"Achilles' arms which Artegal did win."
"Achilles' arms which Artegal did win."
Artegal's crest was a hound couchant, and on his shield he bore the figure of a crowned ermine on an azure field.
As Britomart looked on the image, she liked it, and having looked at it well, she went her way, and little thought that Cupid, the false archer, had shot an arrow into her heart. After a time, the stately Britomart began to droop. She no longer moved about with her customary princely bearing, but became sad, low-spirited, and full of foolish fears; nor could she discover the cause of her discomfiture. At night when she lay down to sleep, Glaucé, the old nurse who still attended her, wondered at her wakefulness, and at the tears which Britomart tried in vain to conceal. And when sleep visited her weary eyes, it was only for a few minutes at a time, and she started in her sleep as if some ghastly dream had affrighted her. She did not know that she loved, but her thoughts ever returned to the fair image she had seen.
One night when Britomart seemed more uneasy than usual, Glaucé determined to inquire into the cause of her unrest. With loving words she besought the princess to tell her how it was that her former cheerfulness had changed into this sad melancholy.
"Ah me," said the old nurse, "how much I fear lest love it be;" and added—
"But be it worthy of thy race and royal seed,Then I avow by this most sacred headOf my dear foster-child to ease thy griefAnd win thy will."
"But be it worthy of thy race and royal seed,Then I avow by this most sacred headOf my dear foster-child to ease thy griefAnd win thy will."
The nurse was a powerful personage in the king's household, and praying Britomart to put away this melancholy humour, she promised that neither death nor danger should prevent her from relieving her sorrow. Then she took her dear foster-child in her arms and fondled her tenderly, and chafed her cold limbs, and kissed and bathed her fair eyes, praying her all the time to take courage and disclose the secret trouble of her heart.
Britomart did not answer at once; but at length she spoke, and begged Glaucé to inquire no further, since there was no remedy for her distress.
"Dear daughter," said the nurse, "despair not; there never yet was a wound which something could not soothe."
"But mine," said Britomart, "is like no other; for it, reason can find no remedy."
"Nevertheless," replied Glaucé, "love can mount higher than reason, and has oft done wondrous things."
"But," urged the poor princess, "not even love can do that which is not possible to be done."
"Things often seem impossible," said Glaucé, "before they are attempted."
Then Britomart broke out bitterly—"These idle words," she said, "do me no good; mine is no common grief, but, since you will know it, I shall no longer conceal my crime, if crime it be. Neither for prince nor peer is my heart pained, but only for the image and semblance of a knight, aye, and the semblance of one I have not even seen."
So saying, she related to Glaucé the adventure of the magic mirror, and added that the image haunted her so that she almost longed for death itself.
"Daughter," replied Glaucé, "why be so dismayed? Thy love hath a strange beginning, but there is nothing to be ashamed of in it, joy therefore have thou, and eternal bliss;" and stooping over the maiden she kissed her tenderly.
"Ah! nurse," said the Princess, "what you say comforts me but little; for what good is it although my love be worthy if it be fixed on nothing more than a shadow?"
"Nay," said Glaucé, "there never was a shadow that had not a substance, and one which could not by some means be discovered. Still, if thou can'st conquer this evil before it grows more powerful, yield thee not, but if it prove too great for thee, I promise that the beloved knight shall be found."
Cheered by her words, Britomart laid herself down to sleep. Glaucé covered her with tender care, and by-and-bye the damsel slept. Well pleased, the nurse darkened the light of the rude oil lamp and sat down to watch her charge, and as she watched, tears fell from her aged eyes. When morning dawned Glaucé roused Britomart, and together they went to the church to pray. But even there Britomart could not command her thoughts—nor for that matter could Glaucé—and as soon as they returned home the old melancholy came back upon the Princess. When Glaucé perceived this she called Britomart into her own bower, and there tried the effect of spells much resorted to in those old fairy days. But the spells were of no avail, and Britomart grew worse, and became so thin and pale that Glaucé was well nigh in despair. At length it occurred to her that it might be wise to consult Merlin, the great magician. She therefore disguised herself and the Princess, and set out.
