I.Within his hall of Burgos the King prepares the feast:He makes his preparation for many a noble guest.It is a joyful city, it is a gallant day,'Tis the Campeador's wedding, and who will bide away?II.Layn Calvo, the Lord Bishop, he first comes forth the gate,Behind him comes Ruy Diaz, in all his bridal state;The crowd makes way before them as up the street they go;—For the multitude of people their steps must needs be slow.III.The King had taken order that they should rear an arch,From house to house all over, in the way where they must march;They have hung it all with lances, and shields, and glittering helms,Brought by the Campeador from out the Moorish realms.IV.They have scattered olive branches and rushes on the street,And the ladies fling down garlands at the Campeador's feet;With tapestry and broidery their balconies between,To do his bridal honour, their walls the burghers screen.V.They lead the bulls before them all covered o'er with trappings;The little boys pursue them with hootings and with clappings;The fool, with cap and bladder, upon his ass goes prancing,Amidst troops of captive maidens with bells and cymbals dancing.VI.With antics and with fooleries, with shouting and with laughter,They fill the streets of Burgos—and The Devil he comes after,For the King has hired the horned fiend for sixteen maravedis,And there he goes, with hoofs for toes, to terrify the ladies.VII.Then comes the bride Ximena—the King he holds her hand;And the Queen, and, all in fur and pall, the nobles of the land;All down the street the ears of wheat are round Ximena flying,But the King lifts off her bosom sweet whatever there is lying.VIII.Quoth Suero, when he saw it, (his thought you understand,)"'Tis a fine thing to be a King; but Heaven make me a Hand!"The King was very merry, when he was told of this,And swore the bride ere eventide, must give the boy a kiss.IX.The King went always talking, but she held down her head,And seldom gave an answer to anything he said;It was better to be silent, among such a crowd of folk,Than utter words so meaningless as she did when she spoke.
Within his hall of Burgos the King prepares the feast:He makes his preparation for many a noble guest.It is a joyful city, it is a gallant day,'Tis the Campeador's wedding, and who will bide away?
Layn Calvo, the Lord Bishop, he first comes forth the gate,Behind him comes Ruy Diaz, in all his bridal state;The crowd makes way before them as up the street they go;—For the multitude of people their steps must needs be slow.
The King had taken order that they should rear an arch,From house to house all over, in the way where they must march;They have hung it all with lances, and shields, and glittering helms,Brought by the Campeador from out the Moorish realms.
They have scattered olive branches and rushes on the street,And the ladies fling down garlands at the Campeador's feet;With tapestry and broidery their balconies between,To do his bridal honour, their walls the burghers screen.
They lead the bulls before them all covered o'er with trappings;The little boys pursue them with hootings and with clappings;The fool, with cap and bladder, upon his ass goes prancing,Amidst troops of captive maidens with bells and cymbals dancing.
With antics and with fooleries, with shouting and with laughter,They fill the streets of Burgos—and The Devil he comes after,For the King has hired the horned fiend for sixteen maravedis,And there he goes, with hoofs for toes, to terrify the ladies.
Then comes the bride Ximena—the King he holds her hand;And the Queen, and, all in fur and pall, the nobles of the land;All down the street the ears of wheat are round Ximena flying,But the King lifts off her bosom sweet whatever there is lying.
Quoth Suero, when he saw it, (his thought you understand,)"'Tis a fine thing to be a King; but Heaven make me a Hand!"The King was very merry, when he was told of this,And swore the bride ere eventide, must give the boy a kiss.
The King went always talking, but she held down her head,And seldom gave an answer to anything he said;It was better to be silent, among such a crowd of folk,Than utter words so meaningless as she did when she spoke.
Like our own Robert the Bruce, the great Spanish hero is represented as exhibiting, on many occasions, great gentleness of disposition and compassion. But while old Barbour is contented with such simple anecdotes as that of a poor laundress being suddenly taken ill with the pains of childbirth, and the king stopping the march of his army rather than leave her unprotected, the minstrels of Spain, never losing an opportunity of gratifying the superstitious propensities of their audience, are sure to let no similar incident in their champion's history pass without a miracle.
I.He has ta'en some twenty gentlemen, along with him to go,For he will pay that ancient vow he to Saint James doth owe;To Compostella, where the shrine doth by the altar stand,The good Rodrigo de Bivar is riding through the land.II.Where'er he goes, much alms he throws, to feeble folk and poor;Beside the way for him they pray, him blessings to procure;For, God and Mary Mother, their heavenly grace to win,His hand was ever bountiful: great was his joy therein.III.And there, in middle of the path, a leper did appear;In a deep slough the leper lay, none would to help come near.With a loud voice he thence did cry, "For God our Saviour's sake,From out this fearful jeopardy a Christian brother take."—IV.When Roderick heard that piteous word, he from his horse came down;For all they said, no stay he made, that noble champion;He reached his hand to pluck him forth, of fear was no account,Then mounted on his steed of worth, and made the leper mount.V.Behind him rode the leprous man; when to their hostelrieThey came, he made him eat with him at table cheerfully;While all the rest from that poor guest with loathing shrunk away,To his own bed the wretch he led, beside him there he lay.VI.All at the mid-hour of the night, while good Rodrigo slept,A breath came from the leprous man, it through his shoulders crept;Right through the body, at the breast, passed forth that breathing cold;I wot he leaped up with a start, in terrors manifold.VII.He groped for him in the bed, but him he could not find,Through the dark chamber groped he, with very anxious mind;Loudly he lifted up his voice, with speed a lamp was brought,Yet nowhere was the leper seen, though far and near they sought.VIII.He turned him to his chamber, God wot, perplexèd soreWith that which had befallen—when lo! his face before,There stood a man, all clothed in vesture shining white:Thus said the vision, "Sleepest thou, or wakest thou, Sir Knight?"—IX."I sleep not," quoth Rodrigo; "but tell me who art thou,For, in the midst of darkness, much light is on thy brow?"—"I am the holy Lazarus, I come to speak with thee;I am the same poor leper thou savedst for charity.X."Not vain the trial, nor in vain thy victory hath been;God favours thee, for that my pain thou didst relieve yestreen.There shall be honour with thee, in battle and in peace,Success in all thy doings, and plentiful increase.XI."Strong enemies shall not prevail, thy greatness to undo;Thy name shall make men's cheeks full pale—Christians and Moslem too;A death of honour shalt thou die, such grace to thee is given,Thy soul shall part victoriously, and be received in heaven."—XII.When he these gracious words had said, the spirit vanished quite,Rodrigo rose and knelt him down—he knelt till morning light;Unto the Heavenly Father, and Mary Mother dear,He made his prayer right humbly, till dawned the morning clear.
He has ta'en some twenty gentlemen, along with him to go,For he will pay that ancient vow he to Saint James doth owe;To Compostella, where the shrine doth by the altar stand,The good Rodrigo de Bivar is riding through the land.
Where'er he goes, much alms he throws, to feeble folk and poor;Beside the way for him they pray, him blessings to procure;For, God and Mary Mother, their heavenly grace to win,His hand was ever bountiful: great was his joy therein.
And there, in middle of the path, a leper did appear;In a deep slough the leper lay, none would to help come near.With a loud voice he thence did cry, "For God our Saviour's sake,From out this fearful jeopardy a Christian brother take."—
When Roderick heard that piteous word, he from his horse came down;For all they said, no stay he made, that noble champion;He reached his hand to pluck him forth, of fear was no account,Then mounted on his steed of worth, and made the leper mount.
Behind him rode the leprous man; when to their hostelrieThey came, he made him eat with him at table cheerfully;While all the rest from that poor guest with loathing shrunk away,To his own bed the wretch he led, beside him there he lay.
