So all the lords made haste to praise the Queen, and to cry and affirm that in all the world was neither maid nor wife so dainty, fresh and fair. Not a single voice but bragged of her beauty, save only that of Graelent. He smiled at their folly, for his heart remembered his friend, and he held in pity all those who so greatly rejoiced in the Queen. So he sat with covered head, and with face bent smiling to the board. The Queen marked his discourtesy, and drew thereto the notice of the King.
"Sire, do you observe this dishonour? Not one of these mighty lords but has praised the beauty of your wife, save Graelent only, who makes a mock of her. Always has he held me in envy and despite."
The King commanded Graelent to his throne, and in the hearing of all bade the knight to tell, on his faith as vassal to his liege, for what reason he had hid his face and laughed.
"Sire," answered Graelent to the King, "sire, hearken to my words. In all the world no man of your lineage does so shameful a deed as this. You make your wife a show upon a stage. You force your lords to praise her just with lies, saying that the sun does not shine upon her peer. One man will tell the truth to your face, and say that very easily can be found a fairer dame than she."
Right heavy was the King when he heard these words. He conjured Graelent to tell him straightly if he knew a daintier dame.
"Yes, sire, and thirty times more gracious than the Queen."
The Queen was marvellously wrathful to hear this thing, and prayed her husband of his grace to compel the knight to bring that woman to the Court of whose beauty he made so proud a boast.
"Set us side by side, and let the choice be made between us. Should she prove the fairer, let him go in peace; but if not, let justice be done on him for his calumny and malice."
So the King bade his guards to lay hands on Graelent, swearing that between them never should be love nor peace, nor should the knight issue forth from prison, until he had brought before him her whose beauty he had praised so much.
Graelent was held a captive. He repented him of his hasty words, and begged the King to grant him respite. He feared to have lost his friend, and sweated grievously with rage and mortification. But though many of the King's house pitied him in his evil case, the long days brought him no relief, until a full year went by, and once again the King made a great banquet to his barons and his lieges. Then was Graelent brought to hall, and put to liberty, on such terms that he would return bringing with him her whose loveliness he had praised before the King. Should she prove so desirable and dear as his boast, then all would be well, for he had nought to fear. But if he returned without his lady, then he must go to judgment, and his only hope would be in the mercy of the King.
Graelent mounted his good horse and parted from the Court, sad and wrathful. He sought his lodging, and inquired for his servant, but might not find him. He called upon his friend, but the lady did not heed his voice. Then Graelent gave way to despair, and preferred death to life. He shut himself within his chamber, crying upon his dear one for grace and mercy, but from her he got neither speech nor comfort. So, seeing that his love hadwithdrawn herself from him by reason of his grievous fault, he took no rest by night or day, and held his life in utter despite. For a full year he lived in this piteous case, so that it was marvellous to those about him that he might endure his life.
On the day appointed, the sureties brought Graelent where the King was set in hall with his lords. Then the King inquired of Graelent where was now his friend.
"Sire," answered the knight, "she is not here, for in no wise might I find her. Now do with me according to your will."
"Sir Graelent," said the King, "very foully have you spoken. You have slandered the Queen, and given all my lords the lie. When you go from my hands never will you do more mischief with your tongue."
Then the King spoke with a high voice to his barons.
"Lords, I pray and command you to give judgment in this matter. You heard the blame that Graelent set upon me before all my Court. You know the deep dishonour that he fastened on the Queen. How may such a disloyal vassal deal honestly with his lord, for as the proverb tells, 'Hope not for friendship from the man who beats your dog!'"
The lords of the King's household went out from before him, and gathered themselves together to consider their judgment. They kept silence for a great space, for it was grievous to them to deal harshly with so valiant a knight. Whilst they thus refrained from words a certain page hastened unto them, and prayed them not to press the matter, for (said he) "even now two young maidens, the freshest maids in all the realm, seek the Court. Perchance they bring succour to the good knight, and, so it be the will of God, may deliver him fromperil." So the lords waited right gladly, and presently they saw two damsels come riding to the palace. Very young were these maidens, very slender and gracious, and daintily cloaked in two fair mantles. So when the pages had hastened to hold their stirrup and bridle, the maidens dismounted from their palfreys, and entering within the hall came straight before the King.
"Sire," said one of the two damsels, "hearken now to me. My lady commands us to pray you to put back this cause for a while, nor to deliver judgment therein, since she comes to plead with you for the deliverance of this knight."
When the Queen heard this message she was filled with shame, and made speed to get her from the hall. Hardly had she gone than there entered two other damsels, whiter and more sweetly flushed even than their fellows. These bade the King to wait for a little, since their mistress was now at hand. So all men stared upon them, and praised their great beauty, saying that if the maid was so fair, what then must be the loveliness of the dame. When, therefore, the demoiselle came in her turn, the King's household stood upon their feet to give her greeting. Never did woman show so queenly to men's sight as did this lady riding to the hall. Passing sweet she was to see, passing simple and gracious of manner, with softer eyes and a daintier face than girl of mother born. The whole Court marvelled at her beauty, for no spot or blemish might be found in her body. She was richly dressed in a kirtle of vermeil silk, broidered with gold, and her mantle was worth the spoil of a king's castle. Her palfrey was of good race, and speedy; the harness and trappings upon him were worth a thousand livres in minted coin. All men pressed about her, praising her face and person, her simplicity and queenlihead. She came at aslow pace before the King, and dismounting from the palfrey, spoke very courteously in this fashion—
"Sire," said she, "hearken to me, and you, lord barons, give heed to my pleading. You know the words Graelent spake to the King, in the ears of men, when the Queen made herself a show before the lords, saying that often had he seen a fairer lady. Very hasty and foolish was his tongue, since he provoked the King to anger. But at least he told the truth when he said that there is no dame so comely but that very easily may be found one more sweet than she. Look now boldly upon my face, and judge you rightly in this quarrel between the Queen and me. So shall Sir Graelent be acquitted of this blame."
Then gazing upon her, all the King's household, lord and lackey, prince and page, cried with one voice that her favour was greater than that of the Queen. The King himself gave judgment with his barons that this thing was so; therefore was Sir Graelent acquitted of his blame, and declared a free man.
When judgment was given the lady took her leave of the King, and attended by her four damsels departed straightway from the hall upon her palfrey. Sir Graelent caused his white horse to be saddled, and mounting, followed hotly after her through the town. Day after day he rode in her track, pleading for pity and pardon, but she gave him neither good words nor bad in answer. So far they fared that at last they came to the forest, and taking their way through a deep wood rode to the bank of a fair, clear stream. The lady set her palfrey to the river, but when she saw that Graelent also would enter therein she cried to him—
"Stay, Graelent, the stream is deep, and it is death for you to follow."
