, \"it seems to me that he is about to fall.\"\n\nThen because of their fear the two thieves fled from that place,\nwithout leisure to eat, or to bear away, the bacon they had stolen.\n\nWhen Travers marked their flight he tarried no longer in the oak, but\ntaking his bacon, returned straightway to his house, with none to give\nhim nay. His wife praised him to his face, saying--\n\n\"Husband, you are welcome home, for you have proven your worth. Never\ndid there live a braver man than you.\"\n\n\"Sister,\" said he, \"take wood from the cellar, and make a fire.\nCertainly we must eat our bacon, if we would call it our own.\"\n\nDame Maria lighted a fire with fagots upon the hearth; she put water in\nthe cauldron, and hung it on the hook above the fire. Travers for his\npart carefully cut the bacon for which he had suffered so great\ntrouble, and put it in the pot till all was full. When this was done--\n\n\"Fair sister,\" said he, \"watch by the fire, if you can keep awake. I\nhave not slept this night, and will rest a little on the bed. But I\nwill not take off my clothes, because I still am troubled of these\nthieves.\"\n\n\"Husband,\" answered she, \"ill luck go with them. Sleep soundly and in\npeace, for there is none to do you wrong.\"\n\nSo Dame Maria kept vigil whilst Travers slept, for very greatly had he\nneed of rest.\n\nDuring this time Barat lamented in the wood, for well he knew, when he\nfound the bacon gone, that Travers had played this trick upon them.\n\n\"Certes,\" said he, \"we have lost the meat because of our fearful\nhearts, and it belongs to Travers by right of courage. A good breakfast\nhe will make, for he deems that none can take it from him. He will look\nupon us as dirt, if we leave it in his hands. Let us go to his house\nand mark where he has bestowed it.\"\n\nThe two thieves hastened to the door of Travers' house. Barat set his\neye to a crevice therein, and saw a sight which gave him little joy,\nfor the pot was boiling upon the fire.\n\n\"Haimet,\" said he, \"the bacon is cooking, and much I grieve that there\nis none for us.\"\n\n\"Let it boil in peace till it is fit for eating,\" answered Haimet. \"I\nshall not give Travers quittance in this matter till he has paid me\nwages for my toil.\"\n\nHaimet sought a long stake which he cut from a hazel tree, and\nsharpened it with his knife. Then he climbed upon the roof of the\nhouse, and uncovered a little space above the spot where the cauldron\nboiled upon the fire. Through this opening he could see the wife of\nTravers sound asleep, for she was weary of her vigil, and nodded over\nthe hearth. Haimet lowered the rod, which he had sharpened like a dart,\nand struck it in the pot so adroitly that he drew forth a portion of\nthe bacon from out the cauldron. This he raised cunningly to the roof,\nand had great joy of his fishing. Then awoke Travers from his sleep,\nand saw this thing, and marked the thief, who was both malicious and\nstrong.\n\n\"Gossip, upon my roof,\" said he, \"it is not reasonable of you to strip\nthe covering from over my head. In this manner we shall never come to\nan end. Climb down; let us give and take. Let each of us have his share\nof the bacon.\"\n\nSo Haimet descended from the roof, and the bacon was taken from the\ncauldron. Dame Maria divided the meat into three portions, for the\nthieves had no care to let Travers part the lots. The two brothers took\ntwo portions, and Travers one; but his was not the best, for all that\nhe had nourished the pig.\n\nFor this reason was the proverb made, oh, gentles, that \"Bad is the\ncompany of thieves.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE FRIENDSHIP OF AMIS AND AMILE\n\n\nIn the days of Pepin, King of the Franks, a boy was born in the Castle\nof Bericain to a father of Allemaigne, of noble descent and of great\nholiness. His father and mother, who had no other child, vowed to God\nand to St. Peter and St. Paul that if God vouchsafed him breath he\nshould be carried to Rome for his baptism. At the same hour a vision\nwas seen of the Count of Alverne--whose wife was near her day--in which\nhe saw the Apostle of Rome, who baptized many children in his palace,\nand confirmed them with the anointing of holy oil. When the Count awoke\nfrom his sleep he inquired of the wise men of those parts what this\nthing might mean. Then a certain wise old man, having heard his words,\nby the counsel of God made answer, and said--\n\n\"Rejoice greatly, Count, for a son shall now be born to thee great in\ncourage and in virtue, and thou shalt carry him to Rome, so that he may\nbe baptized by the Apostle.\"\n\nSo the Count rejoiced in his heart, and he and his people praised the\ncounsel of that ancient man.\n\nThe child was born, and cherished dearly, and when he was of the age of\ntwo years his father prepared to carry him to Rome, according to his\npurpose. On his way he came to the city of Lucca, and there fell in\nwith a certain nobleman of Allemaigne who was on pilgrimage to Rome,\nthat there he might baptize his son. Each greeted the other, and\ninquired of his name and business; and when they knew they were in the\nlike case, and bound on the same errand, they took each other as\ncompanion with a kind heart, and voyaged together to Rome. The two\nchildren, also, loved so dearly, that one would not eat save the other\nate with him; so that they fed from the same dish, and lay in the one\nbed. In such manner as this the fathers carried the boys before the\nApostle at Rome, and said to him--\n\n\"Holy Father, whom we believe and know to be seated in the chair of St.\nPeter the Apostle, we, the Count of Alverne, and the Chatelain of\nCastle Bericain, humbly pray your Holiness that you would deign to\nbaptize the sons they have carried here from a distant land, and to\naccept this humble offering from their hands.\"\n\nThen the Pope made answer--\n\n\"It is very meet to come with such a gift before me, but of such I have\nno need. Give it, therefore, to the poor, who cry for alms. Right\nwillingly will I baptize the children, and may the Father, the Son and\nthe Holy Ghost ever fold them close in the love of the Holy Trinity.\"\n\nSo at that one time the Apostle baptized the two children in St.\nSaviour's Church, and he gave to the son of the Count of Alverne the\nname of Amile, and to the son of the Chatelain of Castle Bericain gave\nhe the name of Amis. Many a knight of Rome held them at the font, and\nanswered in their name as god-parents, according to the will of God.\nThen, when the Sacrament of Baptism was at an end, the Apostle\ncommanded to be brought two wooden cups, fair with gold and set with\ncostly stones, of one workmanship, size and fashion, and these he\nhanded to the children, saying--\n\n\"Take this gift in witness that I have baptized you in St. Saviour's\nChurch.\"\n\nSo the knights received the cups with great joy, and rendered him\ngrace for his gift, and parting from thence repaired each to his own\nhome in all comfort and solace.\n\nTo the child of the Knight of Bericain God also gave a gift, the gift\nof such wise understanding that men might almost believe that he was\nanother Solomon.\n\nWhen Amis was of the age of thirty years a fever seized upon his\nfather, and he began to admonish his son in words such as these--\n\n\"Fair, dear son, my end is near at hand, but thou shalt tarry for a\nseason, and be thine own lord. Firstly, fair son, observe the\ncommandments of God, and be of the chivalry of Jesus Christ. Keep faith\nwith thy overlords, and turn not thy back on thy companions and thy\nfriends. Defend the widow and the orphan; be pitiful to the captive and\nto all in need; think every day upon that day which shall be thy last.\nForsake not the society and friendship of the son of the Count of\nAlverne, for the Apostle of Rome baptized you together on one day, and\ngraced you with one gift. Are you not alike in all things--in beauty,\nin comeliness, and in strength, so that whosoever sees you, thinks you\nto be sons of one mother?\"\n\nHaving spoken these words, he was houselled of the priest, and died in\nour Lord; and his son gave him fitting burial, and paid him all such\nservice as is meetly required for the dead.\n\nAfter the death of his father divers evil persons wrought Amis much\nmischief, because of the envy they felt towards him; but nevertheless\nhe bore them no ill will, and patiently suffered all the wrong and\nmalice that they did. Let me tell you, then, without more words, that\nsuch was his case that he and his servants were cast forth from the\nheritage of his fathers, and driven from the gate of his own keep. But\nwhen he had called to mind the words of his father, he said to those\nwho journeyed with him in the way--\n\n\"The wicked have spoiled me wrongfully of my inheritance, yet have I\ngood hope that the Lord is on my side. Come now, let us seek the Court\nof Count Amile, my comrade and my friend. Peradventure he will give us\nof his goods and lands; but if not, then will we gather to Hildegarde,\nthe Queen, wife of King Charles of France, the stay and support of the\ndisinherited.\"\n\nSo those of his company made answer that they would follow where he\nled, and would serve him as his men. They rode, therefore, to the court\nof the Count, but might not find him, for reason that he had passed to\nBericain to comfort Amis, his companion, because of the death of his\nfather. When Amile might not find Amis, he departed from the castle,\ngreatly vexed, and resolved within himself that he would not solace\nhimself in his own fief until he had met with Amis, his friend.\nTherefore he rode on this quest through France and Allemaigne, seeking\nnews of him from all his kindred, but finding none.\n\nNow Amis, together with his company, for his part sought diligently for\nAmile his friend, until it chanced that on a day a certain lord gave\nhim harbourage, and at his bidding Amis told him of this adventure.\nThen said the nobleman--\n\n\"Dwell ye with me, sir knights, and I will give my daughter to your\nlord, because of the wisdom men report of him, and you, for your own\npart, shall be made rich in silver, in gold and in lands.\"\n\nThey rejoiced greatly at his word, and the wedding feast was celebrated\nwith marvellous joy. But when they had tarried in that place for one\nyear and six months, Amis called together his ten companions and spake\nto them.\n\n\"We are recreant, inasmuch as we have forgotten all this while to seek\nfor Amile.\"\n\nSo he left two men-at-arms, together with his precious cup, and set\nforth towards Paris.\n\nNow for the space of nearly two years Amile had sought for Amis without\npause or rest. Drawing near to Paris he lighted upon a pilgrim and\nasked of him if perchance he knew aught of Amis, whom evil men had\nhunted from his lands. The palmer said \"Nay,\" wherefore Amile divested\nhimself of his cloak, and gave it to the pilgrim, saying--\n\n\"Pray thou to our Lord and His saints for me that they give me grace to\nmeet Amis, my friend.\"\n\nSo he saluted the pilgrim, and went his way to Paris, seeking in every\nplace for news of Amis his friend, and finding none. But the pilgrim,\npassing swiftly upon his road, came upon Amis about the hour of\nvespers, and they saluted each the other. Then Amis inquired of the\npalmer whether he had seen or heard, in any land or realm, aught of\nAmile, the son of the Count of Alverne.\n\n\"What manner of man art thou,\" answered the palmer all astonied, \"that\nthou makest mock of a pilgrim? Thou seemest to me that very Amile who\nbut this morn sought of me if I had seen Amis, his friend. I know not\nfor what reason thou hast changed thine apparel, thy company, thy\nhorses and thy arms, nor why thou askest of me the same question thou\ndidst require at nine hours of the morn when thou gavest me this\ncloak.\"\n\n\"Be not angry with me,\" said Amis, \"for I am not the man you deem; but\nI am Amis who searches for his friend Amile.\"\n\nSo he gave him money from his pouch, and prayed him that he would\nrequire of our Lord that He might grant him grace to find Amile.\n\n\"Hasten quickly to Paris,\" said the pilgrim, \"and there shalt thou\nfind him whom so fondly thou seekest.\"\n\nSo Amis hastened instantly to the city.\n\nIt chanced upon the morrow that Amile departed from Paris, and took his\nease within a daisied meadow near by the pleasant waters of the Seine.\nWhilst he ate there with his knights there came that way Amis with his\nmen-at-arms. So Amile and his company armed themselves forthwith, and\nrode forth before them at adventure. Then Amis said to his companions--\n\n\"Behold these French knights who seek to do us a mischief. Stand\nstoutly together, and so shall we defend our lives. If we but escape\nthis peril soon shall we be within the walls of Paris, and sweetly\nshall we be entreated at the palace of the King.