Now Merlin dwelt in a dark cave which ran low underneath the ground. It was entered from a rock which lay a little way from a fierce brawling stream that flowed amongst densely-wooded hills. It was a dismal spot, and when the travellers reached it they paused and feared to enter, and half repented their coming. But Britomart, whose nature was full of spirit, recovered courage, and entered, followed by her nurse.
They found the magician busied in his mysteries, writing strange characters on the ground. Their entrance did not surprise him, for by his art he knew before-hand of their coming, and knew also the nature of their business; but feigning ignorance, he bade them tell their errand.
Then Glaucé spoke, humbly praying him not to be offended by their coming since no light cause had brought them there. She paused, but he bade her go on. Then she related how for the last three months the maiden before him had been afflicted by a sore evil, but what it was she scarce could tell; of one thing only was she certain, that unless a remedy were found her nursling must die.
On hearing this Merlin began to smile, and knowing that she had not yet told him the whole truth, said quietly, "If this be all, the damsel hath need of a physician rather than of me," and added these words,
"Who help may have elsewhereIn vain seeks wonders out of magic spell."
"Who help may have elsewhereIn vain seeks wonders out of magic spell."
This speech rather disconcerted Glaucé, who wished to secure his help without confessing who they were or referring to the magic mirror, which would at once reveal the maiden's parentage. "Ah," she exclaimed, "if physicians' skill or any learned means could have relieved my dear daughter, truly I should be loath to disturb thee; but this evil has arisen from a source beyond nature."
Thereupon the wizard laughed outright.
"Glaucé," he said, "why try to cloak what is self-betrayed? And thou, fair Britomart," he continued, turning towards the Princess, "art no more hidden by thy disguise than is the sun when a passing cloud conceals him. Thy good fortune hath brought thee hither to ask my help, and it shall be granted thee."
On finding herself thus addressed, Britomart blushed deeply, but old Glaucé took heart and replied, "Since then thou knowest our grief, pity it, I pray thee, and relieve us."
Whereupon Merlin sat silent for a time, and then spoke thus.
"Be not thou dismayed, most noble virgin, by the sharp pangs which have so sore oppressed thine heart, for so must all excellent things begin. Nor was it idle chance that led thee to look into the charmed mirror; thine eyes were guided by eternal providence in order that heaven's destiny be fulfilled. Thine is no evil fate, thus to love the noblest among knights. Therefore submit thyself to Heaven, and take all due means to fulfil thy destiny."
"But," said Glaucé "advise us, thou great magician, what means to take. How shall she find this knight, or indeed why need she do aught since the fates can of themselves fulfil their own purpose."
"Nay," replied Merlin, "true is it that naught can shake the heavenly destiny, nevertheless men must use their own endeavour to work it out. Know then that he whom Britomart loves, and is to marry, is the knight Artegal. He dwells in the Faeryland, and yet he is neither born of a fairy nor in any way related to one, but was by them stolen from his cradle, and to this day he is ignorant that he belongs not to their race. But he is in truth a son of Gorlois, and a brother of Cador, the great Cornish king, whose deeds are renowned from east to west. And to thee, Britomart, is it given to bring Artegal back to his native soil. He shall return to help his country to withstand the foreign invasion which now threatens thy father's territory. His great strength and his dreaded name shall render great assistance against the foe; and thy prowess shall be added unto his, and together ye shall wear arms and bear great command."
Then the magician saw before him a vision of the future. In his vision he beheld wars and desolation, a ruined church, and a king made captive. Overcome by the sorrows which lay before his people, the aged wizard passed into an ecstasy which much alarmed the two women, who stood silent and confused. Presently it passed away, the natural colour returned to his face, and the expression of horror gave way to one of calm cheerfulness. He then instructed Britomart and her nurse as to what they should do, and they, with lightened hearts, bade him farewell and returned home. There they held secret counsel how best to carry out their difficult enterprise, proposing now one, and now a different plan. At length Glaucé hit upon a bold device.
"Daughter," she said, "I think that plan is ever the wisest that takes into consideration present advantages. Good King Uther is now making war upon the Saracens, and all Britain is in arms. Let us too wear arms and learn to use the shield and spear; so shall we pass unrecognized where we will throughout the land. Thou art tall and large of limb, and armour will befit thee well, and practice will soon bring thee the needful skill in handling weapons. Truly," continued Glaucé waxing eager in praise of her plan, "it ought to inflame thy courage to remember how many women of thy house—a house inferior to none—have done deeds to rival those of the bravest men. Remember bold Bundeca, brave Gwendolin, Martia, and Emmeline; and more than these, let the example of the Saxon Virgin incite thy courage."