Graelent took no heed to her words, but forcedhis horse to enter the river, so that speedily the waters closed above his head. Then the lady seized his bridle, and with extreme toil brought horse and rider back again to land.
"Graelent," said she, "you may not pass this river, however mightily you pain yourself, therefore must you remain alone on this shore."
Again the lady set her palfrey to the river, but Graelent could not suffer to see her go upon her way without him. Again he forced his horse to enter the water; but the current was very swift and the stream was very deep, so that presently Graelent was torn from his saddle, and being borne away by the stream came very nigh to drown. When the four maidens saw his piteous plight they cried aloud to their lady, and said—
"Lady, for the love of God, take pity on your poor friend. See how he drowns in this evil case. Alas, cursed be the day you spake soft words in his ear, and gave him the grace of your love. Lady, look how the current hurries him to his death. How may your heart suffer him to drown whom you have held so close! Aid him, nor have the sin on your soul that you endured to let the man who loved you die without your help."
When the lady heard the complaint of her maidens, no longer could she hide the pity she felt in her heart. In all haste she turned her palfrey to the river, and entering the stream clutched her lover by the belt. Thus they won together to the bank. There she stripped the drowned man of his raiment, and wrapping him fast in her own dry mantle cherished him so meetly that presently he came again to life. So she brought him safely into her own land, and none has met Sir Graelent since that day.
But the Breton folk still hold firmly that Graelent yet liveth with his friend. His destrier, when heescaped him from the perilous river, grieved greatly for his master's loss. He sought again the mighty forest, yet never was at rest by night or day. No peace might he find, but ever pawed he with his hoofs upon the ground, and neighed so loudly that the noise went through all the country round about. Many a man coveted so noble a steed, and sought to put bit and bridle in his mouth, yet never might one set hands upon him, for he would not suffer another master. So each year in its season, the forest was filled with the cry and the trouble of this noble horse which might not find its lord.
This adventure of the good steed and of the stout knight, who went to the land of Faery with his love, was noised abroad throughout all Brittany, and the Bretons made a lay thereof which was sung in the ears of many people, and was called a Lay of the Death of Sir Graelent.
This story tells that once upon a time there were three thieves faring together, who had robbed many people, both church folk and lay. One of these thieves was named Travers, but though he was in the company of two robbers, yet he was not altogether such as they. They, indeed, were thieves by descent as well as by choice, for their father was hanged for his misdeeds. The one was called Haimet, and the other Barat, but which was the more cunning workman at his trade it would be hard to tell.
The three companions were passing one day through a high and leafy wood, when Haimet spied a magpie's nest hidden within an oak. He went beneath the tree, and his sharp eyes quickly perceived that the bird was sitting upon her eggs. This thing he showed to Travers, and afterwards to his brother.
"Friends," said he, "would not he be a good thief who might take these eggs, and so softly descend the tree that the magpie knew nought thereof?"
"There is no man in the world who can do such a feat," answered Barat.
"Certes, there is such a man," said Haimet, "and you shall see him at his task, if you will only look at me."
Haimet set hands upon the oak, and climbed lightly up the great tree, as one who had no fear to fall. He came to the nest, and parting the straw softly from beneath, drew forth the eggs coyly and delicately. Then he descended to the ground witha merry heart, and addressing himself to his comrades, showed the eggs that he had stolen.
"Friends," said he, "here are the eggs, ready for boiling upon a fire!"
"Truly," said Barat, "no man's fingers are nimbler than yours, and if you can only return the eggs to the nest, why I will own freely that you are the most cunning thief of us all."
"Certes," answered Haimet, "they shall be set again beneath the bird, and not a shell of them all shall be broken."
So he came again to the oak, and mounted swiftly into the tree, hand over hand. Now he had gone but a little way when Barat hastened to the tree, and climbed therein even more lightly and surely than his brother. He followed him secretly from branch to branch, for Haimet was intent upon his task, and gave no thought to those he had left below. Then, whilst Haimet returned the eggs to the rifled nest, he stole the very breeches from his legs, and forthwith descended to the ground. When Travers saw this he was sick at heart, because he knew well he might never do such feats as these. Presently Haimet came down to his companions, and said—
"Friends, how seems it to you? Fingers like mine should pick up a good living."
"I know not how it looks to me," answered Barat. "Your fingers are quick enough, but your brains must be very dull, since they cannot procure you even hosen for your legs."
"Yes, truly, I have hosen, and those altogether new, for it was but the other day I laid hands upon the cloth, and they reach to my very ankles."
"Are they so long as that?" said Barat; "shew them to us, and hide them not away."
Then Haimet lifted his tunic and stared upon his legs, for he was without breeches.
"Lord!" said he, "how can this have chanced? Where, then, are my hosen?"
"I do not think that you have any, fair fellow," said Travers. "There is no such thief as Barat, from here to Nevers, or so it seems to me. Cunning indeed is the thief who can steal from a thief. But for my part I am not meant for your trade, for I cannot spell even its A B C. A hundred times should I be taken in my simplicity, where you would escape by guile. I will return to my own village where I was married to my wife. Mad must I have been to forsake it to become a thief. I am neither fool nor idler, and know well how to toil in the fields, to winnow and to reap. With the help of God I am yet strong enough to gain my bread, so I go my way, and commend you to God His keeping."
So Travers parted from the company of the two thieves, and travelled by hill and dale till he came at last to his own country. His comely wife, Dame Maria, bore him no grudge for his absence, but welcomed his return with much joy, as was her husband's due. He settled down amongst his friends and acquaintance, and earned his living honestly and well. He prospered greatly, so that he had enough and to spare, both of this and of that. Now, towards Christmas, Travers killed a pig which he had fattened all the year. He hung the bacon from a rafter of his house, but better had he done, and much trouble would he have escaped, had he sold it in the village, as you will see who read this story.
On a day when Travers was cutting fagots within a coppice, Haimet and Barat, seeking what they might find, lighted on his house, and found Dame Maria spinning at her wheel. Then said these rogues whose business it was to cozen the simple—
"Dame, where is your husband?"
"Gentles," answered she, unknowing of these cheats, "he is in the wood, gathering fagots for the fire."
"May God prosper his work," said they devoutly.