\"\n\nThen drew the two companies together with loosened rein, with lance in\nrest, and with brandished sword, in such fashion that it seemed as if\nnone might escape alive from the fury of that onset. But God, the all\npowerful, Who knoweth all, and bringeth to a good end the travail of\nthe just, suffered not that spears should meet in that encounter. So\nwhen they were near at hand Amis cried aloud--\n\n\"Who are you, knights, that are so eager to slay Amis the Banished and\nhis companions?\"\n\nWhen Amile heard these words he knew well the voice of Amis, his\ncomrade, so he answered him--\n\n\"Oh thou, Amis, most dear, sweet as rest to my labour, know me for\nAmile, son of the Count of Alverne, who have not given over my quest\nfor thee these two whole years.\"\n\nThen forthwith they lighted from their steeds, and clasped and kissed\neach the other, giving grace to God Who granteth the treasure to the\nseeker. Moreover, upon the guard of Amile's sword, wherein was set a\nholy relic, they swore faith, and friendship, and fellowship to death,\nthe one with the other. So set they forth from that place, riding\ntogether to the Court of Charles, the King of France. There they moved\namongst the lords, young, discreet and wise, fair to see, shapen\nwondrously alike in form and face, beloved of all men and held of all\nin honour. There, too, the King received them with much courtesy,\nmaking of Amis his treasurer, and to Amile gave he the office of\nseneschal.\n\nIn this fashion they tarried long with the King, but at the end of\nthree years Amis said to Amile--\n\n\"Fair, sweet companion, I desire greatly to see my wife, whom I have\nleft so long. Stay thou at Court, and for my part I will return so soon\nas I may. But have thou no dealings with the daughter of the King, and,\nmore than all, beware and keep thee from the malice of Arderay the\nfelon knight.\"\n\n\"I will observe thy bidding,\" answered Amile, \"but make no long\ntarrying from my side.\"\n\nOn these words Amis departed from the Court; but Amile for his part saw\nwith his eyes that the daughter of the King was fair, and knew the\nprincess, in love, as soon as he was able. Thus the commandment and the\nwarning of Amis, his companion, passed quickly from his mind; yet think\nnot too hardly of the young man, forasmuch that he was not more holy\nthan David, nor wiser than Solomon, David's son.\n\nWhilst Amile was busied with these matters there came to him Arderay,\nthe traitor, full of envy, and said--\n\n\"Thou dost not know, comrade, thou dost not know that Amis has stolen\ngold from the King's treasury, and therefore hath he taken flight.\nSince things are thus I require that you swear to me fealty of\nfriendship and of brotherhood, and I will swear to you the like oath on\nthe holy Gospels.\"\n\nHaving pledged such troth as this, Amile feared not to betray his\nsecret to the felon knight. Now when Amile bore bason and ewer to the\nKing, that he might wash his hands, then said that false Arderay to his\nlord--\n\n\"Take no water from the hands of this recreant, Sir King, for he is\nworthier of death than of life, since he has plucked from the Queen's\ndaughter the flower of her maidenhood.\"\n\nWhen Amile heard this thing he was so fearful that he fell upon the\nfloor, and answered not a word, so that the courteous King raised him\nto his feet, and said--\n\n\"Have no fear, Amile, but stand up and acquit thee of this blame.\"\n\nThen Amile stood upon his feet and said--\n\n\"Sir King, give no ready credence to the lies of this traitor Arderay,\nfor well I know that you are an upright judge, turning neither for love\nnor hate out of the narrow way. Grant me, therefore, time for counsel\nwith my friends, so that I may purge myself of this charge before you,\nand in single combat with Arderay, the traitor, prove him to be a liar\nbefore all your Court.\"\n\nThe King gave to both champions till three hours after noon that each\nmight take counsel with his friends, and bade that at such time they\nshould stand before him to fulfil their devoir. At the appointed hour\nthey came before the King. With Arderay for friend and witness came\nHerbert the Count; but Amile found none to stand at his side, save only\nHildegarde, the Queen. So sweetly did the lady plead his cause that she\nprevailed upon her lord to grant Amile such further respite for counsel\nthat he might seek Amis, his friend; yet nevertheless only on such\ncovenant that if Amile returned not on the appointed day the lady\nshould be banished ever from the royal bed.\n\nWhilst Amile was on his way to take counsel with his friend, he chanced\non Amis, his comrade, who repaired to the Court of the King. So he\nalighted from his steed, and kneeling at the feet of his companion,\nsaid--\n\n\"Oh thou, my one hope of surety, I have not obeyed the charge you laid\nupon me, and am truly blamed by reason of my dealings with the daughter\nof the King. Therefore must I endure ordeal of battle with the false\nArderay.\"\n\n\"Let us leave here our companions,\" returned Amis, sighing, \"and enter\nin this wood to make the matter clear.\"\n\nThen Amis, having heard, reproached Amile, and said--\n\n\"Let us now exchange our garments and our horses, and thou, for thy\npart, get thee gone to my house, whilst I ride to do judgment by combat\nfor thee upon this traitor.\"\n\nBut Amile answered him--\n\n\"How then may I go about thine house, seeing that I know not thy wife\nnor thy household, nor ever have looked upon their face?\"\n\nAnd Amis replied--\n\n\"Very easily mayest thou do this thing, so thou dost but walk\nprudently; but take thou good heed to have no dealings with my wife.\"\n\nThereupon the two companions departed one from the other, with tears;\nAmis riding to the Court of the King in the guise of Amile, and Amile\nto the house of his comrade in the guise of Amis. Now the wife of Amis,\nseeing him draw near, hastened to embrace him whom she thought was her\nlord, and would have kissed him. But Amile said--\n\n\"Is this a time for play? I have matter for tears rather than for\nclaspings, for since I parted from thee have I suffered many bitter\ngriefs, yea, and yet must suffer.\"\n\nAnd that night as they made ready to lie together in one bed, Amile set\nhis naked sword between the twain, and said to his brother's wife--\n\n\"Beware lest thy body draw near in any wise to mine, for then will I\nslay thee with this sword.\"\n\nIn such fashion passed the night, and every night, until Amis repaired\nsecretly to the castle to know certainly whether Amile kept faith and\nword in this matter of his wife.\n\nThe day appointed for the combat now was come, and the Queen awaited\nAmile, sick of heart; for Arderay, that traitor, cried aloud, that\ncertainly ought she never to come near the King's bed, since she had\nsuffered and consented to Amile's dealings with her maid. Whilst\nArderay boasted thus, Amis entered within the Court of the King at the\nhour of noon, clad in the apparel of his comrade, and said--\n\n\"Right debonair and Lord Justicier of this realm, here stand I to seek\nordeal of battle with this false Arderay, because of the blame he has\nlaid upon me, the Queen, and the Princess, her child.\"\n\nThen answered the King right courteously--\n\n\"Be stout of heart, oh Count, for if you prove Arderay to be false I\nwill give thee my daughter Belisant to wife.\"\n\nOn the morning of the morrow Arderay and Amis rode into the lists,\narmed from plume to heel, in the presence of the King and of much\npeople. But the Queen with a great company of maidens and widows and\ndames went from church to church, giving gifts of money and of torches,\nand praying God for the safety of the champion of her daughter. Now\nAmis considered in his heart that should he slay Arderay he would be\nguilty of his blood before the eyes of God, and if he were overthrown\nthen would it be a shame to him for all his days. So he spake in such\nmanner as this to Arderay.\n\n\"Foul counsel hast thou followed, Sir Count, so ardently to seek my\ndeath, and to thrust this life of thine into grievous peril of hurt. So\nthou wilt withdraw the reproach thou hast fastened upon me, and avoid\nthis mortal strife, thou canst have of me friendship and loyal\nservice.\"\n\nBut Arderay was right wroth at these words, and replied--\n\n\"No care have I for friendship or service of thine; rather will I swear\nto the truth as that truth is, and smite thy head from thy shoulders.\"\n\nThen Arderay swore that his foe had done wrong to the daughter of the\nKing, and Amis made oath that he lied. Thereupon, incontinent they\ndrove together, and with mighty strokes strove one against the other\nfrom the hour of tierce till it was nones. And at nones Arderay fell\nwithin the lists; and Amis struck off his head.\n\nThe King lamented that Arderay was dead, but rejoiced that his daughter\nwas proved clean from stain. He gave the Princess to Amis for dame, and\nwith her, as dowry, a mighty sum in gold and silver, and a city near by\nthe sea where they might dwell. So Amis rejoiced greatly in his bride;\nand returned as quickly as he might to the castle where he had hidden\nAmile, his companion. When Amile saw him hastening homewards with many\nhorsemen, he was sore adread that Amis was overthrown, and made ready\nto escape. But Amis sent messages to him that he should return in all\nsurety, since he had avenged him upon Arderay, and thus, by proxy, was\nhe married to the daughter of the King. So Amile repaired from that\nplace, and dwelt with his dame in that city which was her heritage.\n\nNow Amis abode with his wife, but by the permission of God he became a\nleper, and his sickness was so heavy upon him that he could not leave\nhis bed, for whom God loveth him He chasteneth. His wife--who was named\nObias--for this cause hated him sorely, and sought his death many a\ntime in shameful fashion. When Amis perceived her malice he called to\nhim two of his men-at-arms, Azonem and Horatus, and said to them--\n\n\"Deliver me from the hands of this wicked woman, and take with you my\ncup secretly, and bear us to the tower of Bericain.\"\n\nWhen they drew near to the castle men came out before them asking of\nthe sickness and of the man whom they carried there. Then they answered\nthat this was Amis, their lord, who was a leper, for which cause they\nprayed them to show him some pity. But mercilessly they beat the\nsergeants, and tumbled Amis forth from the litter in which he was\nborne, crying--\n\n\"Flee swiftly from hence, if ye care aught for your lives.\"\n\nThen Amis wept grievously, and said--\n\n\"Oh Thou, God most pitiful and compassionate, grant me to die, or give\nme help in this my extremity.\"\n\nAgain he said to the men-at-arms--\n\n\"Carry me now to the church of the Father of Rome; perchance God of His\nloving kindness will there give alms to the beggar.\"\n\nWhen they were come to Rome, Constantine the Apostle, full of pity and\nof sanctity, together with many a knight of those who had held Amis at\nthe font, came before him and supplied the wants of Amis and his\nservants. But after three years a great famine came upon the city--a\nfamine so grievous that the father put his very offspring from the\ndoor. Then Azonem and Horatus spake to Amis--\n\n\"Fair sir, bear witness how loyally we have served you from the death\nof your father, even to this day, and that never have we done against\nyour bidding. But now we dare no longer to bide with you, since we have\nno heart to die of hunger. For this cause we pray you to acquit us of\nour service, so that we may avoid this mortal pestilence.\"\n\nThen answered Amis in his tears--\n\n\"Oh, my dear children, not servants but sons, my only comfort, I pray\nyou for the love of God that you forsake me not here, but that you bear\nme to the city of my comrade, Count Amile.\"\n\nAnd these, willing to obey his commandment, carried him to that place\nwhere Amile lay. Now when they came before the court of Amile's house\nthey began to sound their clappers, as the leper is wont to do; so when\nAmile heard the sound thereof he bade a servitor of his to carry to the\nsick man bread and meat, and the cup which was given to him at Rome\nbrimmed with rich wine. When the man-at-arms had done the bidding of\nhis lord, he came to him again, and said--\n\n\"Sir, by the faith which is your due, if I held not your cup within my\nhand, I should believe it to be the cup that the sick man beareth even\nnow, for they are alike in workmanship and height.\"\n\nAnd Amile said to him--\n\n\"Go quickly, and bring him hither to me.\"\n\nWhen the leper was come before his comrade, Amile inquired of him who\nhe was, and how he came to own such a cup.\n\n\"I am of Castle Bericain,\" said he, \"and the cup was given me by the\nApostle of Rome who baptized me.\"\n\nWhen Amile heard these words he knew within himself that this was Amis,\nhis comrade, who had delivered him from death, and given him the\ndaughter of the King of France as dame. So at once he fell upon his\nneck, and began to weep and lament his evil case, kissing and\nembracing him. When his wife heard this thing she ran forth with fallen\nhair, weeping and making great sorrow, for she bore in mind that this\nwas he who had done judgment on Arderay. Forthwith they set him in a\nvery fair bed, and said to him--\n\n\"Tarry with us, fair sir, until the will of God is done on you, for all\nthat we have is as thine own.