All at the mid-hour of the night, while good Rodrigo slept,A breath came from the leprous man, it through his shoulders crept;Right through the body, at the breast, passed forth that breathing cold;I wot he leaped up with a start, in terrors manifold.
He groped for him in the bed, but him he could not find,Through the dark chamber groped he, with very anxious mind;Loudly he lifted up his voice, with speed a lamp was brought,Yet nowhere was the leper seen, though far and near they sought.
He turned him to his chamber, God wot, perplexèd soreWith that which had befallen—when lo! his face before,There stood a man, all clothed in vesture shining white:Thus said the vision, "Sleepest thou, or wakest thou, Sir Knight?"—
"I sleep not," quoth Rodrigo; "but tell me who art thou,For, in the midst of darkness, much light is on thy brow?"—"I am the holy Lazarus, I come to speak with thee;I am the same poor leper thou savedst for charity.
"Not vain the trial, nor in vain thy victory hath been;God favours thee, for that my pain thou didst relieve yestreen.There shall be honour with thee, in battle and in peace,Success in all thy doings, and plentiful increase.
"Strong enemies shall not prevail, thy greatness to undo;Thy name shall make men's cheeks full pale—Christians and Moslem too;A death of honour shalt thou die, such grace to thee is given,Thy soul shall part victoriously, and be received in heaven."—
When he these gracious words had said, the spirit vanished quite,Rodrigo rose and knelt him down—he knelt till morning light;Unto the Heavenly Father, and Mary Mother dear,He made his prayer right humbly, till dawned the morning clear.
Montaigne, in his curious Essay, entitled "Des Destriers," says that all the world knows everything about Bucephalus. The name of the favourite charger of the Cid Ruy Diaz, is scarcely less celebrated. Notice is taken of him in almost every one of the hundred ballads concerning the history of his master,—and there are two or three of these, of which the horse is more truly the hero than his rider. In one of these ballads, the Cid is giving directions about his funeral; he desires that they shall place his body "in full armour upon Bavieca," and so conduct him to the church of San Pedro de Cardeña. This was done accordingly; and, says another ballad—
Truxeron pues a Babieca;Y en mirandole se pusoTan triste como si fueraMas rasonable que bruto.
Truxeron pues a Babieca;Y en mirandole se pusoTan triste como si fueraMas rasonable que bruto.
In the Cid's last will, mention is also made of this noble charger. "When ye bury Bavieca, dig deep," says Ruy Diaz; "for shameful thing were it, that he should be eat by curs, who hath trampled down so much currish flesh of Moors."
I.The King looked on him kindly, as on a vassal true;Then to the King Ruy Diaz spake after reverence due,—"O King, the thing is shameful, that any man besideThe liege lord of Castile himself should Bavieca ride:II."For neither Spain nor Araby could another charger bringSo good as he, and certes, the best befits my King.But that you may behold him, and know him to the core,I'll make him go as he was wont when his nostrils smelt the Moor."—III.With that, the Cid, clad as he was in mantle furred and wide,On Bavieca vaulting, put the rowel in his side;And up and down, and round and round, so fierce was his career,Streamed like a pennon on the wind Ruy Diaz' minivere.IV.And all that saw them praised them—they lauded man and horse,As matched well, and rivalless for gallantry and force;Ne'er had they looked on horseman might to this knight come near,Nor on other charger worthy of such a cavalier.V.Thus, to and fro a-rushing the fierce and furious steed,He snapt in twain his hither rein:—"God pity now the Cid.""God pity Diaz," cried the Lords,—but when they looked again,They saw Ruy Diaz ruling him, with the fragment of his rein;They saw him proudly ruling with gesture firm and calm,Like a true lord commanding—and obeyed as by a lamb.VI.And so he led him foaming and panting to the King,But "No," said Don Alphonso, "it were a shameful thingThat peerless Bavieca should ever be bestridBy any mortal but Bivar—Mount, mount again, my Cid."
The King looked on him kindly, as on a vassal true;Then to the King Ruy Diaz spake after reverence due,—"O King, the thing is shameful, that any man besideThe liege lord of Castile himself should Bavieca ride:
"For neither Spain nor Araby could another charger bringSo good as he, and certes, the best befits my King.But that you may behold him, and know him to the core,I'll make him go as he was wont when his nostrils smelt the Moor."—
With that, the Cid, clad as he was in mantle furred and wide,On Bavieca vaulting, put the rowel in his side;And up and down, and round and round, so fierce was his career,Streamed like a pennon on the wind Ruy Diaz' minivere.
And all that saw them praised them—they lauded man and horse,As matched well, and rivalless for gallantry and force;Ne'er had they looked on horseman might to this knight come near,Nor on other charger worthy of such a cavalier.
Thus, to and fro a-rushing the fierce and furious steed,He snapt in twain his hither rein:—"God pity now the Cid.""God pity Diaz," cried the Lords,—but when they looked again,They saw Ruy Diaz ruling him, with the fragment of his rein;They saw him proudly ruling with gesture firm and calm,Like a true lord commanding—and obeyed as by a lamb.
And so he led him foaming and panting to the King,But "No," said Don Alphonso, "it were a shameful thingThat peerless Bavieca should ever be bestridBy any mortal but Bivar—Mount, mount again, my Cid."
The last specimen I shall give of the Cid-ballad, is one the subject of which is evidently of the most apocryphal cast. It is, however, so far as I recollect, the only one of all that immense collection that is quoted or alluded to in Don Quixote. "Sancho," cried Don Quixote, "I am afraid of being excommunicated for having laid violent hands upon a man in holy orders,Juxta illud; si quis suadente diabolo, &c. But yet, now I think on it, I never touched him with my hands, but only with my lance; besides, I did not in the least suspect I had to do with priests, whom I honour and revere as every good Catholic and faithful Christian ought to do, but rather took them to be evil spirits. Well, let the worst come to the worst, I remember what befel the Cid Ruy Diaz, when he broke to pieces the chair of a king's ambassador in the Pope's presence, for which he was excommunicated; which did not hinder the worthy Rodrigo de Bivar from behaving himself that day like a valorous knight, and a man of honour."
I.It was when from Spain across the main the Cid had come to Rome,He chanced to see chairs four and three beneath Saint Peter's dome."Now tell, I pray, what chairs be they;"—"Seven kings do sit thereon,As well doth suit, all at the foot of the holy Father's throne."II."The Pope he sitteth above them all, that they may kiss his toe,Below the keys the Flower-de-lys doth make a gallant show:For his great puissance, the King of France next to the Pope may sit,The rest more low, all in a row, as doth their station fit."—III."Ha!" quoth the Cid, "now God forbid! it is a shame, I wiss,To see the Castle5planted beneath the Flower-de-lys.6No harm, I hope, good Father Pope—although I move thy chair."—In pieces small he kicked it all, ('twas of the ivory fair).IV.The Pope's own seat he from his feet did kick it far away,And the Spanish chair he planted upon its place that day;Above them all he planted it, and laughed right bitterly;Looks sour and bad I trow he had, as grim as grim might be.V.Now when the Pope was aware of this, he was an angry man,His lips that night, with solemn rite, pronounced the awful ban;The curse of God, who died on rood, was on that sinner's head—To hell and woe man's soul must go if once that curse be said.VI.I wot, when the Cid was aware of this, a woful man was he,At dawn of day he came to pray at the blessèd Father's knee:"Absolve me, blessèd Father, have pity upon me,Absolve my soul, and penance I for my sin will dree."—VII."Who is this sinner," quoth the Pope, "that at my foot doth kneel?"—"I am Rodrigo Diaz—a poor Baron of Castile."—Much marvelled all were in the hall, when that name they heard him say,—"Rise up, rise up," the Pope he said, "I do thy guilt away;—VIII."I do thy guilt away," he said—"and my curse I blot it out—God save Rodrigo Diaz, my Christian champion stout;—I trow, if I had known thee, my grief it had been sore,To curse Ruy Diaz de Bivar, God's scourge upon the Moor."