"Ah," said Britomart, "what is her name?"
"Men call her fair Angela," replied the nurse, "for she is as fair as she is courageous in battle: she is more dreaded than all the Saxons by her foes, and so beloved by her people that they call themselves by her name. Therefore, fair child, take her example for thine, and equal her in courage."
These hearty words of Glaucé sank deep into Britomart's heart, and inspired in her a great desire to excel in arms. She therefore resolved to undertake the perils of knighthood, and consulted with her nurse how to attire herself in suitable array.
Now it chanced that only a few days previously a band of Cambrians who had gone out against the Saxons had returned with much prey, and among other booty had carried back a complete suit of the armour worn by Angela, the Saxon Queen. It was a rich and beautiful suit, and fretted over with gold. This suit along with other spoils of war King Ryence had caused to be hung up in his chief church as a lasting monument of his success and victory.
In the same church was a famous and mighty spear. It had been fashioned in olden days by magic lore, and was preserved on account of its magic powers. No matter how well or firmly a warrior sat his charger, this spear bore him to the ground.
Glaucé remembered these things, and late in the evening she led Britomart to the church, and taking down Angela's armour from its place on the wall, arrayed her fair nursling therein. She took also the spear, and with it a shield, and gave them to Britomart.
When she had thus completed the Princess' attire, she took another suit of armour and put it on herself, that she might attend Britomart and act as her squire. And now, both being fully equipped, they mounted the horses which Glaucé had caused to be ready, and under cover of the darkness escaped from the palace, nor did they rest until they reached the Faeryland to which Merlin, the great magician, had directed them.
After Britomart and Glaucé left the palace of King Ryence, many adventures befel them. In all her adventures Britomart's magic sword and matchless prowess gained for her great renown, and she was spoken of far and wide as the Knight of the Heben Spear, while old Glaucé, her nurse, was believed to be her squire. They encountered many a famous knight, but they had not yet found him whom they sought.
One day, as they were continuing in their search, they came suddenly upon a stranger knight, who lay with his face on the ground, his armour scattered near him, and who seemed either asleep or in great distress. Lest he should be sleeping, Britomart did not speak, but stood waiting patiently. Presently the knight groaned as if his very heart were breaking, and then burst forth into a piteous wail over the loss of Amoret, his wife.
Unconscious that he was heard, the knight cried out against the cruelty of the wicked enchanter who had taken her prisoner, and kept her for the last seven months cruelly tormented, and shut out from the light of day, in a stronghold guarded by thick smoke and magic fires. Then followed such an outburst of grief that Britomart thought his very life in danger, and no longer able to forbear, stooped down and spoke to him.
At the sound of her voice, the knight raised himself, and looked up, but seeing a stranger, he hastily flung himself down, angry at being disturbed. Britomart, however, was not to be easily daunted, and again spoke.
"Ah! gentle knight," she exclaimed, "whose grief seems well-nigh past bearing, scorn not the relief which Providence may send you. To my hand it may be given to relieve your woe, and wreak vengeance on your enemy."
Her brave words so touched the knight's heart that he poured out the whole bitterness of his woe, telling her how hard it was to reach Amoret, since the tyrant had her in strong enchantment, and had guarded her dungeon with dreadful fiends.
Britomart was greatly moved by his sad tale, and again offered her aid. "Sir Knight," she said, "if you will listen to me, I will either deliver her to you from thence or die with her."
At first the knight, whose name was Scudamour, would not accept so great a boon, but Britomart at length succeeded in persuading him to arise and accompany her to the scene of Amoret's captivity.
Arrived at the tyrant's stronghold, they dismounted, and went boldly to its entrance. There they found neither gate nor porter, but a porch from which issued flames of fire, mingled with smoke and sulphurous stench. At this Britomart was greatly dismayed, and turning to Scudamour, consulted with him how best to overcome this dreadful obstacle, "for," said she, "to run into danger without care and thought is worthy only of the beasts."