\"\n\nSo he dwelt with them, he and his two men-at-arms likewise.\n\nNow on a night when Amis and Amile lay together in a chamber, without\nother company, God sent Raphael, His angel, to Amis, who spake him\nthus--\n\n\"Amis, sleepest thou?\"\n\nAnd he, deeming that Amile had called him, answered--\n\n\"I sleep not, fair dear companion.\"\n\nAnd the angel said to him--\n\n\"Thou hast well spoken, for thou art the companion of the citizens of\nHeaven, and like Job and Tobit hast suffered all things meekly and with\npatience. I am Raphael, an angel of our Lord, who am come to show thee\nmedicine for thy healing, for God hath heard thy prayers. Thou must bid\nAmile, thy comrade, to slay his two children with the sword, and wash\nthee in their blood, that thus thy body may become clean.\"\n\nThen Amis replied--\n\n\"This be far from me, that my comrade be blood-guilty for my health.\"\n\nBut the angel said--\n\n\"It is meet that he should do this thing.\"\n\nOn these words the angel departed from him.\n\nNow Amile also, in his sleep, had heard these words, and he awoke, and\nsaid--\n\n\"Comrade, who is this who hath spoken to thee?\"\n\nAnd Amis answered that no man had spoken. \"But I prayed our Lord, as is\nmy wont.\"\n\nBut Amile said--\n\n\"It is not thus, but some one hath spoken with thee.\"\n\nThen he rose from the bed, and went to the door of the chamber, and\nfinding it fast, said--\n\n\"Tell me, fair brother, who hath said to thee these hidden words.\"\n\nThen Amis began to weep bitterly, and denied not that it was Raphael,\nthe angel of our Lord, who had said to him, \"Amis, our Lord sends word\nto thee that thou biddest Amile to slay his two children with the\nsword, and to wash thee in their blood, that thou mayest be clean of\nthy leprosy.\"\n\nAnd Amile was sorely distressed on hearing these words, and said--\n\n\"Amis, gladly have I given thee sergeant and damsel and all the riches\nthat I had, and in fraud thou feignest that the angel hath bidden me to\nslay my two little ones with the sword.\"\n\nThen Amis broke out into weeping, and said--\n\n\"I know that I have told thee of a grievous matter, but not of mine own\nfree will; I pray thee therefore that thou cast me not forth from thy\nhouse.\"\n\nAnd Amile answered him that the covenant he had made with him he would\nnot depart from till the hour of death. \"But I adjure thee by the faith\nbetween me and thee, and by our fellowship, and by the baptism given to\nus twain at Rome, that thou tell me truly whether it was man or angel\nwho spoke to thee of this thing.\"\n\nAnd Amis made reply--\n\n\"So truly as the angel hath held converse with me this night, so may\nGod make me clean of my infirmity.\"\n\nThen Amile began to weep privily, and to consider within his heart. \"If\nthis man was willing to die in my stead before the King, why then\nshould I not slay mine own for him! He hath kept faith with me even\nunto death: shall I not therefore keep faith with him! Abraham was\nsaved by faith, and by faith have the saints proved mightier than\nkings. Yea, God saith in the Gospel, 'Whatsoever ye would that men\nshould do unto you, even so do unto them.'\"\n\nThen Amile delayed no more, but went to his wife's chamber, and bade\nher to attend the Divine Office; so the Countess sought the church, as\nwas her wont to do, and the Count took his sword and went to the bed\nwhere lay the children, and they were asleep. And bending above them he\nwept bitterly, and said--\n\n\"Hath any man heard of such father who was willing to slay his child?\nAlas, alas, my children, no longer shall I be your father, but your\ncruel murderer.\"\n\nThe children awoke because of their father's tears which fell upon\nthem, and looking upon his face began to laugh. Since therefore they\nwere about the age of three years he said to them--\n\n\"Your laughter will turn to tears, for now your innocent blood shall be\nshed.\"\n\nHe spoke thus, and cut off their heads; and making straight their limbs\nupon the bed, he set their heads to their bodies, and covered all with\nthe coverlet, as if they slept. So he washed his companion with the\nblood of that slaying, and said--\n\n\"Lord God, Jesus Christ, Who hast bidden men to keep faith on earth,\nand didst cleanse the leper with Thy word, deign Thou to make clean my\ncomrade, for love of whom I have shed the blood of my children.\"\n\nStraightway was Amis made whole of his leprosy, and they gave grace to\nour Lord with great joy, saying--\n\n\"Blessed be God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who saveth those\nwho put their trust in Him.\"\n\nAnd Amile clad his comrade from his own rich apparel; and passing to\nthe church to render thanks in that place, the bells rang without\nringers, as was the will of God. When the people of the city heard\nthereof they hastened to behold this marvel. Now the wife of the Count,\nwhen she saw the twain walking together, began to question which was\nher husband, and said, \"Well I know the vesture which they wear, but\nwhich is Amile, that I know not,\" and the Count said--\n\n\"I am Amile, and this, my companion, is Amis, who is healed.\"\n\nThen the Countess marvelled greatly, and said--\n\n\"Easy is it to see that he is healed, but much desire I to know the\nmanner of that healing.\"\n\n\"Render thanks to our Lord,\" returned the Count, \"nor seek curiously of\nthe fashion of that cleansing.\"\n\nThe hour of tierce was now come, and neither of the parents had yet\nentered in the chamber where the children lay, but the father went\nheavily for reason of their death. The Countess asked therefore for her\nsons that they might share in the joy, but the Count replied--\n\n\"Nay, dame, but let the children sleep.\"\n\nThen entering by himself within the chamber to bewail his children, he\nfound them playing in the bed and about their necks, in the place of\nthat mortal wound, showed as it were a crimson thread. So he clasped\nthem in his arms, and bore them to their mother, saying--\n\n\"Dame, rejoice greatly, for thy sons whom I had slain with the sword,\nat the bidding of the angel, are alive, and by their blood is Amis\ncleansed and healed.\"\n\nWhen the Countess heard this thing she said--\n\n\"Count, why was I not with thee to gather the blood of my children,\nthat I too might have washed Amis, thy comrade and my lord?\"\n\nAnd the Count answered her--\n\n\"Dame, let be these words; rather let us dedicate ourselves to our\nLord, who hath wrought such marvels in our house.\"\n\nSo from that day, even unto their deaths, they lived together in\nperfect chastity; and for the space of ten days the people of that city\nheld high festival. But on that very day that Amis was made clean, the\ndevil seized upon his wife, and breaking her neck, carried off her\nsoul.\n\nAfter these things Amis rode to the castle of Bericain, and laid siege\nthereto, and sat before it for so long a time that those within the\ncastle yielded themselves into his hand. He received them graciously,\nforgetting his anger against them, and forgiving them the wrongs that\nthey had done, so that from thenceforth he dwelt peaceably amongst\nthem, and with him, in his own house, lived the elder son of Count\nAmile. There he served our Lord with all his heart.\n\nNow Adrian, being at this time Pope of Rome, sent letters to Charles,\nKing of France, praying him to come to his aid against Didier, King of\nthe Lombards, who wrought much mischief to him and the Church. Now\nCharles lay in the town of Thionville, and to that place came Peter,\nthe envoy of the Apostle, with messages from the Pope praying him to\nhasten to the succour of Holy Church. For this cause Charles sent\nletters to the said Didier requiring him to render to the Holy Father\nthe cities and all other things which he had wrongfully seized, and\npromising that if he would do this thing the said Charles would send\nhim in return the sum of forty thousand pieces of gold, in gold and\nsilver. But he would not do right, neither for prayers nor for gifts.\n\nThen the stout King Charles summoned to his aid all his men--bishops,\nabbots, dukes, princes, marquises, and other stout knights. Divers of\nthese he sent to Cluses to guard the pass, and of this number was\nAlbin, Bishop of Angers, a man of great holiness.\n\nKing Charles himself, with a large company of spears, drew towards\nCluses by the way of Mont Cenis, and he sent Bernard, his uncle, with\nother knights, thither by way of Mont Saint-Bernard. The vanguard of\nthe host said that Didier, with all his strength, lay at Cluses, which\ntown he had made strong with iron chains and works of stone. Whilst\nCharles approached to Cluses he sent messengers to Didier, requiring\nhim to render to the Holy Father the cities which he had taken, but he\nwould not heed his prayer. Again Charles sent him other letters\ndemanding three children of the Justices of Lombardy as hostages, until\nsuch time as he had yielded up the cities of the Church; in which case\nfor his part he would return to France with all his spears, without\nbattle and without malice. But neither for this nor for that would he\nstint.\n\nWhen God the All-powerful had beheld the hard heart and the malice of\nthis Didier, and found that the French desired greatly to return, He\nput so fearful a trembling in the hearts of the Lombards that they took\nto flight, though there was none that pursued, leaving behind them\ntheir tents and all their harness. So Charles and his host followed\nafter them, and Frenchman, German, Englishman and divers other people\nentered hot after them into Lombardy.\n\nAmis and Amile were of the host, and very near to the person of the\nKing. Always they strove to follow our Lord in good works, and were\nconstant in fast, in vigil, in giving of alms, in succouring the widow\nand the orphan, in assuaging often the wrath of the King, in patient\nsuffering of evil men, and in piteous dealings within the Roman realm.\n\nBut though Charles had a great army drawn together in Lombardy, King\nDidier feared not to come before him with his little host--for there\nwhere Didier had a priest, Charles had a bishop; where one had a monk,\nthe other had an abbot; if this had a knight, that had a prince; if\nDidier had a man-at-arms, then Charles had a duke or a count. What\nshall I tell you; for a single knight on the one side Charles could\nnumber thirty pennons. And the two hosts fell each upon the other with\na tumult of battle cries, and with banners in array; and the stones and\narrows flew from here and there, and knights were smitten down on every\nside.\n\nFor the space of three days the Lombards strove so valiantly that they\nslew a very great company of Charles's men. But on the third day\nCharles set in order the hardiest and bravest of his host and said to\nthem--\n\n\"Go now, and win this battle, or return no more.\"\n\nSo King Didier together with the host of the Lombards fled to the place\ncalled Mortara, which was then known as Belle-Foret, because the\ncountry was so fair, there to refresh themselves and their horses. On\nthe morning of the next day King Charles with his army drew near the\ntown, and found the Lombards arrayed for the battle. So fierce was the\ncombat that a great multitude of men were slain, both of one party and\nthe other, and for reason of this slaying was the place named Mortara.\nThere, too, on that field died Amis and Amile, for as it had pleased\nGod to make their lives lovely and pleasant together, so in their\ndeaths they were not divided. There also many another hardy knight was\nslain with the sword. But Didier, together with his Justiciary, and all\nthe multitude of the Lombards, fled to Pavia; and King Charles followed\nclosely after him and lay before the city, and invested it on every\nside; and lying there he sent to France to seek the Queen and his\nchildren. But St. Albin, the Bishop of Angers, and many another bishop\nand abbot counselled the King and Queen that they should bury those who\nfell in that battle, and build in that place a church. This counsel\ngreatly pleased the King, so that on the field were built two churches,\none by bidding of Charles in honour of St. Eusebius of Verceil, and the\nother by bidding of the Queen in honour of St. Peter.\n\nMoreover the King caused to be brought the two coffins of stone wherein\nwere buried Amis and Amile, and Amile was carried to the church of St.\nPeter, and Amis to the church of St. Eusebius. But on the morrow the\nbody of Amile in his coffin of stone was found in the church of St.\nEusebius near by the coffin of his comrade, Amis. So have you heard the\nstory of this marvellous fellowship which could not be dissevered, even\nby death. This miracle did God for His servants--that God Who gave such\npower to His disciples that in His strength they might move even\nmountains. Because of this wonder the King and Queen tarried there for\nthirty days, giving fit burial to the bodies of the slain, and\nhonouring those ministers with many rich gifts.