So they seated themselves, and looked about the house, high and low, at larder and hearth-stone, in every nook and corner. Presently Barat, raising his head, saw the side of bacon hanging from the rafters. He drew the attention of Haimet to the meat, saying—
"Travers pains himself greatly to hide this bacon in his room. He fears lest we should live a little at his cost, or taste his savoury meat. Yet taste we will, if so we may."
Then they took their leave, and going a short distance, hid themselves behind a hedge, where each set to work upon the sharpening of a stake.
When Travers returned to his home—
"Husband," said his wife, Dame Maria, "two men have sought you who frightened me greatly, for I was alone in the house, and they would not tell me their business. They were mean and shifty to look upon, and there is not a thing in all the room that they have not taken stock of—not the bacon, nor anything else—knife, reaping-hook, nor axe, for their eyes were in every place at once."
"Well I know who they are and what they want of me," said Travers, "for they have seen me often. We have lost our bacon, I promise you, since Barat and Haimet have come to seek it for themselves. It is to no purpose that we have cured it in the smoke, of that I am very sure. In an evil hour I killed my pig, and certainly it were better to have sold it last Saturday when I was able."
"Husband," answered the wife, "if you take thebacon down from the ceiling, perchance these thieves may not find it when they come."
Therefore, because of the importunity of his wife, Travers mounted on a stool and cut the cord, so that the bacon fell upon the floor. But not knowing where to bestow the meat, they let it remain even where it had fallen, having first covered it with the vessel in which they kneaded their bread. Then, sad at heart, they went to bed to take what rest they might.
When the night was come, those who were so desirous of the bacon came to the house, and with their stakes made a hole in the wall near to the threshold, a hole so large that you might have trundled a mill-stone therein. Thereby they entered softly, and groped warily about the house. Now Barat went from stool to table till he came beneath the rafter from whence the bacon hung. He knew by touch that the cord was severed, and he whispered in his brother's ear that he had not found the meat, "But," said the thief, "Travers is a fool if he thinks to conceal it for long."
Then they listened in the darkness of the room to the breathing of those upon the bed.
Travers did not dare to sleep, and finding that his wife was becoming drowsy, roused her, saying—
"Wife, this is no time for sleep. I shall go about the house to see that all is fast."
"Do not leave me," answered his wife.
But Travers, who was a prudent man, rose from his bed to make sure of all his goods. He came to the kneading trough, and raising it a little from the ground, felt the bacon safely beneath. Then taking a great axe in his hand he went out to visit his cow in her byre.
Barat came swiftly to the bed, like the bold and cunning thief he was.
"Marion," said he, "fair sister, I have a certain thing to ask you, but dare not do so, for fear you think me mad."
"That I will never deem you, husband, by St. Paul; but I will counsel you to the best of my power."
"I slept so soundly that I cannot remember where we bestowed the bacon yester night, so bemused am I with dreams."
"God help you, husband, to find more seasonable jests; is it not hid beneath the bin upon the floor?"
"In God's name, sister, you speak truly, and I will go to feel if it is yet there."
Being desirous to keep his word, Barat lifted the trough and drew forth the bacon. Then he rejoined Haimet, who was near by, and the two thieves hastened towards the coppice, making much of each other because of the success of their trick.
Now Travers returned to his bed, first carefully fastening his doors.
"Certes," said his wife, "dazed you must have been to ask me what had become of our bacon."
"God help me," cried Travers, "when did I ask you this question?"
"Why, but now, husband."
"Sister, our bacon has walked off. Never shall we see it more, unless I may steal it from these thieves. But they are the most cunning robbers in all the land."
Travers went out forthwith in quest of the rogues who had carried off his bacon. He took a short cut through a field of wheat, and following the path very swiftly, presently found himself between the tricksters and the wood. Haimet was very near to cover, but Barat went more heavily, seeing that his load was right heavy. So Travers, beinganxious to take his own again, quickened his steps, and coming to him said—
"Give it to me, for you are weary, seeing you have carried it so long a road. Sit down now, and take a little rest."
Barat, thinking that he had met with Haimet, gladly placed the bacon on the shoulders of Travers, and went his way. But Travers turned him back to his own house, and hastened towards his home by the nearest path. Now Barat, deeming that Haimet followed after, ran towards the wood until he overtook his brother. When he knew him again he had great fear, because he thought him behind. But when Haimet saw him stagger, he cried out, "Let me bear the bacon for a while. I think it little likely that I shall fall beneath its weight, as you are near to do. Certainly you are overdone."
"God give me health," answered Barat, "for Travers has made a fool of us. It is he who carries his bacon on his own shoulders. But the game is not finished yet, and I have yet a throw to make."
Travers proceeded on his way in quietness and peace, as one who had nought to fear from any man. But Barat, wet with haste, overtook him in the end. He had taken off his shirt and wrapped it about his head like a coif, and as much as he was able bore himself in the semblance of a woman.
"Alas," cried he, "very nearly am I dead by reason of the loss and mischief dealt me by these wicked men. God, what has become of my husband, who has suffered so many things at their hands?"
Thinking that his wife was speaking to him, Travers held forth the bacon.
"Sister," said he, "God is yet above the Devil. You see we have again our own."
Then he, who never thought to lay hands upon the meat, seized upon it greedily.
"Do not wait for me, husband, but get to bed as quickly as you can, for now you may sleep without any fear."
So Travers returned to his own house, and Barat hastened to his brother, bearing the bacon with him.
When Travers found his wife in tears—
"Certes, Mary," said he, "all this has come upon us by reason of our sins. I thought to charge your shoulders with our bacon in the garden, but now I know well that these rogues have bestowed it upon theirs. Heavens, I wonder where he learned to play the part of a woman so bravely in manner and in speech! Hard is the lesson I am set to learn in school, because of a flitch of bacon. But, please God, I will find them this night, yea, though I walk till I have no sole to my shoe, and supplant them yet."
Travers took the path leading to the wood, and entering in the coppice, saw the red blaze of a fire which these two thieves had litten. He heard their voices lifted in dispute, so he concealed himself behind an oak, and listened to their words. At the end Barat and Haimet agreed that it were better to eat the bacon forthwith, lest a new cast of the dice should go against them. Whilst they went to seek dry cones and brushwood for the fire, Travers crept privily to the oak beneath which it was burning. But the wood was damp and green, so that more smoke and smother came from that fire than flame. Then Travers climbed into the tree, and by the aid of bough and branch came at last to the place where he would be. The two thieves returned presently with cones and brambles. These they threw upon the fire in handfuls, saying that very soon it would grill their bacon, and Travers hearkened to their speech. He had stripped himself to his shirt, and hung from a limb of the oak by his arm. Now, in a while, Haimet lifted his eyes tothe tree, and saw above him the hanged man, tall, grotesque and horrible to see, naked in his very shirt.