It was when from Spain across the main the Cid had come to Rome,He chanced to see chairs four and three beneath Saint Peter's dome."Now tell, I pray, what chairs be they;"—"Seven kings do sit thereon,As well doth suit, all at the foot of the holy Father's throne."
"The Pope he sitteth above them all, that they may kiss his toe,Below the keys the Flower-de-lys doth make a gallant show:For his great puissance, the King of France next to the Pope may sit,The rest more low, all in a row, as doth their station fit."—
"Ha!" quoth the Cid, "now God forbid! it is a shame, I wiss,To see the Castle5planted beneath the Flower-de-lys.6No harm, I hope, good Father Pope—although I move thy chair."—In pieces small he kicked it all, ('twas of the ivory fair).
The Pope's own seat he from his feet did kick it far away,And the Spanish chair he planted upon its place that day;Above them all he planted it, and laughed right bitterly;Looks sour and bad I trow he had, as grim as grim might be.
Now when the Pope was aware of this, he was an angry man,His lips that night, with solemn rite, pronounced the awful ban;The curse of God, who died on rood, was on that sinner's head—To hell and woe man's soul must go if once that curse be said.
I wot, when the Cid was aware of this, a woful man was he,At dawn of day he came to pray at the blessèd Father's knee:"Absolve me, blessèd Father, have pity upon me,Absolve my soul, and penance I for my sin will dree."—
"Who is this sinner," quoth the Pope, "that at my foot doth kneel?"—"I am Rodrigo Diaz—a poor Baron of Castile."—Much marvelled all were in the hall, when that name they heard him say,—"Rise up, rise up," the Pope he said, "I do thy guilt away;—
"I do thy guilt away," he said—"and my curse I blot it out—God save Rodrigo Diaz, my Christian champion stout;—I trow, if I had known thee, my grief it had been sore,To curse Ruy Diaz de Bivar, God's scourge upon the Moor."
Mr. Bouterweck has analyzed this ballad, and commented upon it at some length, in his History of Spanish Literature. See Book I, Section 1.
He bestows particular praise upon a passage, which the reader will find attempted in the fourth line of stanza xxxi. of the following version—
Dedes me aça este hijo amamare por despedida.
"What modern poet," says he, "would have dared to imagine thattrait, at once so natural and touching?"
Mr. Bouterweck seems to be of opinion that the story of the ballad had been taken from some prose romance of chivalry; but I have not been able to find any trace of it.
I.Alone, as was her wont, she sate,—within her bower alone;—Alone, and very desolate, Solisa made her moan,Lamenting for her flower of life, that it should pass away,And she be never wooed to wife, nor see a bridal day.II.Thus said the sad Infanta—"I will not hide my grief,I'll tell my father of my wrong, and he will yield relief."—The King, when he beheld her near, "Alas! my child," said he,"What means this melancholy cheer?—reveal thy grief to me."—III."Good King," she said, "my mother was buried long ago,She left me to thy keeping, none else my griefs shall know;I fain would have a husband, 'tis time that I should wed,—Forgive the words I utter, with mickle shame they're said."—IV.'Twas thus the King made answer,—"This fault is none of mine,You to the Prince of Hungary your ear would not incline;Yet round us here where lives your peer?—nay, name him if you can,—Except the Count Alarcos, and he's a married man."—V."Ask Count Alarcos, if of yore his word he did not plightTo be my husband evermore, and love me day and night?If he has bound him in new vows, old oaths he cannot break—Alas! I've lost a loyal spouse, for a false lover's sake."—VI.The good King sat confounded in silence for some space,At length he made this answer, with very troubled face,—"It was not thus your mother gave counsel you should do;You've done much wrong, my daughter; we're shamed, both I and you.VII."If it be true that you have said, our honour's lost and gone;And while the Countess is in life, remeed for us is none.Though justice were upon our side, ill-talkers would not spare—Speak, daughter, for your mother's dead, whose counsel eased my care."VIII."How can I give you counsel?—but little wit have I;But certes, Count Alarcos may make this Countess die;Let it be noised that sickness cut short her tender life,And then let Count Alarcos come and ask me for his wife.What passed between us long ago, of that be nothing said;Thus none shall our dishonour know, in honour I shall wed."—IX.The Count was standing with his friends, thus in the midst he spake—"What fools we be! what pains men dree for a fair woman's sake!I loved a fair one long ago;—though I'm a married man,Sad memory I can ne'er forego, how life and love began."—X.While yet the Count was speaking, the good King came full near;He made his salutation with very courteous cheer."Come hither, Count Alarcos, and dine with me this day,For I have something secret I in your ear must say."—XI.The King came from the chapel, when he had heard the mass;With him the Count Alarcos did to his chamber pass;Full nobly were they servèd there, by pages many a one;When all were gone, and they alone, 'twas thus the King begun.—XII."What news be these, Alarcos, that you your word did plight,To be a husband to my child, and love her day and night?If more between you there did pass, yourself may know the truth,But shamed is my grey-head—alas!—and scorned Solisa's youth.XIII."I have a heavy word to speak—a lady fair doth lieWithin my daughter's rightful place, and certes! she must die—Let it be noised that sickness cut short her tender life,Then come and woo my daughter, and she shall be your wife:—What passed between you long ago, of that be nothing said,Thus, none shall my dishonour know—in honour you shall wed."XIV.Thus spake the Count Alarcos—"The truth I'll not deny,I to the Infanta gave my troth, and broke it shamefully;I feared my King would ne'er consent to give me his fair daughter;But, oh! spare her that's innocent—avoid that sinful slaughter."—XV."She dies, she dies," the King replies; "from thine own sin it springs,If guiltless blood must wash the blot which stains the blood of kings:Ere morning dawn her life must end, and thine must be the deed,Else thou on shameful block must bend: thereof is no remeed."XVI."Good King, my hand thou mayst command, else treason blots my name!I'll take the life of my dear wife—(God! mine be not the blame!)Alas! that young and sinless heart for others' sin should bleed!Good King, in sorrow I depart."——"May God your errand speed!"—XVII.In sorrow he departed, dejectedly he rodeThe weary journey from that place, unto his own abode;He grieved for his fair Countess, dear as his life was she;Sore grieved he for that lady, and for his children three.XVIII.The one was yet an infant upon its mother's breast,For though it had three nurses, it liked her milk the best;The others were young children, that had but little wit,Hanging about their mother's knee while nursing she did sit.XIX."Alas!" he said, when he had come within a little space,"How shall I brook the cheerful look of my kind lady's face?To see her coming forth in glee to meet me in my hall,When she so soon a corpse must be, and I the cause of all!"XX.Just then he saw her at the door with all her babes appear—(The little page had run before to tell his lord was near)"Now welcome home, my lord, my life!—Alas! you droop your headTell, Count Alarcos, tell your wife, what makes your eyes so red?"—XXI."I'll tell you all—I'll tell you all: It is not yet the hour;We'll sup together in the hall—I'll tell you in your bower."The lady brought forth what she had, and down beside him sate;He sat beside her pale and sad, but neither drank nor ate.XXII.The children to his side were led (he loved to have them so),Then on the board he laid his head, and out his tears did flow:—"I fain would sleep—I fain would sleep,"—the Count Alarcos said:—Alas! be sure, that sleep was none that night within their bed.XXIII.They came together to the bower where they were used to rest,None with them but the little babe that was upon the breast:The Count had barred the chamber doors, they ne'er were barred till then;"Unhappy lady," he began, "and I most lost of men!"XXIV."Now, speak not so, my noble lord, my husband and my life,Unhappy never can she be, that is Alarcos' wife."