\n\nBut all this while the host of Charles toiled mightily for the taking\nof the city before which it lay. Our Lord also tormented those within\nthe walls so grievously that they might not bear their harness by\nreason of weakness and of death. At the end of ten months Charles took\nDidier the King, and all those who were with him, and possessed himself\nof the city and of all that realm. So Didier the King and his wife were\nled as captives into France.\n\nBut St. Albin, who in his day gave life to the dead and light to the\nblind, ordained clerks, and priests and deacons in the aforesaid church\nof St. Eusebius, and bade them always to hold in tireless keeping the\nbodies of those two comrades, Amis and Amile, who suffered death under\nDidier, King of Lombardy, the 12th day of October, and are now with our\nLord Jesus Christ, Who liveth and reigneth with the Father and the Holy\nGhost, world without end. Amen.\n\n\n\n\nOF THE KNIGHT WHO PRAYED WHILST OUR LADY TOURNEYED IN HIS STEAD\n\n\nSweet Jesus, what brave warfare doth he make, and how nobly doth he\njoust, whose feet devoutly seek the church where the Divine Office is\nrendered, and who assists at the holy mysteries of Him, the spotless\nSon of the Mother Maid. For this cause will I tell you a certain story,\neven as it was told to me, for a fair ensample.\n\nThere was once a knight, esteemed of all as a wise and courteous lord,\nstout and of great valour, who dearly loved and honoured the Virgin\nMary. The fame of this knight was bruited about all chivalry; so to\nmake proof alike of lisping squire and burly man-at-arms, he set forth\nto a tourney, together with a strong company. Now by the will of God it\nchanced that when the day of the tournament was come he fared speedily\ntowards the field, because he would be first at the breaking of the\nspears. Near by the road was builded a little church, and the bells\nthereof rang loud and clear to call men to the singing of the holy\nMass. So without doubt or hesitation this knight dismounted at the\ndoor, and entered within the church to hearken to the service of God.\nAt an altar therein a priest chanted meetly and with reverence a Mass\nof the holy Virgin Mary. Then another Mass was begun, the good knight\nyet kneeling devoutly on his knees, and praying our Lady with an\nearnest heart. When the second Mass came to its appointed end,\nstraightway a third Mass was commenced, forthwith and in the selfsame\nplace.\n\n\"Sir, by the holy Body of God,\" said the squire to his lord, \"the hour\nto tourney hurries by. Why tarry you here? Depart from hence, I pray\nyou. Let us keep to our own trade, lest men deem you hermit or\nhypocrite, or monk without the cowl!\"\n\n\"Friend,\" answered the knight, \"most worshipfully doth he tourney who\nhearkens to the service of God upon his knees. When the Masses are\naltogether at an end, we will go upon our way. Till then, please God,\npart from here will I not. But so that all are said, then will I joust\nto the very utmost of my might, according to the will of God.\"\n\nWith these words the knight refrained from further speech, and turning\nhimself again towards the altar took refuge in the holy liturgy, till\nthe last prayer came to a close with the last chant. Then they got to\nhorse, as was their bounden duty, and rode with speed towards that\nplace where the lists were set for the great play. So, presently, the\nknights who were returning from the tournament, discomfited and\noverborne, met him who had carried off all the prizes of the game. They\nsaluted the knight who was on his way from the Divine Offerings, and,\njoining themselves to his company, praised him to his face, affirming\nthat never before had knight done such feats of arms as he had wrought\nthat day, to his undying fame. Moreover many amongst them drew near and\nyielded themselves his captives, saying--\n\n\"We are your prisoners, for truly we may not deny that you have\noverthrown us in the field.\"\n\nThen, taking thought, the knight was amazed no more, for quickly he\nperceived that She had been upon his business in the press, about whose\nbusiness he had been within the chapel.\n\nSo he called these knights and his fellowship around him, and said\nright courteously--\n\n\"I pray you, one and all, to hearken to my words, for I have that to\ntell you which never has been heard of ears.\"\n\nThen he told over to them, word for word, how that he had not jousted\nin the tournament, neither had broken lance nor hung shield about his\nneck, by reason of those Masses he had heard, but verily he believed\nthat the Maiden, whom humbly he had besought within the chapel, had\nworn his harness in the lists. \"Altogether lovely in my eyes is this\ntournament wherein She has done my devoir; but very foully shall I\nrequite such gracious service if I seek another Lady, or in my folly\nreturn to the vanities of the world. Therefore I pledge my word to God\nin truth, that henceforth I will never fight, save in that tourney\nwhere He sits, the one true Judge, Who knows the loyal knight, and\nrecompenses him according to his deeds.\"\n\nThen he bade them farewell right piteously, and many of his company\nwept tenderly as they took their leave. But he, parting from them, went\nhis way to an abbey, to become the servant of the Handmaid of the Lord,\nand to follow in that path which leadeth to a holy end.\n\nSo, clearly we may perceive from this ensample, that the gracious God,\nin Whom we put our faith, loves, cherishes, and delights to honour that\nman who gladly tarries before His holy altar at the offering of the\nMass, and who willingly serves His Mother, so gentle and so dear. Of\nmuch profit is this custom, and he who is quiet in the land and wise,\nwill always continue to walk in the way his feet were set in youth,\nyea, even to that time when he is old and grey-headed.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PRIEST AND THE MULBERRIES\n\n\nA certain priest having need to go to market, caused his mare to be\nsaddled and brought to his door. The mare had carried her master for\ntwo years, and was high and well nourished, for during these years\nnever had she known thirst nor hunger, but of hay and of oats ever had\nshe enough and to spare. The priest climbed to the saddle and set out\nupon his journey, and well I remember that it was the month of\nSeptember, for in that season mulberries grow upon the bushes in great\nplenty and abundance. The priest rode upon his way repeating his hours,\nhis matins and his vigils. As he drew near the gate of the town the\npath ran through a certain deep hollow, and raising his eyes from his\nbook the priest marked a bush thick with mulberries, bigger, blacker\nand more ripe than any he had ever seen. Desire entered his heart, for\nvery covetous was he of this fair fruit, and gradually checking the\npace of his mare, he presently caused her to stand beside the bush. Yet\none thing still was wanting to his delight. The mulberries near the\nground were set about with spines and thorns, whilst the sweetest of\nall hung so high upon the tree that in no wise could he reach them from\nhis seat. This thing the priest saw, so in a while he climbed up, and\nstood with his two feet upon the saddle, whence by leaning over a\nlittle he could pluck the fruit. Then he chose the fairest, the ripest,\nand the sweetest of all these mulberries, eating them as swiftly and\ngreedily as he might, whilst the mare beneath him moved never a whit.\nNow, when this priest had eaten as many mulberries as he was able, he\nglanced downwards, and saw that the mare was standing still and coy,\nwith her head turned towards the bank of that deep road. Thereat the\npriest rejoiced very greatly, for his two feet were yet upon the\nsaddle, and the mare was very tall.\n\n\"God!\" said he, \"if any one now should cry 'Gee up!'\" He thought and\nspoke the words at the same moment, whereat the mare was suddenly\nfrighted, and springing forward on the instant tumbled the luckless\npriest into the bush where the thorns and briars grew sharpest and\nthickest. There he lay in that uneasy bed, nor might move from one side\nto the other, backwards or forwards, for all the money in the mint.\n\nThe mare galloped straight to her own stable, but when the priest's\nhousehold saw her return in this fashion they were greatly\ndiscomforted. The servants cursed her for an evil and a luckless jade,\nwhilst the cook maid swooned like any dame, for well she believed that\nher master was dead. When they were returned a little to themselves\nthey ran to and fro, here and there, about the country searching for\nthe priest, and presently on their way to the market town they drew\nnear to that bush where their master yet lay in much misease. On\nhearing their words bewailing his piteous case, the priest raised a\nlamentable voice, and cried--\n\n\"Diva, Diva, do not pass me by. This bush is an uneasy bed, and here I\nlie very hurt and troubled and utterly cast down. Do you not see how my\nblood is staining these thorns and briars a vermeil red?\"\n\nThe servants hurried to the bush, and stared upon the priest.\n\n\"Sir,\" said they, \"who has flung you herein?\"\n\n\"Alas,\" answered he, \"'tis sin that has undone me. This morning when I\nrode this way reading in my Book of Hours, I desired over greatly to\neat of the mulberries growing hereon, and so I fell into the sin of\ngluttony. Therefore this bush gat hold upon me. But help me forth from\nthis place, for I wish now for no other thing but to have a surgeon for\nmy hurts, and to rest in my own house.\"\n\nNow by this little story we may learn that the prudent man does not cry\naloud all he may think in his heart, since by so doing many an one has\nsuffered loss and shame, as we may see by this fable of the Priest and\nthe Mulberries.\n\n\n\n\nTHE STORY OF ASENATH\n\n\nIn the first of the seven years of great plenty Pharaoh sent forth\nJoseph to lay up corn, and gather food within the cities. So Joseph\nwent out over all the land of Egypt, and came in the country of\nHeliopolis, where lived Poti-pherah, the priest, and chief counsellor\nof the great King. His daughter, Asenath, was the fairest of all the\nvirgins of the earth; and seemed rather to be a daughter of Israel than\nan Egyptian. But Asenath was scornful and proud, and a despiser of men.\nNo man of all the sons of men had seen her with his eyes, for she\nlodged within a strong tower, tall and wide, near by the habitation of\nPoti-pherah, the priest. Now high upon this tower were ten chambers.\nThe first chamber was fair and great, and was builded of marble blocks\nof divers colours; the walls were of precious stones set in a chasing\nof gold, and the ceiling thereof was golden. There stood the gods of\nthe Egyptians in metal of silver and gold, and Asenath bowed before\nthem and offered sacrifice, every day of all the days. The second\nchamber was the habitation of Asenath, and was adorned cunningly with\nornaments of gold and silver, with costly gems, and with arras and\nstuffs most precious. In the third chamber was brought together the\nwealth of all the world, and in that place also were set the aumbries\nof Asenath. Seven virgins, her fellows, lodged in the seven other\nchambers. They were very fair, and no man had spoken with them, nor any\nmale child.\n\nThe chamber of Asenath was pierced with three windows; the first,\nwhich was very wide, looked towards the east, the second looked towards\nthe south, and the third was set towards the north. Here was spread a\ncouch of gold, covered with a purple coverlet, embroidered with golden\nthread, and hemmed with jacinths. There slept Asenath, with no\nbed-fellow, neither had man sat ever upon her bed. About this house was\na goodly garden, closed round with a very strong wall, and entered by\nfour iron gates. Each door had for warders eighteen men, very mighty\nand young, well armed and full of valour. At the right side of the\ngarden sprang a fountain of living water, and near by the fountain a\ncistern which gave of this water to all the trees of the garden, and\nthese trees bore much fruit. And Asenath was queenly as Sarah, gracious\nas Rebecca, and fair as Rachel.\n\n\n_How Joseph rebuked Asenath because she worshipped idols._\n\nJoseph sent a message to Poti-pherah that he would come to his house.\nSo Poti-pherah rejoiced greatly, saying to his daughter, \"Joseph, the\nfriend of God, enters herein. I would give thee to him as his wife.\"\n\nBut Asenath was sore vexed when she heard these words, and said--\n\n\"No captive shall ever be my husband, but only the son of a king.