"Barat," whispered he, "our father is spying upon us. Behold him hanging from this branch in a very hideous fashion. Surely it is he come back to us, is it not?"
"God help me," cried Barat, "it seems to me that he is about to fall."
Then because of their fear the two thieves fled from that place, without leisure to eat, or to bear away, the bacon they had stolen.
When Travers marked their flight he tarried no longer in the oak, but taking his bacon, returned straightway to his house, with none to give him nay. His wife praised him to his face, saying—
"Husband, you are welcome home, for you have proven your worth. Never did there live a braver man than you."
"Sister," said he, "take wood from the cellar, and make a fire. Certainly we must eat our bacon, if we would call it our own."
Dame Maria lighted a fire with fagots upon the hearth; she put water in the cauldron, and hung it on the hook above the fire. Travers for his part carefully cut the bacon for which he had suffered so great trouble, and put it in the pot till all was full. When this was done—
"Fair sister," said he, "watch by the fire, if you can keep awake. I have not slept this night, and will rest a little on the bed. But I will not take off my clothes, because I still am troubled of these thieves."
"Husband," answered she, "ill luck go with them. Sleep soundly and in peace, for there is none to do you wrong."
So Dame Maria kept vigil whilst Travers slept, for very greatly had he need of rest.
During this time Barat lamented in the wood, for well he knew, when he found the bacon gone, that Travers had played this trick upon them.
"Certes," said he, "we have lost the meat because of our fearful hearts, and it belongs to Travers by right of courage. A good breakfast he will make, for he deems that none can take it from him. He will look upon us as dirt, if we leave it in his hands. Let us go to his house and mark where he has bestowed it."
The two thieves hastened to the door of Travers' house. Barat set his eye to a crevice therein, and saw a sight which gave him little joy, for the pot was boiling upon the fire.
"Haimet," said he, "the bacon is cooking, and much I grieve that there is none for us."
"Let it boil in peace till it is fit for eating," answered Haimet. "I shall not give Travers quittance in this matter till he has paid me wages for my toil."
Haimet sought a long stake which he cut from a hazel tree, and sharpened it with his knife. Then he climbed upon the roof of the house, and uncovered a little space above the spot where the cauldron boiled upon the fire. Through this opening he could see the wife of Travers sound asleep, for she was weary of her vigil, and nodded over the hearth. Haimet lowered the rod, which he had sharpened like a dart, and struck it in the pot so adroitly that he drew forth a portion of the bacon from out the cauldron. This he raised cunningly to the roof, and had great joy of his fishing. Then awoke Travers from his sleep, and saw this thing, and marked the thief, who was both malicious and strong.
"Gossip, upon my roof," said he, "it is not reasonable of you to strip the covering from over my head. In this manner we shall never come toan end. Climb down; let us give and take. Let each of us have his share of the bacon."
So Haimet descended from the roof, and the bacon was taken from the cauldron. Dame Maria divided the meat into three portions, for the thieves had no care to let Travers part the lots. The two brothers took two portions, and Travers one; but his was not the best, for all that he had nourished the pig.
For this reason was the proverb made, oh, gentles, that "Bad is the company of thieves."
In the days of Pepin, King of the Franks, a boy was born in the Castle of Bericain to a father of Allemaigne, of noble descent and of great holiness. His father and mother, who had no other child, vowed to God and to St. Peter and St. Paul that if God vouchsafed him breath he should be carried to Rome for his baptism. At the same hour a vision was seen of the Count of Alverne—whose wife was near her day—in which he saw the Apostle of Rome, who baptized many children in his palace, and confirmed them with the anointing of holy oil. When the Count awoke from his sleep he inquired of the wise men of those parts what this thing might mean. Then a certain wise old man, having heard his words, by the counsel of God made answer, and said—
"Rejoice greatly, Count, for a son shall now be born to thee great in courage and in virtue, and thou shalt carry him to Rome, so that he may be baptized by the Apostle."
So the Count rejoiced in his heart, and he and his people praised the counsel of that ancient man.
The child was born, and cherished dearly, and when he was of the age of two years his father prepared to carry him to Rome, according to his purpose. On his way he came to the city of Lucca, and there fell in with a certain nobleman of Allemaigne who was on pilgrimage to Rome, that there he might baptize his son. Each greeted the other, and inquired of his name and business; andwhen they knew they were in the like case, and bound on the same errand, they took each other as companion with a kind heart, and voyaged together to Rome. The two children, also, loved so dearly, that one would not eat save the other ate with him; so that they fed from the same dish, and lay in the one bed. In such manner as this the fathers carried the boys before the Apostle at Rome, and said to him—
"Holy Father, whom we believe and know to be seated in the chair of St. Peter the Apostle, we, the Count of Alverne, and the Chatelain of Castle Bericain, humbly pray your Holiness that you would deign to baptize the sons they have carried here from a distant land, and to accept this humble offering from their hands."
Then the Pope made answer—
"It is very meet to come with such a gift before me, but of such I have no need. Give it, therefore, to the poor, who cry for alms. Right willingly will I baptize the children, and may the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost ever fold them close in the love of the Holy Trinity."
So at that one time the Apostle baptized the two children in St. Saviour's Church, and he gave to the son of the Count of Alverne the name of Amile, and to the son of the Chatelain of Castle Bericain gave he the name of Amis. Many a knight of Rome held them at the font, and answered in their name as god-parents, according to the will of God. Then, when the Sacrament of Baptism was at an end, the Apostle commanded to be brought two wooden cups, fair with gold and set with costly stones, of one workmanship, size and fashion, and these he handed to the children, saying—
"Take this gift in witness that I have baptized you in St. Saviour's Church."
So the knights received the cups with great joy,and rendered him grace for his gift, and parting from thence repaired each to his own home in all comfort and solace.
To the child of the Knight of Bericain God also gave a gift, the gift of such wise understanding that men might almost believe that he was another Solomon.
When Amis was of the age of thirty years a fever seized upon his father, and he began to admonish his son in words such as these—
"Fair, dear son, my end is near at hand, but thou shalt tarry for a season, and be thine own lord. Firstly, fair son, observe the commandments of God, and be of the chivalry of Jesus Christ. Keep faith with thy overlords, and turn not thy back on thy companions and thy friends. Defend the widow and the orphan; be pitiful to the captive and to all in need; think every day upon that day which shall be thy last. Forsake not the society and friendship of the son of the Count of Alverne, for the Apostle of Rome baptized you together on one day, and graced you with one gift. Are you not alike in all things—in beauty, in comeliness, and in strength, so that whosoever sees you, thinks you to be sons of one mother?"