—"Alas! unhappy lady, 'tis but little that you know,For in that very word you've said is gathered all your woe.XXV."Long since I loved a lady,—long since I oaths did plight,To be that lady's husband, to love her day and night;Her father is our lord the King, to him the thing is known,And now, that I the news should bring! she claims me for her own.XXVI."Alas! my love, alas! my life, the right is on their side;Ere I had seen your face, sweet wife, she was betrothed my bride;But, oh! that I should speak the word—since in her place you lie,It is the bidding of our Lord, that you this night must die."—XXVII."Are these the wages of my love, so lowly and so leal?—O, kill me not, thou noble Count, when at thy foot I kneel!—But send me to my father's house, where once I dwelt in glee,There will I live a lone chaste life, and rear my children three."—XXVIII."It may not be—mine oath is strong—ere dawn of day you die!"—"O! well 'tis seen how all alone upon the earth am I—My father is an old frail man,—my mother's in her grave,—And dead is stout Don Garcia—Alas! my brother brave!XXIX."'Twas at this coward King's command they slew my brother dear,And now I'm helpless in the land:—It is not death I fear,But loth, loth am I to depart, and leave my children so—Now let me lay them to my heart, and kiss them ere I go."—XXX."Kiss him that lies upon thy breast—the rest thou mayst not see."—"I fain would say an Ave."—"Then say it speedily."—She knelt her down upon her knee: "O Lord! behold my case—Judge not my deeds, but look on me in pity and great grace."—XXXI.When she had made her orison, up from her knees she rose—"Be kind, Alarcos, to our babes, and pray for my repose—And now give me my boy once more upon my breast to hold,That he may drink one farewell drink, before my breast be cold."—XXXII."Why would you waken the poor child? you see he is asleep—Prepare, dear wife, there is no time, the dawn begins to peep."—"Now hear me, Count Alarcos! I give thee pardon free—I pardon thee for the love's sake wherewith I've lovèd thee.XXXIII."But they have not my pardon, the King and his proud daughter—The curse of God be on them, for this unchristian slaughter!—I charge them with my dying breath, ere thirty days be gone,To meet me in the realm of death, and at God's awful throne!"—XXXIV.He drew a kerchief round her neck, he drew it tight and strong,Until she lay quite stiff and cold her chamber floor along;He laid her then within the sheets, and, kneeling by her side,To God and Mary Mother in misery he cried.XXXV.Then called he for his esquires:—oh! deep was their dismay,When they into the chamber came, and saw her how she lay;—Thus died she in her innocence, a lady void of wrong,But God took heed of their offence—his vengeance stayed not long.XXXVI.Within twelve days, in pain and dole, the Infanta passed away,The cruel King gave up his soul upon the twentieth day;Alarcos followed ere the Moon had made her round complete.—Three guilty spirits stood right soon before God's judgment-seat.
Alone, as was her wont, she sate,—within her bower alone;—Alone, and very desolate, Solisa made her moan,Lamenting for her flower of life, that it should pass away,And she be never wooed to wife, nor see a bridal day.
Thus said the sad Infanta—"I will not hide my grief,I'll tell my father of my wrong, and he will yield relief."—The King, when he beheld her near, "Alas! my child," said he,"What means this melancholy cheer?—reveal thy grief to me."—
"Good King," she said, "my mother was buried long ago,She left me to thy keeping, none else my griefs shall know;I fain would have a husband, 'tis time that I should wed,—Forgive the words I utter, with mickle shame they're said."—
'Twas thus the King made answer,—"This fault is none of mine,You to the Prince of Hungary your ear would not incline;Yet round us here where lives your peer?—nay, name him if you can,—Except the Count Alarcos, and he's a married man."—
"Ask Count Alarcos, if of yore his word he did not plightTo be my husband evermore, and love me day and night?If he has bound him in new vows, old oaths he cannot break—Alas! I've lost a loyal spouse, for a false lover's sake."—
The good King sat confounded in silence for some space,At length he made this answer, with very troubled face,—"It was not thus your mother gave counsel you should do;You've done much wrong, my daughter; we're shamed, both I and you.
"If it be true that you have said, our honour's lost and gone;And while the Countess is in life, remeed for us is none.Though justice were upon our side, ill-talkers would not spare—Speak, daughter, for your mother's dead, whose counsel eased my care."
"How can I give you counsel?—but little wit have I;But certes, Count Alarcos may make this Countess die;Let it be noised that sickness cut short her tender life,And then let Count Alarcos come and ask me for his wife.What passed between us long ago, of that be nothing said;Thus none shall our dishonour know, in honour I shall wed."—
The Count was standing with his friends, thus in the midst he spake—"What fools we be! what pains men dree for a fair woman's sake!I loved a fair one long ago;—though I'm a married man,Sad memory I can ne'er forego, how life and love began."—
While yet the Count was speaking, the good King came full near;He made his salutation with very courteous cheer."Come hither, Count Alarcos, and dine with me this day,For I have something secret I in your ear must say."—
The King came from the chapel, when he had heard the mass;With him the Count Alarcos did to his chamber pass;Full nobly were they servèd there, by pages many a one;When all were gone, and they alone, 'twas thus the King begun.—
"What news be these, Alarcos, that you your word did plight,To be a husband to my child, and love her day and night?If more between you there did pass, yourself may know the truth,But shamed is my grey-head—alas!—and scorned Solisa's youth.
"I have a heavy word to speak—a lady fair doth lieWithin my daughter's rightful place, and certes! she must die—Let it be noised that sickness cut short her tender life,Then come and woo my daughter, and she shall be your wife:—What passed between you long ago, of that be nothing said,Thus, none shall my dishonour know—in honour you shall wed."
Thus spake the Count Alarcos—"The truth I'll not deny,I to the Infanta gave my troth, and broke it shamefully;I feared my King would ne'er consent to give me his fair daughter;But, oh! spare her that's innocent—avoid that sinful slaughter."—
"She dies, she dies," the King replies; "from thine own sin it springs,If guiltless blood must wash the blot which stains the blood of kings:Ere morning dawn her life must end, and thine must be the deed,Else thou on shameful block must bend: thereof is no remeed."
"Good King, my hand thou mayst command, else treason blots my name!I'll take the life of my dear wife—(God! mine be not the blame!)Alas! that young and sinless heart for others' sin should bleed!Good King, in sorrow I depart."——"May God your errand speed!"—
In sorrow he departed, dejectedly he rodeThe weary journey from that place, unto his own abode;He grieved for his fair Countess, dear as his life was she;Sore grieved he for that lady, and for his children three.
The one was yet an infant upon its mother's breast,For though it had three nurses, it liked her milk the best;The others were young children, that had but little wit,Hanging about their mother's knee while nursing she did sit.
"Alas!" he said, when he had come within a little space,"How shall I brook the cheerful look of my kind lady's face?To see her coming forth in glee to meet me in my hall,When she so soon a corpse must be, and I the cause of all!"