\"\n\nWhilst they spake thus together, a messenger came before them and\ncried, \"Joseph is here\"; so Asenath fled to her chamber high within the\ntower. Now Joseph was seated in Pharaoh's own chariot of beaten gold,\nand it was drawn by four horses, white as snow, with bridles and\nharness of gold. Joseph was clad in a vesture of fine linen, white and\nglistering, and his mantle was of purple, spun with gold. He wore a\ngolden circlet upon his head, and in this crown were set twelve stones,\nmost precious, each stone having for ornament a golden star. Moreover\nhe held in his hand the royal sceptre, and an olive branch charged with\nfruit. Poti-pherah and his wife hastened to meet him, and bowed before\nhim to the ground. They led him within the garden, and caused the doors\nto be shut. But when Asenath regarded Joseph from on high the tower,\nshe repented her of the words she spoke concerning him, and said--\n\n\"Behold the sun and the chariot of the sun! Certainly this Joseph is\nthe child of God; for what father could beget so fair an offspring, and\nwhat womb of woman could carry such light.\"\n\nJoseph entered in the house of Poti-pherah, and whilst they washed his\nfeet he asked what woman had looked forth from the window of the tower.\n\n\"Let her go forth from the house,\" he commanded.\n\nThis he said because he feared lest she should desire him, and should\nsend him messages and divers gifts, even as other women of her nation,\nwhom he had refused with holy indignation. But Poti-pherah replied--\n\n\"Sire, this is my daughter, who is a virgin, and hateth men; neither\nhath she seen any man save me, her father, and thyself this very day.\nIf thou wilt, she shall come before thee and salute thee.\"\n\nThen Joseph thought within himself, \"Since she hateth man, she will not\ncast her eyes upon me.\" So he answered to her father--\n\n\"Since your daughter is a virgin, I will cherish her even as my\nsister.\"\n\nThen her mother went out to seek Asenath, and brought her before\nJoseph.\n\n\"Salute thy brother,\" said Poti-pherah, \"who hateth the strange woman,\neven as thou hatest man.\"\n\n\"God keep thee,\" replied Asenath, \"for thou art blessed of God most\nhigh.\"\n\nAnd Joseph answered, \"May the God of life bless thee evermore.\"\n\nThen commanded Poti-pherah that she should kiss Joseph; but as she drew\nnear Joseph set his hand against her breast and said--\n\n\"It is not meet that a man who worships the living God, and eateth the\nbread of life and drinketh from the chalice without corruption, should\nembrace the strange woman, who bows down before deaf and dumb idols;\nwho serves them with the kisses of her mouth; is anointed with their\nreprobate oil, and eats an accursed bread, and drinks unsanctified wine\nfrom their table.\"\n\n\n     _Of the penitence of Asenath, and of the consolation of an\n     angel; how he came from Heaven to the chamber of Asenath,\n     and spake with her and sweetly comforted her._\n\nWhen Asenath heard Joseph speak these words she was sore vexed, even\nunto tears; wherefore Joseph took pity upon her and blessed her, laying\nhis hand upon her head. Asenath rejoiced greatly at the benediction.\nShe sought her bed, sick with fear and joy, and renounced the gods\nbefore whom she bowed, and humbled herself to the ground. So Joseph ate\nand drank, and when he rose to go Poti-pherah prayed him to tarry till\nthe morrow; but he might not, and parted, having promised to return\nwithin eight days.\n\nThen Asenath put on sad raiment, such as she wore at the death of her\nbrother, and went clothed in a garment of heaviness. She closed the\ndoors of her chamber upon her and wept. Moreover she flung forth all\nher idols by the window set towards the north; all the royal meat she\ngave to the dogs; she put dust upon her head, lay upon the ground, and\nlamented bitterly for seven days.\n\nBut the eighth morning, at the hour when the cock crows and the dogs\nhowl at the breaking of the day, Asenath looked forth from the window\ngiving to the east, and saw a star shining clear, and the heavens open,\nand there appeared a great light. She fell to earth with her face in\nthe dust, and a man descended from the heavens and stood by her head,\ncalling on her by her name. But Asenath answered nothing, because of\nthe greatness of her fear. Then the man called her a second time,\nsaying, \"Asenath! Asenath!\" and she replied--\n\n\"Lord, here am I. Tell me whom thou art.\"\n\nAnd he said--\n\n\"I am Prince of the House of God and Captain of His Host. Rise, stand\nupon thy feet, for I have to speak with thee.\"\n\nThen Asenath raised her head, and saw a man by her side who in all\npoints was, as it were, Joseph. He was clad in a white stole, and bore\nthe royal sceptre in his hand, and a crown was upon his brow. His face\nwas as the lightning, his eyes as rays of the sun, and the hair of his\nhead like a flame of fire. At the sight of him Asenath was sore afraid,\nand hid her face upon the ground. But the Angel raised her to her feet,\nand comforted her, saying--\n\n\"Put off this black raiment with which thou art clothed, and this\ngirdle of sadness. Remove the sackcloth from thy body, and the dust\nfrom thine head; cleanse thy face and thy hands with living water, and\nadorn thee with fair apparel, for I have somewhat to say to thee.\"\n\nSo she adorned herself with speed, and when she came to him again he\nsaid--\n\n\"Asenath, take off this ornament from thine head, for thou art virgin.\nRejoice, and be of good cheer, for thy name is written in the Book of\nLife, and shall never be taken away. Thou art born again this very day\nand quickened anew. For thou shalt receive the Bread of Blessing, and\ndrink of the Wine without corruption; and be anointed with the Holy\nChrism. Yea, I have given thee for wife to Joseph, and thou no more\nshall be called Asenath, but a name shall be given thee of fair refuge,\nfor thy Penitance hath come before the High King, of whom she is the\ndaughter, and thou shalt ever live before Him in mirth and gladness.\"\n\nThen inquired she of the Angel his name, but he answered--\n\n\"My name is written by the finger of God in the Book of the most high\nKing, but all that is written therein may not be told, neither is it\nproper for the hearing of mortal man.\"\n\n\n     _Of the table and of the honey that Asenath set before the\n     Angel, and how the Angel blessed Asenath._\n\nBut Asenath caught the angel by his mantle, and said--\n\n\"If I have found favour in thine eyes, sit for a little space upon this\nbed, where never man has sat, and I will spread the table before my\nlord.\"\n\nAnd the Angel replied, \"Do quickly.\"\n\nSo Asenath set a fair linen cloth upon the table, and put thereon new\nbread of a sweet savour. Then said the Angel--\n\n\"Give me also a little honey in the honeycomb.\"\n\nSo Asenath was grievously troubled because she had no honey to set\nbefore her guest. But the Angel comforted her, saying--\n\n\"Look within thine aumbrey, and thou shalt find withal to furnish thy\ntable.\"\n\nThen she hastened thereto, and found a store of virgin honey, white as\nsnow, of sweetest savour. So she spake to the Angel--\n\n\"Sire, I had no honey, but thou spakest the word, and it is there, and\nthe perfume thereof is as the breath of thy mouth.\"\n\nThe Angel smiled at the understanding of Asenath, and placed his hand\nupon her head, and said--\n\n\"Blessed be thou, O Asenath, because thou hast forsaken thy idols, and\nbelieved in our living Lord. Yea, blessed are they whom Penitence\nbringeth before Him, for they shall eat of this honey gathered by the\nbees of Paradise from the dew of the roses of Heaven; and those who eat\nthereof shall never see death, but shall live for evermore.\"\n\nThen the Angel stretched forth his hand and took of the honeycomb and\nbreak it; and he ate a little, and gave the rest to the mouth of\nAsenath, saying--\n\n\"This day hast thou eaten of the Bread of Life, and art anointed with\nthe Holy Chrism. Beauty is given thee for ashes; for virtue shall never\ngo from thee, neither shall thy youth wither, nor thy fairness fail;\nbut thou shalt be as the strong city builded as a refuge for the\nchildren of our Lord, Who is King for ever more.\"\n\nThen the Angel touched the honeycomb, and it became unbroken as before.\nAgain he stretched forth his hand, and with his finger signed the cross\nthereon, and there where his finger touched came forth blood. So he\nspake to Asenath, and said--\n\n\"Behold this honey!\"\n\nWhilst she gazed thereon, she saw bees come forth from that honey, some\nwhite as snow, others vermeil as jacinths, and they gathered about her,\nand set virgin honey in the palm of her hand; and she ate thereof, and\nthe Angel with her.\n\n\"Bees,\" said the Angel, \"return now to your own place.\"\n\nSo they passed through that window which gave upon the east, and took\ntheir way to Paradise.\n\n\"Faithful as these bees are the words which I have spoken.\"\n\nThen the Angel put forth his hand three times, and touched the honey,\nand fire came forth and consumed the honey without singeing the table,\nand the perfume which came from the honey and the fire was very sweet.\n\n\n_Of the blessing of the seven maidens, and of the marriage of Asenath,\nas set forth in the story._\n\nAsenath said to the Angel--\n\n\"Lord, I have with me seven virgins, born in one night, and nourished\nwith me from my childhood until now. I will seek them, and thou shalt\nbless them, even as thou hast blessed me.\"\n\nSo she brought them before him, and he blessed them, saying--\n\n\"May the most high God bless you, and make you to be seven strong\ncolumns of the City of Refuge.\"\n\nAfterwards he bade Asenath to carry forth the table, and whilst she\nwent about her task, the Angel vanished from her eyes. But looking\ntowards the east she saw, as it were, a chariot drawn by four horses\nascending towards Heaven. So Asenath prayed to God right humbly that He\nwould pardon the boldness with which she had spoken to the Captain of\nHis Host.\n\nWhilst she prayed thus a messenger came to Poti-pherah saying that\nJoseph, the friend of God, sought his house, and was even then at his\ndoor. Asenath hastened to meet him, and awaited his coming before the\noffices of the house. When Joseph entered the garden she bowed herself\nbefore him, and washed the dust from his feet, telling him the words\nwhich the Angel had spoken concerning her. The next day Joseph prayed\nPharaoh that he might have Asenath to wife, and Pharaoh gave him the\nwoman. He set also garlands of gold upon their heads, the fairest that\ncunning smiths could fashion, and caused them to embrace in the sight\nof men. So for seven days was kept high feast and festival, nor might\nany man labour for those days. He also gave them new names, calling\nJoseph, the Son of God, and Asenath, Daughter of the Most High King.\n\nBefore the time of the seven lean years Asenath bore two sons. And\nJoseph called the name of the firstborn Manasseh, which is to say\nForgetfulness; \"For,\" said he, \"God hath made me to forget all my toil,\nand all my father's house.\" And the name of the second was called\nEphraim, which is to say Fruitfulness; \"For,\" said he, \"God hath caused\nme to be fruitful in the land of my affliction.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE PALFREY\n\n\nThat men may bear in mind the fair deeds that woman has done, and to\ntell of her sweetness and frankness, this tale is here written. For\nvery right it is that men should hold in remembrance the excellent\nvirtues that can so easily be perceived in her. But grievous is it, and\nvery heavy to me, that all the world does not laud and praise women to\nthe height which is their due. Ah, God, if but they kept their hearts\nwhole and unspotted, true and strong, the world would not contain so\nrich a treasure. The greater pity and sorrow, then, that they take not\nmore heed to their ways, and that so little stay and stability are to\nbe found in them. Too often the heart of a woman seems but a\nweathercock upon a steeple, whirled about in every wind that blows; so\nvariable is woman's heart, and more changeable than any wind. But the\nstory that I have taken upon me to narrate shall not remain untold\nbecause of the fickle-hearted, nor for reason of those who grudge\npraise to the frank and pure; therefore, give ear to this Lay of the\nMarvellous Palfrey.\n\nOnce upon a time a certain knight, courteous and chivalrous, rich of\nheart, but poor in substance, had his dwelling in the county of\nChampagne. So stout of heart was this lord, so wise in counsel, and so\ncompact of honour and all high qualities, that had his fortune been\nequal to his deserts he would have had no peer amongst his fellows. He\nwas the very pattern of the fair and perfect knight, and his praise\nwas ever in the mouth of men. In whatever land he came he was valued at\nhis proper worth, since strangers esteemed him for the good that was\ntold of him, and rumour but increased his renown. When he had laced the\nhelmet on his head, and ridden within the lists, he did not court the\nglances of the dames, nor seek to joust with those who were of less\nfame than he, but there where the press was thickest he strove mightily\nin the heart of the stour. In the very depths of winter he rode upon\nhis horse, attired in seemly fashion (since in dress may be perceived\nthe inclinations of the heart) and this although his substance was but\nsmall. For the lands of this knight brought him of wealth but two\nhundred pounds of rent, and for this reason he rode to tourneys in hope\nof gain as well as in quest of honour.