"Alas!" said Scudamour, "this is the worst cause of my distress, for the fire cannot be quenched by any wit or skill; what then is there left to me but ceaseless sorrowing. Leave me to my grief, let Amoret dwell in chains, and Scudamour die of misery."
"Nay," replied the noble maid, "to abandon a brave deed for the mere show of danger were a shameful thing; better run all risks than turn aside for fear."
Thereupon, resolved to trust her weapons to the utmost, Britomart threw her great shield before her face, and pointing her magic sword straight in front, moved onward; when lo! the dread flames parted on either side of her, and she passed through scatheless.
When Scudamour saw that she had passed beyond the fire and was uninjured, he, too, tried to force a way. But he was full of proud passions, and commanded the flames to yield to him, and being foolish enough to threaten them, increased their mighty rage so that with imperious sway they sent him back scorched and burned. Impatience and disappointment raged in his bosom, and in a very madness of misery he again flung himself on the ground and beat his head and breast, and would take neither hope nor comfort.
Meantime Britomart pursued her way, and going through the first door, entered an outer chamber. It was full of precious stores, and was hung round with rich arras, into which was woven many a fair scene, portraying the feats of Cupid, the blind god. At the upper end of the chamber stood an altar, built of gems of great beauty, and on the altar was an image of massive gold with wings of divers colours, more varied and brilliant than the hues of the rainbow. This image represented Cupid with the fatal bow and arrows in his hand, and at his feet a wounded dragon. Underneath were written these words—"Unto the victor of the gods this be," and all the people that dwelt in the great castle paid it homage.
Britomart stood still for a while, gazing at the golden image, fascinated by its brightness; but at length she turned to look back and take in the other wonders of the chamber. Then, for the first time, she noticed the words "Be bold" written over a doorway. She puzzled over their meaning for some time, and could not find it, but no way dismayed by the apparent warning, she followed their advice, and advanced from the first to a second chamber.
This chamber was still richer than the other. Its walls were overlaid with gold wrought with figures of antique story, and all about were the spoils and arms and trophies of mighty conquerors, who had been taken captive by the cruel Cupid.
For a long time Britomart gazed around her, and the more she looked the more she wondered, both at the richness of the room and at the wasteful emptiness and solemn silence that pervaded the place. As she continued her survey, she saw over the door through which she had just passed the same words, three times written, "Be bold." While trying to make out their import, her eye chanced to light upon an iron door at the other end of the room, on which was written, "Be not too bold." This puzzled her still more; but no living creature appeared from whom she could ask an explanation. And now the shadows lengthened, and darkness fell, yet Britomart would not sleep, but sat in watchfulness, her armour on, and her weapons all about her.
When night had quite set in, she was startled by the shrill sound of a trumpet. After the trumpet blast, there arose a hideous storm of wind, with thunder, lightning, and an earthquake, followed by a horrible stench of sulphur and smoke, which lasted from four in the morning until six—yet Britomart remained steadfast in her watch. Then suddenly arose a whirlwind throwing open the heavy iron door, and from an inner room there entered a grave personage bearing a branch of laurel, and clad as if for the tragic stage. Before Britomart had time to recover from the surprise of this apparition, a band of minstrels, followed by a troop of masquers, issued also from the chamber. Sweet music and strange and gay figures now filled the hitherto empty room. There were Fancy and Desire, dressed in silk and embroidery; Doubt and Danger in more sober garb; Fear, armed from head to foot; Hope, with golden locks and samite robes; Suspicion and Deceit, Grief and Fury, Pleasure and Displeasure—six couples in all. Behind these came a fair lady, led by Cruelty and Despight, who goaded and tormented her as she walked. After these rode the winged god, mounted on a lion, and closely followed by Reproach, Shame, and Repentance, while a confused rabble brought up the rear.
The procession marched three times round the chamber, and disappeared into the inner room. As soon as it had passed through, the iron door was violently closed by the same whirlwind which had opened it. Then Britomart came forth from the shady corner in which she had stood unnoticed, and tried to follow; but she could by no means pass the door, and was obliged to wait patiently for any opportunity that might arise.