Having spoken these words, he was houselled of the priest, and died in our Lord; and his son gave him fitting burial, and paid him all such service as is meetly required for the dead.
After the death of his father divers evil persons wrought Amis much mischief, because of the envy they felt towards him; but nevertheless he bore them no ill will, and patiently suffered all the wrong and malice that they did. Let me tell you, then, without more words, that such was his case that he and his servants were cast forth from the heritage of his fathers, and driven from the gate of his own keep. But when he had called to mind the wordsof his father, he said to those who journeyed with him in the way—
"The wicked have spoiled me wrongfully of my inheritance, yet have I good hope that the Lord is on my side. Come now, let us seek the Court of Count Amile, my comrade and my friend. Peradventure he will give us of his goods and lands; but if not, then will we gather to Hildegarde, the Queen, wife of King Charles of France, the stay and support of the disinherited."
So those of his company made answer that they would follow where he led, and would serve him as his men. They rode, therefore, to the court of the Count, but might not find him, for reason that he had passed to Bericain to comfort Amis, his companion, because of the death of his father. When Amile might not find Amis, he departed from the castle, greatly vexed, and resolved within himself that he would not solace himself in his own fief until he had met with Amis, his friend. Therefore he rode on this quest through France and Allemaigne, seeking news of him from all his kindred, but finding none.
Now Amis, together with his company, for his part sought diligently for Amile his friend, until it chanced that on a day a certain lord gave him harbourage, and at his bidding Amis told him of this adventure. Then said the nobleman—
"Dwell ye with me, sir knights, and I will give my daughter to your lord, because of the wisdom men report of him, and you, for your own part, shall be made rich in silver, in gold and in lands."
They rejoiced greatly at his word, and the wedding feast was celebrated with marvellous joy. But when they had tarried in that place for one year and six months, Amis called together his ten companions and spake to them.
"We are recreant, inasmuch as we have forgotten all this while to seek for Amile."
So he left two men-at-arms, together with his precious cup, and set forth towards Paris.
Now for the space of nearly two years Amile had sought for Amis without pause or rest. Drawing near to Paris he lighted upon a pilgrim and asked of him if perchance he knew aught of Amis, whom evil men had hunted from his lands. The palmer said "Nay," wherefore Amile divested himself of his cloak, and gave it to the pilgrim, saying—
"Pray thou to our Lord and His saints for me that they give me grace to meet Amis, my friend."
So he saluted the pilgrim, and went his way to Paris, seeking in every place for news of Amis his friend, and finding none. But the pilgrim, passing swiftly upon his road, came upon Amis about the hour of vespers, and they saluted each the other. Then Amis inquired of the palmer whether he had seen or heard, in any land or realm, aught of Amile, the son of the Count of Alverne.
"What manner of man art thou," answered the palmer all astonied, "that thou makest mock of a pilgrim? Thou seemest to me that very Amile who but this morn sought of me if I had seen Amis, his friend. I know not for what reason thou hast changed thine apparel, thy company, thy horses and thy arms, nor why thou askest of me the same question thou didst require at nine hours of the morn when thou gavest me this cloak."
"Be not angry with me," said Amis, "for I am not the man you deem; but I am Amis who searches for his friend Amile."
So he gave him money from his pouch, and prayed him that he would require of our Lord that He might grant him grace to find Amile.
"Hasten quickly to Paris," said the pilgrim,"and there shalt thou find him whom so fondly thou seekest."
So Amis hastened instantly to the city.
It chanced upon the morrow that Amile departed from Paris, and took his ease within a daisied meadow near by the pleasant waters of the Seine. Whilst he ate there with his knights there came that way Amis with his men-at-arms. So Amile and his company armed themselves forthwith, and rode forth before them at adventure. Then Amis said to his companions—
"Behold these French knights who seek to do us a mischief. Stand stoutly together, and so shall we defend our lives. If we but escape this peril soon shall we be within the walls of Paris, and sweetly shall we be entreated at the palace of the King."
Then drew the two companies together with loosened rein, with lance in rest, and with brandished sword, in such fashion that it seemed as if none might escape alive from the fury of that onset. But God, the all powerful, Who knoweth all, and bringeth to a good end the travail of the just, suffered not that spears should meet in that encounter. So when they were near at hand Amis cried aloud—
"Who are you, knights, that are so eager to slay Amis the Banished and his companions?"
When Amile heard these words he knew well the voice of Amis, his comrade, so he answered him—
"Oh thou, Amis, most dear, sweet as rest to my labour, know me for Amile, son of the Count of Alverne, who have not given over my quest for thee these two whole years."
Then forthwith they lighted from their steeds, and clasped and kissed each the other, giving grace to God Who granteth the treasure to the seeker.Moreover, upon the guard of Amile's sword, wherein was set a holy relic, they swore faith, and friendship, and fellowship to death, the one with the other. So set they forth from that place, riding together to the Court of Charles, the King of France. There they moved amongst the lords, young, discreet and wise, fair to see, shapen wondrously alike in form and face, beloved of all men and held of all in honour. There, too, the King received them with much courtesy, making of Amis his treasurer, and to Amile gave he the office of seneschal.
In this fashion they tarried long with the King, but at the end of three years Amis said to Amile—
"Fair, sweet companion, I desire greatly to see my wife, whom I have left so long. Stay thou at Court, and for my part I will return so soon as I may. But have thou no dealings with the daughter of the King, and, more than all, beware and keep thee from the malice of Arderay the felon knight."
"I will observe thy bidding," answered Amile, "but make no long tarrying from my side."
On these words Amis departed from the Court; but Amile for his part saw with his eyes that the daughter of the King was fair, and knew the princess, in love, as soon as he was able. Thus the commandment and the warning of Amis, his companion, passed quickly from his mind; yet think not too hardly of the young man, forasmuch that he was not more holy than David, nor wiser than Solomon, David's son.
Whilst Amile was busied with these matters there came to him Arderay, the traitor, full of envy, and said—
"Thou dost not know, comrade, thou dost not know that Amis has stolen gold from the King's treasury, and therefore hath he taken flight. Since things are thus I require that you swear to me fealtyof friendship and of brotherhood, and I will swear to you the like oath on the holy Gospels."