\n\nThis knight had set all his earthly hope and thoughts on gaining the\nlove of a certain noble lady. The father of the damsel was a puissant\nPrince, lacking nought in the matter of wealth, and lord of a great\nhouse furnished richly as his coffers. His fief and domain were fully\nworth one thousand pounds a year, and many an one asked of him his fair\ndaughter in marriage, because her exceeding beauty was parcel of the\nloveliness of the world. The Prince was old and frail; he had no other\nchild than the maiden, and his wife had long been dead. His castle was\nbuilded in a deep wood, and all about it stretched the great forest,\nfor in the days of my tale Champagne was a wilder country then than\nnow.\n\nThe gentle knight who had set his heart on the love of the fair lady\nwas named Messire William, and he lived within the forest in an ancient\nmanor some two miles from the palace of the Prince. In their love they\nwere as one, and ever they fondly dreamed one upon the other; but the\nPrince liked the matter but little, and had no mind that they should\nmeet. So when the knight would gaze upon the face of his mistress, he\nwent secretly by a path that he had worn through the profound forest,\nand which was known of none save him. By this path he rode privily on\nhis palfrey, without gossip or noise, to visit the maiden, many a time.\nYet never might these lovers see each other close, however great was\ntheir desire, for the wall of the courtyard was very high, and the\ndamsel was not so hardy as to issue forth by the postern. So for their\nsolace they spoke together through a little gap in the wall, but ever\nbetween them was the deep and perilous fosse, set thickly about with\nhedges of thorn and spine, so that never closer might they meet. The\ncastle of the Prince was builded upon a high place, and was strongly\nheld with battlement and tower; moreover bridge and portcullis kept his\ndoor. The ancient knight, worn by years and warfare, seldom left his\nlodging, for he might no longer get him to horse. He lived within his\nown house, and ever would have his daughter seated at his side, to\ncheer his lonely age with youth. Often this thing was grievous to her,\nfor she failed to come to that fair spot where her heart had taken\nroot. But the brave knight in nowise forgot the road that he had worn,\nand asked for nothing more than to see her somewhat closer with his\neyes.\n\nNow the tale tells that in spite of his poverty the knight owned one\nthing that was marvellously rich. The palfrey on which he rode had not\nhis like in all the world. It was grey and of a wonderful fair colour,\nso that no flower was so bright in semblance, nor did any man know of\nso beautiful a steed. Be assured that not in any kingdom could be\ndiscovered so speedy a horse, nor one that carried his rider so softly\nand so surely. The knight loved his palfrey very dearly, and I tell you\ntruly that in nowise would he part with him for any manner of wealth,\nthough the rich folk of that country, and even from afar, had coveted\nhim for long. Upon this fair palfrey Messire William went often to his\nlady, along the beaten path through the solitary forest, known but to\nthese two alone. Right careful was he to keep this matter from the\nfather of the demoiselle; and thus, though these two lovers had such\ndesire one of the other, they might not clasp their arms about the\nneck, nor kiss, nor embrace, nor for their solace, even, hold each\nother by the hand. Nought could they do but speak, and hearken softly\nto such sweet words, for well they knew that should the old Prince know\nthereof, very swiftly would he marry his daughter to some rich lord.\n\nNow the knight considered these things within himself, and day by day\ncalled to remembrance the wretched life that was his, for he might not\nput the matter from his mind. So at the end he summoned all his\ncourage, and for weal or woe resolved that he would go to the aged\nPrince and require of him his daughter for his wife, let that betide\nwhat may. For very clear it was to him that such a life he could not\nlead for every day of the week. On a certain day he made himself ready,\nand repaired to the castle where the demoiselle dwelt with her father.\nHe was welcomed very gladly by the Prince and his company, for he was\nesteemed a courteous and gentle knight, and bragged of by all men as a\nvaliant gentleman, who was lacking in no good qualities.\n\n\"Sire,\" said the knight, \"I ask you of your grace to listen to my\nwords. I enter in your house to crave of you such a gift as may God put\nit in your heart to bestow.\"\n\nThe old man looked upon him fixedly, and afterwards inquired--\n\n\"What is it you would have? Tell me now, for by my faith I will aid\nyou if I may, yet in all things saving my honour.\"\n\n\"Yea, sire, very easily you may do this thing, if so you please. May\nGod but grant that such is your pleasure.\"\n\n\"I will grant you the gift if it seems to me well, and I will refuse\nyou the boon if it seems to me ill. Nothing will you get from me,\nneither gift, nor promise, nor blame, that it is not fitting for me to\nbestow.\"\n\n\"Sire,\" answered he, \"I will tell you the gift I crave at your hand.\nYou know who I am, and right well you knew my father. Well, too, you\nknow my manor and my household, and all those things wherein I take my\npleasure and delight. In guerdon of my love, I pray--so it may please\nyou, sire--your daughter as my wife. God grant that my prayer may not\ndisturb your heart, and that my petition may not be refused to my\nshame. For I will not hide from you that although I am not of her\nfellowship, yet have I spoken from afar with my demoiselle, and\nperceived those fair virtues which all men praise. Greatly is my lady\nloved and esteemed in these parts, for truly there is not her like in\nall the world. I have been too rash, since I have dared to require so\ngracious a gift, but so you deign to give to my asking, joyous and\nmerry shall I go for all my days. Now have I told you my petition; so\nanswer me according to my hope and your good pleasure.\"\n\nThe old man had no need for counsel in this matter, so without delay he\nmade answer to the knight--\n\n\"I have heard with patience what you had to tell. Certes, and without\ndoubt, my daughter is fair, and fresh, and pure, and a maiden of high\ndescent. For myself, I am a rich vavasour, and come of noble ancestry,\nhaving fief and land worth fully one thousand pounds each year in\nrent. Think you I am so besotted as to give my daughter to a knight who\nlives by play! I have no child but one, who is close and dear to my\nheart, and after I am gone all my wealth will be hers. She shall wed no\nnaked man, but in her own degree; for I know not any prince of this\nrealm, from here even to Lorraine, however wise and brave, of whom she\nwould not be more than worthy. It is not yet a month agone since such a\nlord as this prayed her at my hand. His lands were worth five hundred\npounds in rent, and right willingly would he have yielded them to me,\nhad I but hearkened to his suit. But my daughter can well afford to\nwait, for I am so rich that she may not easily lose her price, nor miss\nthe sacrament of marriage. Too high is this fruit for your seeking, for\nthere is none in this realm, nor from here to Allemaigne, however high\nhis race, who shall have her, save he be count or king.\"\n\nThe knight was all abashed at these proud words. He did not wait for\nfurther shame, but took his leave, and went as speedily as he might.\nBut he knew not what to do, for Love, his guide, afflicted him very\ngrievously, and bitterly he complained him thereof. When the maiden\nheard of this refusal, and was told the despiteful words her father had\nspoken, she was grieved in her very heart, for her love was no girl's\nlight fancy, but was wholly given to the knight, far more than any one\ncan tell. So when the knight--yet heavy and wrathful--came to the\naccustomed trysting place to speak a little to the maiden, each said to\nthe other what was in the mind. There he opened out to her the news of\nhis access to her father, and of the disaccord between the twain.\n\n\"Sweet my demoiselle,\" said the knight, \"what is there to do? It seems\nbetter to me to quit my home, and to dwell henceforth amongst\nstrangers in a far land, for my last hope is gone. I may never be\nyours, neither know I how these things will end. Cursed be the great\nwealth with which your father is so puffed up. Better had it been that\nyou were not so rich a dame, for he would have looked upon my poverty\nwith kinder eyes if his substance were not so great.\"\n\n\"Certes,\" answered she, \"very gladly would I be no heiress, but only\nsimple maid, if all things were according to my will. Sire, if my\nfather took heed only to your good qualities, by my faith he would not\npain himself to prevent your coming to me. If he but weighed your\nlittle riches in the balance against your great prowess, right soon\nwould he conclude the bargain. But his heart cannot be moved: he does\nnot wish what I would have, nor lament because I may wring my hands. If\nhe accorded with my desire, right speedily would this matter be ended.\nBut age and youth walk not easily together, for in the heart is the\ndifference between the old and young. Yet so you do according to my\ndevice, you shall not fail to gain what you would have.\"\n\n\"Yea, demoiselle, by my faith, I will not fail herein; so tell me now\nyour will.\"\n\n\"I have determined on a thing to which I have given thought many a time\nand oft. Very surely you remember that you have an uncle who is right\nrich in houses and in goods. He is not less rich than my father; he has\nneither child, wife nor brother, nor any kindred of his blood nearer\nthan you. Well is it known that all his wealth is yours when he is\ndead, and this in treasure and in rent is worth sixty marks of virgin\ngold. Now go to him without delay, for he is old and frail; tell him\nthat between my father and yourself is such a business that it may not\ncome to a good end unless he help therein. But that if he would promise\nyou three hundred pounds of his land, and come to require grace of my\nfather, very soon can the affair be ended. For my father loves him\ndearly, and each counts the other an honourable man. Your uncle holds\nmy father as prudent and wise: they are two ancient gentlemen, of ripe\nyears, and have faith and affiance the one in the other. Now if for\nlove of you your uncle would fairly seek my father and speak him thus,\n'I will deliver to my nephew three hundred pounds of my lands, so that\nyou give him your child,' why, the marriage will be made. I verily\nbelieve that my father would grant your uncle his request, if only he\nwould ask me of him. And when we are wedded together, then you can\nrender again to your uncle all the land that he has granted you. And so\nsweetly do I desire your love, that right pleasing I shall find the\nbargain.\"\n\n\"Fairest,\" cried the knight, \"verily and truly there is nothing I crave\nin comparison with your love; so forthwith I will find my uncle, and\ntell him this thing.\"\n\nThe knight bade farewell, and went his way, yet thoughtful and\nbewildered and sad, by reason of the shame which had been put upon him.\nHe rode at adventure through the thick forest upon his grey palfrey.\nBut as he rode fear left him, and peace entered in his heart, because\nof the honest and wise counsel given him by the fair maiden. He came\nwithout hindrance to Medet, where his uncle had his dwelling, but when\nhe was entered into the house he bewailed his lot, and showed himself\nall discomforted. So his uncle took him apart into a privy chamber, and\nthere he opened out his heart, and made plain to him all this business.\n\n\"Uncle,\" said he, \"if you will do so much as to speak to her sire, and\ntell him that you have granted me three hundred pounds of your land, I\nwill make this covenant with you, and plight you my faith, my hand in\nyours, that when I have wedded her who is now denied me, that I will\nrender again and give you quittance for your land. Now I pray that you\nwill do what is required of you.\"\n\n\"Nephew,\" answered the uncle, \"this I will do willingly, since it\npleases me right well. By my head, married you shall be, and to the\npearl of all the country, for good hope have I to bring this matter to\nan end.\"\n\n\"Uncle,\" said the knight, \"put your hand to my task, and so press on\nwith the business that time may go swiftly to the wedding. For my part\nI will arm me richly, and ride to the tournament at Galardon, where, by\nthe aid of God, I trust to gain such ransom as will be helpful to me.\nAnd I pray you to use such diligence that I may be married on my\nreturn.\"\n\n\"Fair nephew, right gladly,\" answered he, \"for greatly it delights me\nthat so gracious and tender a lady shall be your bride.