Just then he saw her at the door with all her babes appear—(The little page had run before to tell his lord was near)"Now welcome home, my lord, my life!—Alas! you droop your headTell, Count Alarcos, tell your wife, what makes your eyes so red?"—
"I'll tell you all—I'll tell you all: It is not yet the hour;We'll sup together in the hall—I'll tell you in your bower."The lady brought forth what she had, and down beside him sate;He sat beside her pale and sad, but neither drank nor ate.
The children to his side were led (he loved to have them so),Then on the board he laid his head, and out his tears did flow:—"I fain would sleep—I fain would sleep,"—the Count Alarcos said:—Alas! be sure, that sleep was none that night within their bed.
They came together to the bower where they were used to rest,None with them but the little babe that was upon the breast:The Count had barred the chamber doors, they ne'er were barred till then;"Unhappy lady," he began, "and I most lost of men!"
"Now, speak not so, my noble lord, my husband and my life,Unhappy never can she be, that is Alarcos' wife."—"Alas! unhappy lady, 'tis but little that you know,For in that very word you've said is gathered all your woe.
"Long since I loved a lady,—long since I oaths did plight,To be that lady's husband, to love her day and night;Her father is our lord the King, to him the thing is known,And now, that I the news should bring! she claims me for her own.
"Alas! my love, alas! my life, the right is on their side;Ere I had seen your face, sweet wife, she was betrothed my bride;But, oh! that I should speak the word—since in her place you lie,It is the bidding of our Lord, that you this night must die."—
"Are these the wages of my love, so lowly and so leal?—O, kill me not, thou noble Count, when at thy foot I kneel!—But send me to my father's house, where once I dwelt in glee,There will I live a lone chaste life, and rear my children three."—
"It may not be—mine oath is strong—ere dawn of day you die!"—"O! well 'tis seen how all alone upon the earth am I—My father is an old frail man,—my mother's in her grave,—And dead is stout Don Garcia—Alas! my brother brave!
"'Twas at this coward King's command they slew my brother dear,And now I'm helpless in the land:—It is not death I fear,But loth, loth am I to depart, and leave my children so—Now let me lay them to my heart, and kiss them ere I go."—
"Kiss him that lies upon thy breast—the rest thou mayst not see."—"I fain would say an Ave."—"Then say it speedily."—She knelt her down upon her knee: "O Lord! behold my case—Judge not my deeds, but look on me in pity and great grace."—
When she had made her orison, up from her knees she rose—"Be kind, Alarcos, to our babes, and pray for my repose—And now give me my boy once more upon my breast to hold,That he may drink one farewell drink, before my breast be cold."—
"Why would you waken the poor child? you see he is asleep—Prepare, dear wife, there is no time, the dawn begins to peep."—"Now hear me, Count Alarcos! I give thee pardon free—I pardon thee for the love's sake wherewith I've lovèd thee.
"But they have not my pardon, the King and his proud daughter—The curse of God be on them, for this unchristian slaughter!—I charge them with my dying breath, ere thirty days be gone,To meet me in the realm of death, and at God's awful throne!"—
He drew a kerchief round her neck, he drew it tight and strong,Until she lay quite stiff and cold her chamber floor along;He laid her then within the sheets, and, kneeling by her side,To God and Mary Mother in misery he cried.
Then called he for his esquires:—oh! deep was their dismay,When they into the chamber came, and saw her how she lay;—Thus died she in her innocence, a lady void of wrong,But God took heed of their offence—his vengeance stayed not long.
Within twelve days, in pain and dole, the Infanta passed away,The cruel King gave up his soul upon the twentieth day;Alarcos followed ere the Moon had made her round complete.—Three guilty spirits stood right soon before God's judgment-seat.
I.The Eight Pennies.II.The Three Truths.III.The Husband of Aglaes.IV.The Three Caskets.V.The Three Cakes.VI.The Hermit.VII.The Lost Foot.VIII.Placidus.IX.Dead Alexander.X.The Tree of Paletinus.XI.Hungry Flies.XII.The Humbling of Jovinian.XIII.The Two Physicians.XIV.The Falcon.XV.Let the Laziest be King.XVI.The Three Maxims.XVII.A Loaf for a Dream.XVIII.Lower than the Beasts.XIX.Of Real Friendship.XX.Royal Bounty.XXI.Wily Beguiled.XXII.The Basilisk.XXIII.The Trump of Death.XXIV.Alexander and the Pirate.XXV.A Tale of a Penny.XXVI.Of Avoiding Imprecations.XXVII.A Verse Exercise.XXVIII.Bred in the Bone.XXIX.Fulgentius.XXX.Vengeance Deferred.
When Titus was Emperor of Rome, he made a decree that the natal day of his first-born son should be held sacred, and that whosoever violated it by any kind of labour should be put to death. Then he called Virgil to him, and said, "Good friend, I have made a certain law; we desire you to frame some curious piece of art which may reveal to us every transgressor of the law." Virgil constructed a magic statue, and caused it to be set up in the midst of the city. By virtue of the secret powers with which it was invested, it told the emperor whatever was done amiss. And thus by the accusation of the statue, an infinite number of persons were convicted and punished.
Now there was a certain carpenter, called Focus, who pursued his occupation every day alike. Once, as he lay in bed, his thoughts turned upon the accusations of the statue, and the multitudes which it had caused to perish. In the morning he clothed himself, and proceeded to the statue, which he addressed in the following manner: "O statue! statue! because of thy informations, many of our citizens have been taken and slain. I vow to my God, that if thou accusestme, I will break thy head." Having so said, he returned home.
About the first hour, the emperor, as he was wont, despatched sundry messengers to the statue, to inquire if the edict had been strictly complied with. After they had arrived, and delivered the emperors pleasure, the statue exclaimed: "Friends, look up; what see ye written upon my forehead?" They looked, and beheld three sentences which ran thus: "Times are altered. Men grow worse. He who speaks truth has his head broken." "Go," said the statue, "declare to his majesty what you have seen and read." The messengers obeyed, and detailed the circumstances as they had happened.
The emperor therefore commanded his guard to arm, and march to the place on which the statue was erected; and he further ordered, that if any one presumed to molest it, they should bind him hand and foot, and drag him into his presence.
The soldiers approached the statue and said, "Our emperor wills you to declare the name of the scoundrel who threatens you."
The statue made answer, "It is Focus the carpenter. Every day he violates the law, and, moreover, menaces me with a broken head, if I expose him."
Immediately Focus was apprehended, and conducted to the emperor, who said, "Friend, what do I hear of thee? Why hast thou broken my law?"
"My lord," answered Focus, "I cannot keep it; for I am obliged to obtain every day eight pennies, which, without incessant work, I have not the means of getting."
"And why eight pennies?" said the emperor.
"Every day through the year," returned the carpenter, "I am bound to repay two pennies which I borrowed in my youth; two I lend; two I lose; and two I spend."
"For what reason do you this?" asked the emperor.
"My lord," he replied, "listen to me. I am bound each day to repay two pennies to my father; for, when I was a boy, my father expended upon me daily the like sum. Now he is poor, and needs my assistance, and therefore I return what I borrowed formerly. Two other pennies I lend to my son, who is pursuing his studies; in order, that if by any chance I should fall into poverty, he may restore the loan, just as I have done to his grandfather. Again, I lose two pennies every day on my wife; for she is contradictious, wilful, and passionate. Now, because of this disposition, I account whatsoever is given to her entirely lost. Lastly, two other pennies I expend upon myself in meat and drink. I cannot do with less, nor can I earn them without unremitting labour. You now know the truth; and, I pray you, judge dispassionately and truly."
"Friend," said the emperor, "thou hast answered well. Go, and labour earnestly in thy calling."