Having pledged such troth as this, Amile feared not to betray his secret to the felon knight. Now when Amile bore bason and ewer to the King, that he might wash his hands, then said that false Arderay to his lord—
"Take no water from the hands of this recreant, Sir King, for he is worthier of death than of life, since he has plucked from the Queen's daughter the flower of her maidenhood."
When Amile heard this thing he was so fearful that he fell upon the floor, and answered not a word, so that the courteous King raised him to his feet, and said—
"Have no fear, Amile, but stand up and acquit thee of this blame."
Then Amile stood upon his feet and said—
"Sir King, give no ready credence to the lies of this traitor Arderay, for well I know that you are an upright judge, turning neither for love nor hate out of the narrow way. Grant me, therefore, time for counsel with my friends, so that I may purge myself of this charge before you, and in single combat with Arderay, the traitor, prove him to be a liar before all your Court."
The King gave to both champions till three hours after noon that each might take counsel with his friends, and bade that at such time they should stand before him to fulfil their devoir. At the appointed hour they came before the King. With Arderay for friend and witness came Herbert the Count; but Amile found none to stand at his side, save only Hildegarde, the Queen. So sweetly did the lady plead his cause that she prevailed upon her lord to grant Amile such further respite for counsel that he might seek Amis, his friend; yet nevertheless only on such covenant that if Amilereturned not on the appointed day the lady should be banished ever from the royal bed.
Whilst Amile was on his way to take counsel with his friend, he chanced on Amis, his comrade, who repaired to the Court of the King. So he alighted from his steed, and kneeling at the feet of his companion, said—
"Oh thou, my one hope of surety, I have not obeyed the charge you laid upon me, and am truly blamed by reason of my dealings with the daughter of the King. Therefore must I endure ordeal of battle with the false Arderay."
"Let us leave here our companions," returned Amis, sighing, "and enter in this wood to make the matter clear."
Then Amis, having heard, reproached Amile, and said—
"Let us now exchange our garments and our horses, and thou, for thy part, get thee gone to my house, whilst I ride to do judgment by combat for thee upon this traitor."
But Amile answered him—
"How then may I go about thine house, seeing that I know not thy wife nor thy household, nor ever have looked upon their face?"
And Amis replied—
"Very easily mayest thou do this thing, so thou dost but walk prudently; but take thou good heed to have no dealings with my wife."
Thereupon the two companions departed one from the other, with tears; Amis riding to the Court of the King in the guise of Amile, and Amile to the house of his comrade in the guise of Amis. Now the wife of Amis, seeing him draw near, hastened to embrace him whom she thought was her lord, and would have kissed him. But Amile said—
"Is this a time for play? I have matter for tears rather than for claspings, for since I parted fromthee have I suffered many bitter griefs, yea, and yet must suffer."
And that night as they made ready to lie together in one bed, Amile set his naked sword between the twain, and said to his brother's wife—
"Beware lest thy body draw near in any wise to mine, for then will I slay thee with this sword."
In such fashion passed the night, and every night, until Amis repaired secretly to the castle to know certainly whether Amile kept faith and word in this matter of his wife.
The day appointed for the combat now was come, and the Queen awaited Amile, sick of heart; for Arderay, that traitor, cried aloud, that certainly ought she never to come near the King's bed, since she had suffered and consented to Amile's dealings with her maid. Whilst Arderay boasted thus, Amis entered within the Court of the King at the hour of noon, clad in the apparel of his comrade, and said—
"Right debonair and Lord Justicier of this realm, here stand I to seek ordeal of battle with this false Arderay, because of the blame he has laid upon me, the Queen, and the Princess, her child."
Then answered the King right courteously—
"Be stout of heart, oh Count, for if you prove Arderay to be false I will give thee my daughter Belisant to wife."
On the morning of the morrow Arderay and Amis rode into the lists, armed from plume to heel, in the presence of the King and of much people. But the Queen with a great company of maidens and widows and dames went from church to church, giving gifts of money and of torches, and praying God for the safety of the champion of her daughter. Now Amis considered in his heart that should he slay Arderay he would be guilty of his blood before the eyes of God, and if he were overthrown thenwould it be a shame to him for all his days. So he spake in such manner as this to Arderay.
"Foul counsel hast thou followed, Sir Count, so ardently to seek my death, and to thrust this life of thine into grievous peril of hurt. So thou wilt withdraw the reproach thou hast fastened upon me, and avoid this mortal strife, thou canst have of me friendship and loyal service."
But Arderay was right wroth at these words, and replied—
"No care have I for friendship or service of thine; rather will I swear to the truth as that truth is, and smite thy head from thy shoulders."
Then Arderay swore that his foe had done wrong to the daughter of the King, and Amis made oath that he lied. Thereupon, incontinent they drove together, and with mighty strokes strove one against the other from the hour of tierce till it was nones. And at nones Arderay fell within the lists; and Amis struck off his head.
The King lamented that Arderay was dead, but rejoiced that his daughter was proved clean from stain. He gave the Princess to Amis for dame, and with her, as dowry, a mighty sum in gold and silver, and a city near by the sea where they might dwell. So Amis rejoiced greatly in his bride; and returned as quickly as he might to the castle where he had hidden Amile, his companion. When Amile saw him hastening homewards with many horsemen, he was sore adread that Amis was overthrown, and made ready to escape. But Amis sent messages to him that he should return in all surety, since he had avenged him upon Arderay, and thus, by proxy, was he married to the daughter of the King. So Amile repaired from that place, and dwelt with his dame in that city which was her heritage.
Now Amis abode with his wife, but by the permission of God he became a leper, and his sicknesswas so heavy upon him that he could not leave his bed, for whom God loveth him He chasteneth. His wife—who was named Obias—for this cause hated him sorely, and sought his death many a time in shameful fashion. When Amis perceived her malice he called to him two of his men-at-arms, Azonem and Horatus, and said to them—
"Deliver me from the hands of this wicked woman, and take with you my cup secretly, and bear us to the tower of Bericain."
When they drew near to the castle men came out before them asking of the sickness and of the man whom they carried there. Then they answered that this was Amis, their lord, who was a leper, for which cause they prayed them to show him some pity. But mercilessly they beat the sergeants, and tumbled Amis forth from the litter in which he was borne, crying—
"Flee swiftly from hence, if ye care aught for your lives."
Then Amis wept grievously, and said—
"Oh Thou, God most pitiful and compassionate, grant me to die, or give me help in this my extremity."
Again he said to the men-at-arms—
"Carry me now to the church of the Father of Rome; perchance God of His loving kindness will there give alms to the beggar."