\"\n\nSo without further tarrying Messire William went his way, merry of\nheart because of his uncle's promise that without let he should have as\nwife that maid whom so dearly he desired. For of other happiness he\ntook no heed. Thus blithe and gay of visage he rendered him to the\ntournament, as one who had no care in all the world.\n\nOn the morrow, very early in the morning, the uncle got to horse, and\nbefore the hour of prime came to the rich mansion of that old Prince,\nand of her whose beauty had no peer. He was welcomed with high\nobservance, for the ancient lord loved him very dearly, seeing that\nthey were both of the same years, and were rich and puissant princes,\nnear neighbours in that land. Therefore he rejoiced greatly that one so\nhigh in station did honour to his house, and spread before him a fair\nbanquet, with many sweet words, for the old Prince was frank and\ncourteous of heart, and knew to praise meetly where honour was due.\nWhen the tables were cleared, the two spake together of old faces and\nold stories, shields, and swords and spears, and of many a doughty\ndeed, in the most loving fashion. But the uncle of the good knight\nwould not forget his secret thought, and presently discovered it to the\nPrince in saying--\n\n\"What go I now to tell you? I love you very truly, as you may easily\nperceive. I am come to require a favour at your hand. May God put it\ninto your heart to lend your ear to my prayer in such a fashion that\nthe matter may be brought to a right fair end.\"\n\n\"By my head,\" answered the old Prince, \"you are so near to my heart\nthat you are not likely to be refused aught that you may ask of me.\nTell me, that I may grace you with the gift.\"\n\n\"Sire, thanks and thanks again, for I would do the same by you,\"\nreturned the uncle of the knight, who no longer cared to hide his privy\nmind. \"I am come to pray of you, fair sire, the hand of your virtuous\nmaid in marriage. When we once were wed I would endow her with my\nwealth to the utmost of my power. You know well that I have no heir of\nmy body, which troubles me sorely; and I will keep good faith with you\nherein, for I am he who loves you dearly. When your daughter is\nbestowed upon me, it would not be my care to separate father and child,\nnor to withdraw my wealth from yours, but all our substance should be\nas one, and we would enjoy together in common that which God has given\nus.\"\n\nWhen he whose heart was crafty heard these words, he rejoiced greatly,\nand made reply--\n\n\"Sire, I will give her to you right gladly, for you are a loyal and an\nhonourable man. I am more content that you have required her of me than\nif the strongest castle of these parts had been rendered to my hand.\nTo none other in the world would I grant my maid so willingly as to\nyou, for you are prudent and hardy, and many a time have I proved ere\nnow that I may have confidence in your faith.\"\n\nThen was promised and betrothed the damsel to a husband of whom she had\nlittle envy, for she was persuaded that another had asked her as his\nwife. When the maiden knew the truth thereof she was altogether amazed\nand sorrowful, and often she swore by St. Mary that never should she be\nwedded of him. Right heavy was she, and full of tears, and grievously\nshe lamented her fate.\n\n\"Alas, unhappy wretch, for now I am dead. What foul treason has this\nold traitor done, for which he justly should be slain! How shamefully\nhe has deceived that brave and courteous knight, whose honour is\nuntouched by spot. By his wealth this aged, ancient man has bought me\nat a price. May God requite it to his bosom, for he purposes to commit\na great folly, since the day we are wed he takes his mortal foe to\nwife. How may I endure that day! Alas, may God grant that I shall never\nsee that hour, for too great is the anguish that I suffer because of\nthis treason. If I were not fast in prison, right swiftly would I get\nquit of this trouble, but nought is there for me to do, since in no\nwise can I flee from this manor. So stay I must, and suffer as my\nfather wills, but truly my pain is more than I can bear. Ah, God, what\nwill become of me, and when shall he return who so foully is betrayed.\nIf he but knew the trick his uncle has set on him, and how, too, I am\ntaken in the snare, well I know that he would die of grief. Ah, if he\nbut knew! Sure I am that he would ride with speed, and that soon these\ngreat woes would be as they had never been. Too sorely is my heart\ncharged with sorrow, and better I love to die than to live. Alas, that\nthis old man ever should cast his thought upon me, but none may deliver\nme now, for my father loves him because of his wealth. Fie on age! Fie\nupon riches! Never may bachelor wed with loving maid save he have money\nin his pouch. Cursed be the wealth which keeps me from him wherein I\nhave my part, for truly my feet are caught in a golden net.\"\n\nIn this wise the maiden bewailed her lot, by reason of her great\nmisease. For so sweetly was her heart knit in the love of her fair\nbachelor, that in nowise might she withdraw her thoughts from him.\nTherefore she held in the more despite him to whom her father had given\nher. Old he was, very aged, with a wrinkled face, and red and peering\neyes. From Chalons to Beauvais there was no more ancient knight than\nhe, nor from there to Sens a lord more rich, for that matter. But all\nthe world held him as pitiless and felon; whilst so beautiful and brave\nwas the lady, that men knew no fairer heiress, nor so courteous and\nsimple a maiden, no, not within the Crown of France. How diverse were\nthese twain. On one side was light, and on the other darkness; but\nthere was no spot in the brightness, and no ray within the dark. But\nthe less grief had been hers had she not set her love on so perilous a\nchoice.\n\nNow he to whom the damsel was betrothed, because of his exceeding\ncontent, made haste to appoint some near day for the wedding. For he\nknew little that she was as one distraught by reason of the great love\nshe bore his nephew, as you have heard tell. So her father made all\nthings ready, very richly, and when the third day was come he sent\nletters to the greybeards, and to those he deemed the wisest of that\nland, bidding them to the marriage of his daughter, who had bestowed\nher heart elsewhere. Since he was well known to all the country round,\na great company of his friends came together to the number of thirty,\nto do honour to his house, since not one of them but owed him service\nfor his lands. Then it was accorded between them that the demoiselle\nshould be wedded early on the morrow, and her maidens were bidden to\nprepare their lady for the wedding on the appointed day and hour. But\nvery wrathful and troubled in heart were the maidens by reason of this\nthing.\n\nThe Prince inquired of the damsels if his daughter was fitly arrayed\nagainst her marriage, and had content therein, or was in need of aught\nthat it became her state to have.\n\n\"Nothing she needs, fair sire,\" made answer one of her maidens, \"so far\nas we can see; at least so that we have palfreys and saddles enow to\ncarry us to the church, for of kinsfolk and of cousins are a many near\nthis house.\"\n\n\"Do not concern yourself with the palfreys,\" replied the Prince, \"for I\ntrow we shall have to spare. There is not a lord bidden to the wedding\nwhom I have not asked to lend us from his stables.\"\n\nThen, making no further tarrying, he returned to his own lodging, with\npeace and confidence in his heart.\n\nMessire William, that brave and prudent knight, had little thought that\nthis marriage was drawing so near its term. But Love held him so fast\nthat he made haste to return, for ever the remembrance of her face was\nbefore his eyes. Since love flowered so sweetly within his heart, he\nparted from the tournament in much content, for he deemed that he rode\nto receive the gift he desired beyond all the world. Such he hoped was\nthe will of God, and such the end of the adventure. Therefore he\nawaited in his manor, with what patience he might, the fair and\npleasant tidings his uncle must presently send him, to hasten to the\nspousal of his bride. Since he had borne off all the prizes of the\ntourney, he bade a minstrel to his hall, and sang joyously to the\nplaying of the viol. Yet, though all was revelry and merriment, often\nhe looked towards the door to see one enter therein with news. Much he\nmarvelled when the hour would bring these welcome words, and often he\nforgot to mark the newest refrains of the minstrel, because his\nthoughts were otherwhere. At the time hope was growing sick a varlet\ncame into the courtyard. When Messire William saw him the heart in his\nbreast leaped and fluttered for joy.\n\n\"Sire,\" said the varlet, \"God save you. My lord, your friend, whom well\nyou know, has sent me to you in his need. You have a fair palfrey, than\nwhich none goes more softly in the world. My lord prays and requires of\nyou that for love of him you will lend him this palfrey, and send it by\nmy hand forthwith.\"\n\n\"Friend,\" answered the knight, \"for what business?\"\n\n\"Sire, to carry his lady daughter to the church, who is so dainty-sweet\nand fair.\"\n\n\"For what purpose rides she to church?\"\n\n\"Fair sire, there to marry your uncle to whom she is betrothed. Early\nto-morrow morn my lady will be brought to the ancient chapel deep\nwithin the forest. Hasten, sire, for already I tarry too long. Lend\nyour palfrey to your uncle and my lord. Well we know that it is the\nnoblest horse within the realm, as many a time has been proved.\"\n\nWhen Messire William heard these words--\n\n\"God,\" said he, \"then I am betrayed by him in whom I put my trust; to\nwhom I prayed so much to help me to my hope. May the Lord God assoil\nhim never for his treasonable deed. Yet scarcely can I believe that he\nhas done this wrong. It is easier to hold that you are telling me\nlies.\"\n\n\"Well, you will find it truth to-morrow at the ringing of prime; for\nalready is gathered together a company of the ancient lords of these\nparts.\"\n\n\"Alas,\" said he, \"how, then, am I betrayed and tricked and deceived.\"\n\nFor a very little Messire William would have fallen swooning to the\nearth, had he not feared the blame of his household. But he was so\nfilled with rage and grief that he knew not what to do, nor what to\nsay. He did not cease lamenting his evil case till the varlet prayed\nhim to control his wrath.\n\n\"Sire, cause the saddle to be set forthwith on your good palfrey, so\nthat my lady may be carried softly to the church.\"\n\nThen Messire William considered within himself to know whether he\nshould send his grey palfrey to him whom he had cause to hate more than\nany man.\n\n\"Yea, without delay,\" said he, \"since she who is the soul of honour has\nnothing to do with my trouble. My palfrey shall bear her gladly, in\nrecompense of the favours she has granted me, for naught but kindness\nhave I received of her. Never shall I have of her courtesies again, and\nall my joy and happiness are past. Now must I lend my palfrey to the\nman who has betrayed me to my death, since he has robbed me of that\nwhich I desired more than all the world. No man is bound to return love\nfor treason. Very rash is he to require my palfrey of me, when he\nscrupled not to take the sweetness, the beauty and the courtesy with\nwhich my demoiselle is endowed. Alas, now have I served her in vain,\nand my long hope is altogether gone. No joy in my life is left, save to\nsend her that thing which it breaks my heart to give. Nevertheless,\ncome what may, my palfrey shall go to the most tender of maidens. Well\nI know that when she sets her eyes upon him she will bethink her of\nme; of me and of my love, for I love and must love her all the days of\nmy life, yea, though she has given her heart to those who have wounded\nmine. But sure am I that this thing is not seemly to her, for Cain, who\nwas brother to Abel, wrought no fouler treason.\"\n\nIn this manner the knight bewailed his heavy sorrow. Then he caused a\nsaddle to be set upon the palfrey, and calling the servitor delivered\nthe horse to his keeping. So the varlet forthwith went upon his way.\n\nMessire William, yet heavy and wrathful, shut himself fast within his\nchamber to brood upon his grief. He charged his household that if there\nwas a man so bold as to seek to hearten him in his sorrow he would\ncause him to be hanged. For his part he had no care for mirth, and\nwould live withdrawn from men, since he might never lose the pain and\nsorrow that weighed upon his heart.\n\nBut whilst the knight was in this case, the servant in custody of the\npalfrey returned with all the speed he might to the castle of the old\nPrince, where all was merriment and noise.\n\nThe night was still and serene, and the house was filled with a great\ncompany of ancient lords. When they had eaten their full, the Prince\ncommanded the watch that, without fail, all men should be roused and\napparelled before the breaking of the day. He bade, too, that the\npalfrey and the horses should be saddled and made ready at the same\nhour, without confusion or disarray. Then they went to repose\nthemselves and sleep. But one amongst them had no hope to sleep,\nbecause of the great unrest she suffered by reason of her love. All the\nnight she could not close her eyes. Others might rest: she alone\nremained awake, for her heart knew no repose.