All day the maiden waited, and when the next night came with its garment of darkness her hopes rose, and not in vain. About the second watch, the door flew open, and afraid neither of masques nor enchantments, Britomart walked boldly in. As soon as she entered, she looked round for those persons whom she had seen the previous night. But of all the motley crew only one was visible, and this was the fair lady who had been led by the cruel villains, and who indeed was Amoret. Her hands were fast bound, and round her waist was an iron band that fastened her to a brass pillar. Before her was the wicked enchanter, drawing strange characters with Amoret's own heart's blood, which he drew from her by means of a cruel transfixed dart. By such strange spells, he sought to charm her into loving him. But he had already tried a thousand charms, and had utterly failed to touch her love and loyalty to Scudamour, and indeed she was little likely to love one who wrought such cruel imprisonment.
The moment the enchanter saw Britomart in her knightly attire, he cast away his books of wicked magic, and drawing a murderous knife from his pocket ran fiercely at poor Amoret, whom for very spite he was ready to kill rather than see her escape. Britomart leapt forward, seized his arm, and stayed his murderous intent. In a moment the enchanter's rage turned upon her, and his sword inflicted a wound upon her snowy throat.
Then Britomart drew forth her deadly spear, and struck him so dire a blow, that he fell on the ground half dead. Another stroke must have killed him, and she was on the point of dealing it when Amoret made sign to her to hold her hand, telling Britomart that only he who had enchained could set her free.
Hearing this the noble maiden paused, and very unwilling to spare her wicked captive, addressed him thus, "Thou wretched man, for whom no punishment can be too severe, be sure that nothing shall save thee from death, unless thou immediately restore this lady to health and freedom."
Glad to secure his life on any terms, the enchanter at once yielded, and rising up, began to look over the leaves of his accursed books, that he might learn how to reverse the charms he had wrought. Britomart stood over him with her sword drawn, and so dreadful were the things he read, that her hair stood on end with horror. By and bye she perceived that the house shook and the door rattled, but not for a moment did she slacken the grasp of her weapon. With steadfast eye and stout courage she waited to see what these strange omens meant. At length she saw the chain that wound round the waist of Amoret fall slowly to the ground, and the brazen pillar to which she was bound break in pieces. The dart that pierced her bosom fell out as of its own accord. The wound it had made closed up as though it had never existed, and all the hurts and bruises caused by her long imprisonment were forthwith healed.
When the fair dame found herself free, she fell on the ground before Britomart, thanking her out of the fulness of her heart, and begging to be permitted to render her deliverer some service or reward.
Britomart raised her, and replied courteously that her labour received more than sufficient reward in seeing Amoret thus free and safe.
She then besought the lady to take comfort, and putting away the remembrance of her past cruel sufferings, think rather of what Scudamour, her loving husband, had lately endured on her account. It cheered and comforted Amoret to hear Scudamour, whom of all living wights she loved best, thus spoken of by her deliverer.
But Britomart's work was not yet done. She turned to Busyran, the wicked enchanter, bound him firmly by the chain which had held Amoret captive, and thus secured, led him forth from his own stronghold.
Then Britomart was amazed to find that the rooms which had so lately astonished her by their beauty and richness had completely vanished. Still more surprised was she to find the flames which had guarded the porch quenched, and the porch itself gone.
But now a sore disappointment befel both Britomart and the lady Amoret, for when they reached the spot where Scudamour had been left, neither he nor old Glaucé, the squire, were anywhere to be seen. Britomart's brave heart was sorely astonished, and poor Amoret, in whom hope had sprung up, was filled with alarm and misgiving lest she had been betrayed.
Scudamour's faint-heartedness was the cause of their grief and disappointment.
For a time after the war-like maiden's disappearance within the castle, he lay eagerly expecting her return. But she did not come back all that day, and Scudamour, who was not a very great and therefore not a very patient knight, gave way to despair, and made up his mind that Britomart had been consumed by the flames. He took counsel with old Glaucé, and together they resolved to leave their post, and go in search of further help; thus it was that Britomart and Amoret came forth to find themselves deserted.
And so Scudamour and Glaucé and Britomart and Amoret sought each other for many a long day in vain; how they met at last another tale must tell.
In the days of Britomart there lived a famous knight named Marinell.
Now this Marinell was a sea-nymph's son, and dwelt in a rocky cave by the sea-shore. His mother had trained him to deeds of daring and a life of hardihood. Along the strand on which he dwelt no man durst pass without first doing battle with Marinell. He had subdued and made vassals of a hundred brave knights, and his renown had reached the Court of Gloriana, Queen of Faeryland.