Soon after this the emperor died, and Focus the carpenter, on account of his singular wisdom, was elected in his stead by the unanimous choice of the whole nation. He governed as wisely as he had lived; and at his death, his picture, bearing on the head eight pennies, was reposited among the effigies of the deceased emperors.
A certain king, named Asmodeus, established an ordinance, by which every malefactor taken and brought before the judge, should distinctly declare three truths, against which no exception could be taken, or else be hanged. If, however, he did this, his life and property should be safe. It chanced that a certain soldier transgressed the law and fled. He hid himself in a forest, and there committed many atrocities, despoiling and slaying whomsoever he could lay his hands upon. When the judge of the district ascertained his haunt, he ordered the forest to be surrounded, and the soldier to be seized, and brought bound to the seat of judgment.
"You know the law," said the judge.
"I do," returned the other. "If I declare three unquestionable truths I shall be free; but if not, I must die."
"True," replied the judge; "take then advantage of the law's clemency, or undergo the punishment it awards without delay."
"Cause silence to be kept," said the soldier undauntedly.
His wish being complied with, he proceeded in the following manner: "The first truth is this. I protest before ye all, that from my youth up, I have been a bad man."
The judge, hearing this, said to the bystanders, "He says true?" They answered: "Else he had not now been in this situation." "Go on, then," said the judge. "What is the second truth?"
"I like not," exclaimed he, "the dangerous situation in which I stand."
"Certainly," said the judge, "we may credit thee. Now then for the third truth, and thou hast saved thy life."
"Why," he replied, "if I once get out of this confounded place, I will never willingly re-enter it."
"Amen," said the judge, "thy wit hath preserved thee; go in peace." And thus he was saved.
In Rome some time dwelt a mighty emperor named Philominus, who had one only daughter, who was fair and gracious in the sight of every man, who had to name Aglaes. There was also in the emperor's palace a gentle knight that loved dearly this lady. It befell after on a day, that this knight talked with this lady, and secretly uttered his desire to her. Then she said courteously, "Seeing you have uttered to me the secrets of your heart, I will likewise for your love utter to you the secrets of my heart: and truly I say, that above all other I love you best." Then said the knight, "I purpose to visit the Holy Land, and therefore give me your troth, that this seven years you shall take no other man, but only for my love to tarry for me so long, and if I come not again by this day seven years, then take what man you like best. And likewise I promise you that within this seven years I will take no wife." Then said she, "This covenant pleaseth me well." When this was said, each of them was betrothed to other, and then this knight took his leave of the lady, and went to the Holy Land.
Shortly after the emperor treated with the king of Hungary for the marriage of his daughter. Then came the king of Hungary to the emperor's palace, and when he had seen his daughter, he liked marvellous well her beauty and her behaviour, so that the emperor and the king were accorded in all things as touching the marriage, upon the condition that the damsel would consent. Then called the emperor the young lady to him, and said, "O, my fair daughter, I have provided for thee, that a king shall be thy husband, if thou list consent; therefore tell me what answer thou wilt give to this." Then said she to her father, "It pleaseth me well; but one thing, dear father, I entreat of you, if it might please you to grant me: I have vowed to keep my virginity, and not to marry these seven years; therefore, dear father, I beseech you for all the love that is between your gracious fatherhood and me, that you name no man to be my husband till these seven years be ended, and then I shall be ready in all things to fulfil your will." Then said the emperor, "Sith it is so that thou hast thus vowed, I will not break thy vow; but when these seven years be expired, thou shalt have the king of Hungary to thy husband."
Then the emperor sent forth his letters to the king of Hungary, praying him if it might please him to stay seven years for the love of his daughter, and then he should speed without fail. Herewith the king was pleased and content to stay the prefixed day.
And when the seven years were ended, save a day, the young lady stood in her chamber window, and wept sore, saying, "Woe and alas, as to-morrow my love promised to be with me again from the Holy Land; and also the king of Hungary to-morrow will be here to marry me, according to my father's promise; and if my love comes not at a certain hour, then am I utterly deceived of the inward love I bear to him."
When the day came, the king hasted toward the emperor, to marry his daughter, and was royally arrayed in purple. And while the king was riding on his way, there came a knight riding on his way, who said, "I am of the empire of Rome, and now am lately come from the Holy Land, and I am ready to do you the best service I can." And as they rode talking by the way, it began to rain so fast that all the king's apparel was sore wet. Then said the knight, "My lord, ye have done foolishly, for as much as ye brought not with you your house." Then said the king: "Why speakest thou so? My house is large and broad, and made of stones and mortar, how should I bring then with me my house? Thou speakest like a fool." When this was said, they rode on till they came to a great deep water, and the king smote his horse with his spurs, and leapt into the water, so that he was almost drowned. When the knight saw this, and was over on the other side of the water without peril, he said to the king, "Ye were in peril, and therefore ye did foolishly, because ye brought not with you your bridge." Then said the king, "Thou speakest strangely: my bridge is made of lime and stone, and containeth in quality more than half a mile; how should I then bear with me my bridge? therefore thou speakest foolishly." "Well," said the knight, "my foolishness may turn you to wisdom." When the king had ridden a little further, he asked the knight what time of day it was. Then said the knight, "If any man hath list to eat, it is time of the day to eat. Wherefore, my lord, pray take amodicumwith me, for that is no dishonour to you, but great honour to me before the states of this empire." Then said the king, "I will gladly eat with thee." They sat both down in a fair vine garden, and there dined together, both the king and the knight. And when dinner was done, and that the king had washed, the knight said unto the king, "My lord, ye have done foolishly, for that ye brought not with you your father and mother." Then said the king, "What sayest thou? My father is dead, and my mother is old, and may not travel; how should I then bring them with me? Therefore, to say the truth, a foolisher man than thou art did I never hear." Then said the knight, "Every work is praised at the end."
When the knight had ridden a little further, and nigh to the emperor's palace, he asked leave to go from him; for he knew a nearer way to the palace, to the young lady, that he might come first, and carry her away with him. Then said the king, "I pray thee tell me by what place thou purposest to ride?" Then said the knight, "I shall tell you the truth. This day seven years I left a net in a place, and now I purpose to visit it, and draw it to me, and if it be whole, then will I take it to me, and keep it as a precious jewel; if it be broken, then will I leave it." And when he had thus said, he took his leave of the king, and rode forth; but the king kept the broad highway.
When the emperor heard of the king's coming, he went towards him with a great company, and royally received him, causing him to shift his wet clothes, and to put on fresh apparel. And when the emperor and the king were set at meat, the emperor welcomed him with all the cheer and solace that he could. And when he had eaten, the emperor asked tidings of the king. "My lord," said he, "I shall tell you what I have heard this day by the way: there came a knight to me, and reverently saluted me; and anon after there fell a great rain, and greatly spoiled my apparel. And anon the knight said, 'Sir, ye have done foolishly, for that ye brought not with you your house.'" Then said the emperor, "What clothing had the knight on?" "A cloak," quoth the king. Then said the emperor, "Sure that was a wise man, for the house whereof he spake was a cloak, and therefore he said to you that you did foolishly, because had you come with your cloak, then your clothes had not been spoiled with rain." Then said the king, "When he had ridden a little further, we came to a deep water, and I smote my horse with my spurs, and I was almost drowned, but he rid through the water without any peril. Then said he to me, 'You did foolishly, for that you brought not with you your bridge.'" "Verily," said the emperor, "he said truth, for he called the squires the bridge, that should have ridden before you, and assayed the deepness of the water." Then said the king, "We rode further, and at the last he prayed me to dine with him. And when he had dined, he said, I did unwisely, because I brought not with me my father and mother." "Truly," said the emperor, "he was a wise man, and saith wisely: for he called your father and mother, bread and wine, and other victual." Then said the king, "We rode further, and anon after he asked me leave to go from me, and I asked earnestly whither he went; and he answered again, and said, 'This day seven years I left a net in a private place, and now I will ride to see it; and if it be broken and torn, then will I leave it, but if it be as I left it, then shall it be unto me right precious.'"