When they were come to Rome, Constantine the Apostle, full of pity and of sanctity, together with many a knight of those who had held Amis at the font, came before him and supplied the wants of Amis and his servants. But after three years a great famine came upon the city—a famine so grievous that the father put his very offspring from the door. Then Azonem and Horatus spake to Amis—
"Fair sir, bear witness how loyally we haveserved you from the death of your father, even to this day, and that never have we done against your bidding. But now we dare no longer to bide with you, since we have no heart to die of hunger. For this cause we pray you to acquit us of our service, so that we may avoid this mortal pestilence."
Then answered Amis in his tears—
"Oh, my dear children, not servants but sons, my only comfort, I pray you for the love of God that you forsake me not here, but that you bear me to the city of my comrade, Count Amile."
And these, willing to obey his commandment, carried him to that place where Amile lay. Now when they came before the court of Amile's house they began to sound their clappers, as the leper is wont to do; so when Amile heard the sound thereof he bade a servitor of his to carry to the sick man bread and meat, and the cup which was given to him at Rome brimmed with rich wine. When the man-at-arms had done the bidding of his lord, he came to him again, and said—
"Sir, by the faith which is your due, if I held not your cup within my hand, I should believe it to be the cup that the sick man beareth even now, for they are alike in workmanship and height."
And Amile said to him—
"Go quickly, and bring him hither to me."
When the leper was come before his comrade, Amile inquired of him who he was, and how he came to own such a cup.
"I am of Castle Bericain," said he, "and the cup was given me by the Apostle of Rome who baptized me."
When Amile heard these words he knew within himself that this was Amis, his comrade, who had delivered him from death, and given him the daughter of the King of France as dame. So at once he fell upon his neck, and began to weep andlament his evil case, kissing and embracing him. When his wife heard this thing she ran forth with fallen hair, weeping and making great sorrow, for she bore in mind that this was he who had done judgment on Arderay. Forthwith they set him in a very fair bed, and said to him—
"Tarry with us, fair sir, until the will of God is done on you, for all that we have is as thine own."
So he dwelt with them, he and his two men-at-arms likewise.
Now on a night when Amis and Amile lay together in a chamber, without other company, God sent Raphael, His angel, to Amis, who spake him thus—
"Amis, sleepest thou?"
And he, deeming that Amile had called him, answered—
"I sleep not, fair dear companion."
And the angel said to him—
"Thou hast well spoken, for thou art the companion of the citizens of Heaven, and like Job and Tobit hast suffered all things meekly and with patience. I am Raphael, an angel of our Lord, who am come to show thee medicine for thy healing, for God hath heard thy prayers. Thou must bid Amile, thy comrade, to slay his two children with the sword, and wash thee in their blood, that thus thy body may become clean."
Then Amis replied—
"This be far from me, that my comrade be blood-guilty for my health."
But the angel said—
"It is meet that he should do this thing."
On these words the angel departed from him.
Now Amile also, in his sleep, had heard these words, and he awoke, and said—
"Comrade, who is this who hath spoken to thee?"
And Amis answered that no man had spoken. "But I prayed our Lord, as is my wont."
But Amile said—
"It is not thus, but some one hath spoken with thee."
Then he rose from the bed, and went to the door of the chamber, and finding it fast, said—
"Tell me, fair brother, who hath said to thee these hidden words."
Then Amis began to weep bitterly, and denied not that it was Raphael, the angel of our Lord, who had said to him, "Amis, our Lord sends word to thee that thou biddest Amile to slay his two children with the sword, and to wash thee in their blood, that thou mayest be clean of thy leprosy."
And Amile was sorely distressed on hearing these words, and said—
"Amis, gladly have I given thee sergeant and damsel and all the riches that I had, and in fraud thou feignest that the angel hath bidden me to slay my two little ones with the sword."
Then Amis broke out into weeping, and said—
"I know that I have told thee of a grievous matter, but not of mine own free will; I pray thee therefore that thou cast me not forth from thy house."
And Amile answered him that the covenant he had made with him he would not depart from till the hour of death. "But I adjure thee by the faith between me and thee, and by our fellowship, and by the baptism given to us twain at Rome, that thou tell me truly whether it was man or angel who spoke to thee of this thing."
And Amis made reply—
"So truly as the angel hath held converse with me this night, so may God make me clean of my infirmity."
Then Amile began to weep privily, and to consider within his heart. "If this man was willing to die in my stead before the King, why then should I not slay mine own for him! He hath kept faith with me even unto death: shall I not therefore keep faith with him! Abraham was saved by faith, and by faith have the saints proved mightier than kings. Yea, God saith in the Gospel, 'Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, even so do unto them.'"
Then Amile delayed no more, but went to his wife's chamber, and bade her to attend the Divine Office; so the Countess sought the church, as was her wont to do, and the Count took his sword and went to the bed where lay the children, and they were asleep. And bending above them he wept bitterly, and said—
"Hath any man heard of such father who was willing to slay his child? Alas, alas, my children, no longer shall I be your father, but your cruel murderer."
The children awoke because of their father's tears which fell upon them, and looking upon his face began to laugh. Since therefore they were about the age of three years he said to them—
"Your laughter will turn to tears, for now your innocent blood shall be shed."
He spoke thus, and cut off their heads; and making straight their limbs upon the bed, he set their heads to their bodies, and covered all with the coverlet, as if they slept. So he washed his companion with the blood of that slaying, and said—
"Lord God, Jesus Christ, Who hast bidden men to keep faith on earth, and didst cleanse the leper with Thy word, deign Thou to make clean my comrade, for love of whom I have shed the blood of my children."
Straightway was Amis made whole of hisleprosy, and they gave grace to our Lord with great joy, saying—
"Blessed be God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who saveth those who put their trust in Him."
And Amile clad his comrade from his own rich apparel; and passing to the church to render thanks in that place, the bells rang without ringers, as was the will of God. When the people of the city heard thereof they hastened to behold this marvel. Now the wife of the Count, when she saw the twain walking together, began to question which was her husband, and said, "Well I know the vesture which they wear, but which is Amile, that I know not," and the Count said—
"I am Amile, and this, my companion, is Amis, who is healed."
Then the Countess marvelled greatly, and said—
"Easy is it to see that he is healed, but much desire I to know the manner of that healing."
"Render thanks to our Lord," returned the Count, "nor seek curiously of the fashion of that cleansing."
The hour of tierce was now come, and neither of the parents had yet entered in the chamber where the children lay, but the father went heavily for reason of their death. The Countess asked therefore for her sons that they might share in the joy, but the Count replied—
"Nay, dame, but let the children sleep."