\n\nNow shortly after midnight the moon rose very bright, and shone\nclearly in the heavens. When the warder saw this thing, being yet giddy\nwith the wine that he had drunken, he deemed that the dawn had broken.\n\n\"Pest take it,\" said he, \"the lords should be about already.\"\n\nHe sounded his horn and summoned and cried--\n\n\"Arouse you, lords, for day is here.\"\n\nThen those, yet drowsy with sleep, and heavy with last night's wine,\ngot them from their beds all bewildered. The squires, too, made haste\nto set saddles upon the horses, believing that daybreak had come,\nthough before the dawn would rise very easily might the horses go five\nmiles, ambling right pleasantly. So when the company which should bring\nthis demoiselle to the chapel deep within the forest were got to horse,\nher father commended his maid to the most trusty of his friends. Then\nthe saddle was put upon the grey palfrey; but when it was brought\nbefore the damsel her tears ran faster than they had fallen before. Her\nguardian recked nothing of her weeping, for he knew little of maidens,\nand considered that she wept because of leaving her father and her\nfather's house. So her tears and sadness were accounted as nought, and\nshe mounted upon her steed, making great sorrow. They took their way\nthrough the forest, but the road was so narrow that two could not ride\ntogether side by side. Therefore the guardian put the maiden before,\nand he followed after, because of the straitness of the path. The road\nwas long, and the company were tired and weary for want of sleep. They\nrode the more heavily, because they were no longer young, and had the\ngreater need for rest. They nodded above the necks of their chargers,\nand up hill and down dale for the most part went sleeping. The surest\nof this company was in charge of the maiden, but this night he had\ntaken so little sleep in his bed that he proved an untrusty warder,\nfor he forgot everything, save his desire to sleep. The maiden rode,\nbridle in hand, thinking of nought except her love and her sorrow.\nWhilst she followed the narrow path, the barons who went before had\nalready come forth upon the high road. They dozed in their saddles, and\nthe thoughts of those few who were awake were otherwhere, and gave no\nheed to the demoiselle. The maiden was as much alone as though she\nfared to London. The grey palfrey knew well this ancient narrow way,\nfor many a time he had trodden it before. The palfrey and the maiden\ndrew near a hillock within the forest, where the trees stood so close\nand thick that no moonlight fell within the shadow of the branches. The\nvalley lay deeply below, and from the high road came the noise of the\nhorses' iron shoes. Of all that company many slept, and those who were\nawake talked together, but none gave a thought to the maiden. The grey\npalfrey knew nothing of the high road, so turning to the right he\nentered within a little path which led directly to the house of Messire\nWilliam, But the knight, in whose charge the damsel was placed had\nfallen into so heavy a slumber that his horse stood at his pleasure on\nthe way. Therefore she was guarded of none--save of God--and dropping\nthe rein upon the palfrey's neck, she let him have his will. The\nknights who preceded her rode a great while before they found that she\nwas not behind them, and he who came after kept but a poor watch and\nward. Nevertheless she had not escaped by her choice, for she recked\nnought of the path that she followed, nor of the home to which she\nwould come. The palfrey followed the track without hesitation, for many\na time he had journeyed therein, both winter and summer. The weeping\nmaiden looked this way and that, but could see neither knight nor\nbaron, and the forest was very perilous, and all was dark and obscure.\nMuch she marvelled what had become of all her company, and it was no\nwonder that she felt great fear. None regarded her safety, save God and\nthe grey palfrey, so she commended herself to her Maker, whilst the\nhorse ambled along the road. Nevertheless she had dropped the rein from\nher fingers, and kept her lips from uttering one single cry, lest she\nshould be heard of her companions. For she chose rather to die in the\nwoodlands than to endure such a marriage as this. The maiden was hid in\nthought, and the palfrey, in haste to reach his journey's end, and\nknowing well the path, ambled so swiftly, that soon he came to the\nborders of the forest. A river ran there both dark and deep, but the\nhorse went directly to the ford, and passed through as quickly as he\nwas able. He had won but little beyond when the maiden heard the sound\nof a horn, blown from that place where she was carried by the grey\npalfrey. The warder on his tower blew shrilly on his horn, and the\ndemoiselle felt herself utterly undone, since she knew not where she\nhad come, nor how to ask her way. But the palfrey stayed his steps on a\nbridge which led over the moat running round the manor. When the watch\nheard the noise of the palfrey thereon, he ceased his winding, and\ncoming from the tower demanded who it was who rode so hardily on the\nbridge at such an hour. Then the demoiselle made reply--\n\n\"Certes, it is the most unlucky maid of mother born. For the love of\nGod give me leave to enter in your house to await the day, for I know\nnot where to go.\"\n\n\"Demoiselle,\" answered he, \"I dare not let you or any other in this\nplace, save at the bidding of my lord, and he is the most dolorous\nknight in all the world, for very foully has he been betrayed.\"\n\nWhilst the watch spoke of the matter he set his eye to a chink in the\npostern. He had neither torch nor lantern, but the moon shone very\nclear, and he spied the grey palfrey, which he knew right well. Much he\nmarvelled whence he came, and long he gazed upon the fair lady who held\nthe rein, and was so sweetly clad in her rich new garnishing. Forthwith\nhe sought his lord, who tossed upon his bed with little delight.\n\n\"Sire,\" said he, \"be not wrath with me. A piteous woman, tender of\nyears and semblance, has come forth from the woodland, attired right\nrichly. It seems to me that she is cloaked in a scarlet mantle, edged\nwith costly fur. This sad and outworn lady is mounted on your own grey\npalfrey. Very enticing is her speech; very slim and gracious is her\nperson. I know not, sire, if I am deceived, but I believe there is no\nmaiden in all the country who is so dainty, sweet and fair. Well I deem\nthat it is some fay whom God sends you, to bear away the trouble which\nis spoiling your life. Take now the gold in place of the silver you\nhave lost.\"\n\nMessire William hearkened to these words. He sprang forth from his bed\nwithout further speech, and with nothing but a surcoat on his back\nhastened to the door. He caused it to be opened forthwith, and the\ndemoiselle cried to him pitifully in a loud voice--\n\n\"Woe is me, gentle lord, because of the sorrow I have endured this\nnight. Sire, for the love of God turn me not away, but suffer me to\nenter in your house. I beg for shelter but a little while. But much I\nfear by reason of a company of knights who are pained greatly, since\nthey have let me from their hands. Sir Knight, be surety for the maid\nwhom Fortune has guided to your door, for much am I sorrowful and\nperplexed.\"\n\nWhen Messire William heard her voice he was like to swoon with joy. He\nknew again the palfrey which was so long his own. He gazed upon the\nlady, and knew her in his heart. I tell you truly that never could man\nbe more happy than was he. He lifted her from the palfrey and brought\nher within his home. There he took her by the right hand, kissing her\nmore than twenty times; and for her part the lady let him have his way,\nbecause she had looked upon his face. When the two sought each other's\neyes, very great was the joy that fell between the twain, and all their\nsorrow was as if it had never been. So when the damsel had put aside\nher mantle, they seated themselves merrily on silken cushions, fringed\nwith gold. They crossed their brows again and yet again, lest they\nshould wake and find this thing a dream. Then the maiden told her\nbachelor this strange adventure, and said--\n\n\"Blessed be the hour in which God brought me to this place, and\ndelivered me from him who sought to add my marriage chest to his own\ncoffers.\"\n\nWhen morning was come Messire William arrayed himself richly, and led\nthe demoiselle within the chapel of his own house. Then, without delay,\nhe called his chaplain to him, and was forthwith wedded to the fair\nlady by a rite that it was not lawful to call in question. So when the\nMass was sung, blithe was the mirth of that household, squire and\nmaiden and man-at-arms.\n\nNow when that company which so lightly had lost the maiden came\ntogether at the ancient chapel, they were very weary by having ridden\nall the night, and were sore vexed and utterly cast down. The old\nPrince demanded his daughter of him who had proved so untrusty a\nguardian. Knowing not what to say, he made answer straightly--\n\n\"Sire, because of the strictness of the way I put the maid before, and\nI followed after. The forest was deep and dark, and I know not where\nshe turned from the path. Moreover I nodded in my saddle till I was\nwaked by my companions, for I deemed that she was yet in my company,\nbut she was altogether gone. I cannot tell what has become of the\ndamsel, for very basely have we kept our trust.\"\n\nThe old Prince sought his daughter in every place, and inquired of her\nfrom every person, but he might not find her whereabouts, nor hear of\nany who had seen the maid. Yet all men marvelled at her loss, for none\nwas able to bring him any news. The ancient bridegroom, that the\ndemoiselle should have wed, grieved yet more at the loss of his bride,\nbut to no purpose did he seek her, for the hind had left no slot. Now\nas the two lords were riding with their company in such fear as this,\nthey saw upon the road a certain squire making towards them in all\nhaste. When he was come to them he said--\n\n\"Sire, Messire William sends by me assurance of the great friendship he\nbears you. He bids me say that early this morning, at the dawn of day,\nhe married your daughter, to his great happiness and content. Sire, he\nbids you welcome to his house. He also charged me to say to his uncle,\nwho betrayed him so shamefully, that he pardons him the more easily for\nhis treason, since your daughter has given him herself as a gift.\"\n\nThe old Prince hearkened to this wonder, but said no word in reply. He\ncalled together all his barons, and when they were assembled in hall,\nhe took counsel as to whether he should go to the house of Sir William,\nand bring with him the lord to whom his daughter was betrothed. Yet\nsince the marriage was done, nothing could make the bride again a maid.\nSo, making the best of a bad bargain, he got to horse forthwith, and\nall his barons with him. When the company came to the manor they were\nwelcomed with all fair observance, for right pleasing was this to\nMessire William, since he had all things to his own desire. Whether he\nwould, or whether he would not, nought remained to the old Prince but\nto embrace his son-in-law; whilst as to that greybeard of a bridegroom,\nhe consoled himself with what crumbs of comfort he could discover.\nThus, since it was the will of God that these lovers should be wed, it\npleased the Lord God also that the marriage should prove lasting.\n\nMessire William, that courteous and chivalrous knight, lost not his\nhardihood in marriage, but ever sought advancement, so that he was\nesteemed of the counts and princes of his land. In the third year of\nhis marriage the old Prince (as the tale tells us) died, because his\ntime was come. So all that he died possessed of in wealth and lands and\nmanors, together with the rich garnishing thereof, became the heritage\nof the knight. After this, Death laid hands upon his uncle, who, too,\nwas very rich. And Sir William, who was not simple, nor grudging of\nheart, nor little of soul, nor blusterous with his neighbours,\ninherited all the goods that were his.\n\nSo the story which I have told you endeth in this fashion, in\naccordance with the truth, and to your pleasure.\n\n\nTHE END\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\nTHE\nTEMPLE PRESS\nLETCHWORTH\nENGLAND]\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\nEVERYMAN,\nI WILL GO WITH\nTHEE\n& BE THY GVIDE\nIN THY MOST NEED\nTO GO BY THY SIDE]\n\n\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's note:\n\n\nPage 23: Added closing quotes: Sister, sweet friend.\"","title":"Aucassin & Nicolette, and Other Medi\u00e6val Romances and Legends","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":74206}