When the emperor heard this, he cried with a loud voice, and said, "O ye my knights and servants, come ye with me speedily unto my daughter's chamber, for surely that is the net of which he spake." And forthwith his knights and servants went unto his daughter's chamber, and found her not, for the aforesaid knight had taken her with him. And thus the king was deceived of the damsel, and he went home again to his own country ashamed.
Some time dwelt in Rome a mighty emperor, named Anselm, who had married the king's daughter of Jerusalem, a fair lady, and gracious in the sight of every man, but she was long time with the emperor ere she bare him any child; wherefore the nobles of the empire were very sorrowful, because their lord had no heir of his own body begotten: till at last it befell, that this Anselm walked after supper, in an evening, into his garden, and bethought himself that he had no heir, and how the king of Ampluy warred on him continually, for so much as he had no son to make defence in his absence; therefore he was sorrowful, and went to his chamber and slept. Then he thought he saw a vision in his sleep, that the morning was more clear than it was wont to be, and that the moon was much paler on the one side than on the other. And after he saw a bird of two colours, and by that bird stood two beasts, which fed that little bird with their heat. And after that came more beasts, and bowing their breasts toward the bird, went their way. Then came there divers birds that sung sweetly and pleasantly: with that the emperor awaked.
In the morning early this Anselm remembered his vision, and wondered much what it might signify; wherefore he called to him his philosophers, and all the states of the empire, and told them his dream, charging them to tell him the signification thereof on pain of death, and if they told him the true interpretation thereof, he promised them good reward. Then said they, "Dear lord, tell us your dream, and we shall declare to you what it betokens." Then the emperor told them from the beginning to the ending, as is aforesaid. When the philosophers heard this, with glad cheer they answered, and said, "Sir, the vision that you saw betokeneth good, for the empire shall be clearer than it is.
"The moon that is more pale on the one side than on the other, betokeneth the empress, that hath lost part of her colour, through the conception of a son that she hath conceived. The little bird betokeneth the son that she shall bare. The two beasts that fed this bird betoken the wise and rich men of the empire which shall obey the son. These other beasts that bowed their breasts to the bird betoken many other nations that shall do him homage. The bird that sang so sweetly to this little bird betokeneth the Romans, who shall rejoice and sing because of his birth. This is the very interpretation of your dream."
When the emperor heard this, he was right joyful. Soon after that, the empress travailed in childbirth, and was delivered of a fair son, at whose birth there was great and wonderful joy made.
When the king of Ampluy heard this, he thought in himself thus: "Lo, I have warred against the emperor all the days of my life, and now he hath a son who, when he cometh to full age, will revenge the wrong I have done against his father; therefore it is better that I send to the emperor and beseech him of truce and peace, that the son may have nothing against me when he cometh to manhood." When he had thus said to himself, he wrote to the emperor, beseeching him to have peace. When the emperor saw that the king of Ampluy wrote to him more for fear than for love, he wrote again to him, that if he would find good and sufficient sureties to keep the peace, and bind himself all the days of his life to do him service and homage, he would receive him to peace.
When the king had read the tenor of the emperor's letter, he called his council, praying them to give him counsel how he best might do, as touching this matter. Then said they, "It is good that ye obey the emperor's will and commandment in all things. For first, in that he desired of you surety for the peace; to this we answer thus: Ye have but one daughter, and the emperor one son, wherefore let a marriage be made between them, and that may be a perpetual covenant of peace. Also he asketh homage and tribute, which it is good to fulfil." Then the king sent his messengers to the emperor, saying, that he would fulfil his desire in all things, if it might please his highness that his son and the king's daughter might be married together. All this well pleased the emperor, yet he sent again, saying, "If his daughter were a pure maid from her birth unto that day, he would consent to that marriage." Then was the king right glad, for his daughter was a pure maid.
Therefore, when the letters of covenant and compact were sealed, the king furnished a fair ship, wherein he might send his daughter, with many noble knights, ladies, and great riches, unto the emperor, for to have his son in marriage.
And when they were sailing in the sea, towards Rome, a storm arose so extremely and so horribly that the ship brake against a rock, and they were all drowned save only the young lady, which fixed her hope and heart so greatly on God, that she was saved, and about three of the clock the tempest ceased, and the lady drove forth over the waves in that broken ship which was cast up again. But a huge whale followed after, ready to devour both the ship and her. Wherefore this young lady, when night came, smote fire with a stone, wherewith the ship was greatly lightened, and then the whale durst not adventure toward the ship for fear of that light. At the cock-crowing, this young lady was so weary of the great tempest and trouble of sea, that she slept, and within a little while after the fire ceased, and the whale came and devoured the virgin. And when she awaked and found herself swallowed up in the whale's belly, she smote fire, and with a knife wounded the whale in many places, and when the whale felt himself wounded, according to his nature he began to swim to land.
There was dwelling at that time in a country near by a noble earl named Pirris, who for his recreation walking on the sea-shore, saw the whale coming towards the land; wherefore he turned home again, and gathered a great many of men and women, and came thither again, and fought with the whale, and wounded him very sore, and as they smote, the maiden that was in his belly cried with a high voice, and said: "O gentle friends, have mercy and compassion on me, for I am a king's daughter, and a true maid from the hour of my birth unto this day." When the earl heard this he wondered greatly, and opened the side of the whale, and found the young lady, and took her out. And when she was thus delivered, she told him forthwith whose daughter she was, and how she had lost all her goods in the sea, and how she should have been married unto the emperor's son. And when the earl heard this, he was very glad, and comforted her the more, and kept her with him till she was well refreshed. And in the meantime he sent messengers to the emperor, letting him to know how the king's daughter was saved.
Then was the emperor right glad of her safety, and coming, had great compassion on her, saying, "Ah, good maiden, for the love of my son thou hast suffered much woe; nevertheless, if thou be worthy to be his wife, soon shall I prove." And when he had thus said, he caused three vessels to be brought forth. The first was made of pure gold, well beset with precious stones without, and within full of dead men's bones, and thereupon was engraven this posie: "Whoso chooseth me, shall find that he deserveth." The second vessel was made of fine silver, filled with earth and worms, the superscription was thus: "Whoso chooseth me, shall find that his nature desireth." The third vessel was made of lead, full within of precious stones, and thereupon was insculpt this posie: "Whoso chooseth me, shall find that God hath disposed for him." These three vessels the emperor showed the maiden, and said: "Lo, here daughter, these be rich vessels. If thou choose one of these, wherein is profit to thee and to others, then shalt thou have my son. And if thou choose that wherein is no profit to thee, nor to any other, soothly thou shalt not marry him."
When the maiden heard this, she lift up her hands to God, and said, "Thou Lord, that knowest all things, grant me grace this hour so to choose, that I may receive the emperor's son." And with that she beheld the first vessel of gold, which was engraven royally, and read the superscription, "Whoso chooseth me, shall find that he deserveth;" saying thus, "Though this vessel be full precious, and made of pure gold, nevertheless I know not what is within, therefore, my dear lord, this vessel will I not choose."
And then she beheld the second vessel, that was of pure silver, and read the superscription, "Whoso chooseth me, shall find that his nature desireth." Thinking thus within herself, "If I choose this vessel, what is within I know not, but well I know, there shall I find that nature desireth, and my nature desireth the lust of the flesh, and therefore this vessel will I not choose."