Then entering by himself within the chamber to bewail his children, he found them playing in the bed and about their necks, in the place of that mortal wound, showed as it were a crimson thread. So he clasped them in his arms, and bore them to their mother, saying—
"Dame, rejoice greatly, for thy sons whom I had slain with the sword, at the bidding of theangel, are alive, and by their blood is Amis cleansed and healed."
When the Countess heard this thing she said—
"Count, why was I not with thee to gather the blood of my children, that I too might have washed Amis, thy comrade and my lord?"
And the Count answered her—
"Dame, let be these words; rather let us dedicate ourselves to our Lord, who hath wrought such marvels in our house."
So from that day, even unto their deaths, they lived together in perfect chastity; and for the space of ten days the people of that city held high festival. But on that very day that Amis was made clean, the devil seized upon his wife, and breaking her neck, carried off her soul.
After these things Amis rode to the castle of Bericain, and laid siege thereto, and sat before it for so long a time that those within the castle yielded themselves into his hand. He received them graciously, forgetting his anger against them, and forgiving them the wrongs that they had done, so that from thenceforth he dwelt peaceably amongst them, and with him, in his own house, lived the elder son of Count Amile. There he served our Lord with all his heart.
Now Adrian, being at this time Pope of Rome, sent letters to Charles, King of France, praying him to come to his aid against Didier, King of the Lombards, who wrought much mischief to him and the Church. Now Charles lay in the town of Thionville, and to that place came Peter, the envoy of the Apostle, with messages from the Pope praying him to hasten to the succour of Holy Church. For this cause Charles sent letters to the said Didier requiring him to render to the Holy Father the cities and all other things which he had wrongfully seized, and promising that if he would dothis thing the said Charles would send him in return the sum of forty thousand pieces of gold, in gold and silver. But he would not do right, neither for prayers nor for gifts.
Then the stout King Charles summoned to his aid all his men—bishops, abbots, dukes, princes, marquises, and other stout knights. Divers of these he sent to Cluses to guard the pass, and of this number was Albin, Bishop of Angers, a man of great holiness.
King Charles himself, with a large company of spears, drew towards Cluses by the way of Mont Cenis, and he sent Bernard, his uncle, with other knights, thither by way of Mont Saint-Bernard. The vanguard of the host said that Didier, with all his strength, lay at Cluses, which town he had made strong with iron chains and works of stone. Whilst Charles approached to Cluses he sent messengers to Didier, requiring him to render to the Holy Father the cities which he had taken, but he would not heed his prayer. Again Charles sent him other letters demanding three children of the Justices of Lombardy as hostages, until such time as he had yielded up the cities of the Church; in which case for his part he would return to France with all his spears, without battle and without malice. But neither for this nor for that would he stint.
When God the All-powerful had beheld the hard heart and the malice of this Didier, and found that the French desired greatly to return, He put so fearful a trembling in the hearts of the Lombards that they took to flight, though there was none that pursued, leaving behind them their tents and all their harness. So Charles and his host followed after them, and Frenchman, German, Englishman and divers other people entered hot after them into Lombardy.
Amis and Amile were of the host, and very near to the person of the King. Always they strove to follow our Lord in good works, and were constant in fast, in vigil, in giving of alms, in succouring the widow and the orphan, in assuaging often the wrath of the King, in patient suffering of evil men, and in piteous dealings within the Roman realm.
But though Charles had a great army drawn together in Lombardy, King Didier feared not to come before him with his little host—for there where Didier had a priest, Charles had a bishop; where one had a monk, the other had an abbot; if this had a knight, that had a prince; if Didier had a man-at-arms, then Charles had a duke or a count. What shall I tell you; for a single knight on the one side Charles could number thirty pennons. And the two hosts fell each upon the other with a tumult of battle cries, and with banners in array; and the stones and arrows flew from here and there, and knights were smitten down on every side.
For the space of three days the Lombards strove so valiantly that they slew a very great company of Charles's men. But on the third day Charles set in order the hardiest and bravest of his host and said to them—
"Go now, and win this battle, or return no more."
So King Didier together with the host of the Lombards fled to the place called Mortara, which was then known as Belle-Forêt, because the country was so fair, there to refresh themselves and their horses. On the morning of the next day King Charles with his army drew near the town, and found the Lombards arrayed for the battle. So fierce was the combat that a great multitude of men were slain, both of one party and the other,and for reason of this slaying was the place named Mortara. There, too, on that field died Amis and Amile, for as it had pleased God to make their lives lovely and pleasant together, so in their deaths they were not divided. There also many another hardy knight was slain with the sword. But Didier, together with his Justiciary, and all the multitude of the Lombards, fled to Pavia; and King Charles followed closely after him and lay before the city, and invested it on every side; and lying there he sent to France to seek the Queen and his children. But St. Albin, the Bishop of Angers, and many another bishop and abbot counselled the King and Queen that they should bury those who fell in that battle, and build in that place a church. This counsel greatly pleased the King, so that on the field were built two churches, one by bidding of Charles in honour of St. Eusebius of Verceil, and the other by bidding of the Queen in honour of St. Peter.
Moreover the King caused to be brought the two coffins of stone wherein were buried Amis and Amile, and Amile was carried to the church of St. Peter, and Amis to the church of St. Eusebius. But on the morrow the body of Amile in his coffin of stone was found in the church of St. Eusebius near by the coffin of his comrade, Amis. So have you heard the story of this marvellous fellowship which could not be dissevered, even by death. This miracle did God for His servants—that God Who gave such power to His disciples that in His strength they might move even mountains. Because of this wonder the King and Queen tarried there for thirty days, giving fit burial to the bodies of the slain, and honouring those ministers with many rich gifts.
But all this while the host of Charles toiled mightily for the taking of the city before which itlay. Our Lord also tormented those within the walls so grievously that they might not bear their harness by reason of weakness and of death. At the end of ten months Charles took Didier the King, and all those who were with him, and possessed himself of the city and of all that realm. So Didier the King and his wife were led as captives into France.
But St. Albin, who in his day gave life to the dead and light to the blind, ordained clerks, and priests and deacons in the aforesaid church of St. Eusebius, and bade them always to hold in tireless keeping the bodies of those two comrades, Amis and Amile, who suffered death under Didier, King of Lombardy, the 12th day of October, and are now with our Lord Jesus Christ, Who liveth and reigneth with the Father and the Holy Ghost, world without end. Amen.