When she had seen these two vessels, and had given an answer as touching them, she beheld the third vessel of lead, and read the superscription, "Whoso chooseth me, shall find that God hath disposed." Thinking within herself, "This vessel is not very rich, nor outwardly precious, yet the superscription saith, 'Whoso chooseth me, shall find that God hath disposed;' and without doubt God never disposeth any harm, therefore, by the leave of God, this vessel will I choose."
When the emperor heard this, he said, "O fair maiden, open thy vessel, for it is full of precious stones, and see if thou hast well chosen or no." And when this young lady had opened it, she found it full of fine gold and precious stones, as the emperor had told her before. Then said the emperor, "Daughter, because thou hast well chosen, thou shalt marry my son." And then he appointed the wedding-day; and they were married with great solemnity, and with much honour continued to their lives' end.
A certain carpenter, in a city near the sea, very covetous, and very wicked, collected a large sum of money, and placed it in the trunk of a tree, which he set by his fire-side, and never lost sight of. A place like this, he thought, no one could suspect: but it happened, that while all his household slept, the sea overflowed its boundaries, broke down that side of the building where the log was placed, and carried it away. It floated many miles, and reached, at length, a city in which there lived a person who kept open house. Arising early in the morning, he perceived the trunk of a tree in the water, and thinking it would be of use to him, he brought it home. He was a liberal, kind-hearted man; and a great benefactor to the poor. It one day chanced that he entertained some pilgrims in his house; and the weather being extremely cold, he cut up the log for firewood. When he had struck two or three blows with the axe, he heard a rattling sound; and cleaving it in twain, the gold pieces rolled out and about. Greatly rejoiced at the discovery, he put them by in a safe place, until he should ascertain who was the owner.
Now the carpenter, bitterly lamenting the loss of his money, travelled from place to place in pursuit of it. He came, by accident, to the house of the hospitable man who had found the trunk. He failed not to mention the object of his search; and the host, understanding that the money was his, reflected whether his title to it were good. "I will prove," said he to himself, "if God will that the money should be returned to him."
Accordingly, he made three cakes, the first of which he filled with earth; the second with the bones of dead men; and in the third he put a quantity of the gold which he had discovered in the trunk.
"Friend," said he, addressing the carpenter, "we will eat three cakes made of the best meat in my house. Choose which you will have."
The carpenter did as he was directed; he took the cakes and weighed them in his hand, one after another, and finding that with the earth weigh heaviest, he chose it. "And if I want more, my worthy host," added he, "I will have that"—laying his hand upon the cake containing the bones. "You may keep the third cake yourself."
"I see clearly," murmured the host, "I see very clearly that God does not will the money to be restored to this wretched man." Calling therefore the poor and the infirm, the blind and the lame, he opened the cake of gold in the presence of the carpenter, to whom he spoke, "Thou miserable varlet; this is thine own gold. But thou preferredst the cake of earth, and dead men's bones. I am persuaded, therefore, that God wills not that I return thee thy money." Without delay, he distributed it all amongst the poor, and drove the carpenter away.
There once lived a hermit, who in a remote cave passed day and night in God's service. Not far from his cell there was a flock kept by a shepherd, who one day fell into a deep sleep, when a robber, seeing him careless, carried off his sheep. When the keeper awoke, he began to swear in good set terms that he had lost his sheep; and where they were gone to he knew not. But the lord of the flock bade him be put to death. This gave to the hermit great offence. "O heaven," said he to himself, "seest thou this deed? The innocent suffers for the guilty: why permittest thou such things? If thus injustice triumph, why do I remain here? I will again enter the world, and do as other men do."
And so he left his hermitage, and went again into the world; but God willed not that he should be lost: an angel in the form of a man was sent to join him. And so, crossing the hermit's path, he said to him, "Whither bound, my friend?" "I go," said he, "to yonder city." "I will go with you," replied the angel; "I am a messenger from heaven, come to be your companion on the way."
So they walked on together to the city. When they had entered, they begged for the love of God harbourage during the night, at the house of a certain soldier, who received them cheerfully and entertained them nobly. The soldier had an only and most dear son lying in the cradle. After supper, their bed-chamber was sumptuously adorned for them; and the angel and the hermit went to rest. But about the middle of the night the angel rose, and strangled the sleeping infant. The hermit, horror-struck at what he witnessed, said within himself, "Never can this be an angel of God. The good soldier gave us everything that was necessary; he had but this poor innocent, and he is strangled." Yet he was afraid to reprove him.
In the morning both arose and went forward to another city, in which they were honourably entertained at the house of one of the inhabitants. This person had a rich gold cup, which he highly valued; and of which, during the night, the angel robbed him. But still the hermit held his peace, for great was his fear.
On the morrow they went forward; and as they walked they came to a certain river, over which was a bridge. They went on the bridge, and about midway a poor pilgrim met them. "My friend," said the angel to him, "show us the way to yonder city." The pilgrim turned, and pointed with his finger to the road they were to take; but as he turned the angel seized him by the shoulders, and hurled him into the stream below. At this the terror of the hermit became greater. "It is the devil," he said to himself; "it is the devil, and no good angel! What evil had the poor man done that he should be drowned?"
He would now have gladly gone alone; but was afraid to speak his mind. About the hour of vespers they came to a city, in which they again sought shelter for the night; but the master of the house where they applied sharply refused it. "For the love of heaven," said the angel, "give us shelter, lest we fall prey to the wolves." The man pointed to a sty. "That," said he, "has pigs in it; if it please you to lie there you may, but to no other place will I admit you." "If we can do no better," said the angel, "we must accept your ungracious offer." They did so; and next morning the angel calling their host, said, "My friend, I give you this cup;" and he gave him the gold cup he had stolen. The hermit, more and more amazed at what he saw, said to himself, "Now I am sure this is the devil. The good man who received us with all kindness he despoiled, and now he gives the plunder to this fellow who refused us a lodging."
Turning therefore to the angel, he cried, "I will travel with you no more. I commend you to God." "Dear friend," the angel said, "first hear me, and then go thy way."
"When thou wert in thy hermitage, the owner of the flock unjustly put to death his servant. True it is he died innocently, and therefore was in a fit state to enter another world. God permitted him to be slain, foreseeing, that if he lived he would commit a sin, and die before repentance followed. But the guilty man who stole the sheep will suffer eternally; while the owner of the flock will repair, by alms and good works, that which he ignorantly committed. As for the son of the hospitable soldier whom I strangled in the cradle, know, that before the boy was born he performed numerous works of charity and mercy; but afterwards grew parsimonious and covetous in order to enrich the child, of which he was inordinately fond. This was the cause of its death; and now its distressed parent is again become a devout Christian. Then for the cup which I purloined from him who received us so kindly, know, that before the cup was made, there was not a more abstemious person in the world; but afterwards he took such pleasure in it, and drank from it so often, that he was intoxicated twice or thrice during the day. I took away the cup, and he has returned to his former sobriety. Again I cast the pilgrim into the river; and know that he whom I drowned was a good Christian, but had he proceeded much further, he would have fallen into a mortal sin. Now he is saved, and reigns in celestial glory. Then, that I bestowed the cup upon the inhospitable citizen, know nothing is done without reason. He suffered us to occupy the swine-house and I gave him a valuable consideration. Buthewill hereafter reign in hell. Put a guard, therefore, on thy lips, and detract not from the Almighty. For He knoweth all things."
The hermit, hearing this, fell at the feet of the angel and entreated pardon. He returned to his hermitage, and became a good and pious Christian.