Yet Cymoent, his mother, was not satisfied, but prayed the sea-god to make her son richer than the son of any of the mortals. The sea-god granted her prayer, and bade the waves yield him their treasure—treasure gained by the wreck of many a gallant craft.
So there were heaped upon his shores great riches—gold, amber, ivory, pearls, jewels, rings, and all else that was precious, until Marinell became as great a lord as any that dwelt in the land. So powerful did he grow that his mother began to fear lest his boldness and haughtiness might cost him his life, and she counselled him to forbear further warfare and be at rest.
That she might be the more secure of his welfare, Cymoent inquired of Proteus, the sea-god, concerning her son's future. Proteus replied that Marinell must beware of all womankind, as one day a strange maiden would cause him much dismay, if not destroy his life. Now Cymoent supposed this to mean that Marinell must not love any woman; she counselled her son accordingly, and he listened to her words and followed her advice.
One day as Marinell rode on the rich strand dressed in gay arms, looking here and there, he descried a rider on the forbidden ground.
This was no other than Britomart, journeying in disguise. Marinell rode fiercely up to her, and haughtily bade her retire before he made retreat impossible. She was filled with disdain at his proud threat, and replying, "Fly they that need to fly," thrust at him with her magic spear. Thereupon Marinell struck her on the breast; for a moment her head bent low upon her horse's neck; then she raised herself and smote him so hard a blow that her spear pierced his shield and hauberk, and glancing off, wounded his side.
Thus Britomart bore him down until he fell helpless on the sand. She did not stay to lament his fall, but went on her way, passing by his treasure, and caring nothing for it.
This then was the woman of whom Proteus, the sea-god, had given warning.
Now, the sad tidings of Marinell's overthrow reached Cymoent as she and her sister-nymphs were disporting themselves by a pond gathering daffodils to make garlands wherewith to shade their foreheads from the sun. When Cymoent heard the melancholy news, she flung away her flowers, and rending her hair, threw herself speechless on the ground. The nymphs likewise tore off their garlands, and loudly lamented Marinell's fate.
At length Cymoent arose out of her swoon. She at once called for her chariot, while the sea-nymphs called for theirs, and set out with her on their mournful errand. The waves ceased to rage, and helped them on their way, while the dolphins which drew the chariots sped swiftly through the water, and brought Cymoent and her sisters to where Marinell lay.
They found him in a deadly faint. When his mother saw him lying thus, she fell from one swoon into another, and when she at length recovered, made such piteous moanings that the very rocks could scarce refrain from tears. She bewailed her son's fall, and wished that she too had been mortal to have shared his fate.
At length, after long sorrowing and great wailing, the sea-nymphs took Marinell's armour off, spread their silver-fringed garments on the strand, and laid him upon them. They then examined his wound, washed the blood away, and poured in balm and nectar. Then Liagore, the lily-handed, trained by Apollo in the surgeon's lore, felt his pulse, and discovered that life still lingered in his frame. Whereupon his mother no longer despaired, but, aided by the sea-nymphs, bore him to her chariot. At her command the dolphin-team remained still while flowers were strewn over him as if he were already dead. The sister-nymphs then climbed into their chariots, and Marinell was borne swiftly to Cymoent's sea cave. It was far down at the bottom of the sea, and built up of hollow billows heaped high on all sides. Here, on the softest of couches, they laid him, while Cymoent sent for Tryphon, the best esteemed among the sea-gods in the art of healing, and the nymphs sat round bemoaning his sad plight.
Now, the news of Marinell's sad overthrow reached the court of Gloriana, Queen of Faeryland, where was the lady Florimell, who was famed for her rare goodness and great beauty, and was held in high repute throughout all Elfin-land. She was loved of many knights, but she herself loved only Marinell, and when the news of his fall reached her, Florimell resolved to leave the court of Gloriana, and vowed that she would not return until she had found her love, alive or dead. She mounted a snow-white palfrey, and attended by a trusty dwarf, set forth: she was clad in a dress of cloth of gold, and her fair locks were bound in a jewelled circlet.
Some days after, it happened that Prince Arthur, accompanied by Timias, his squire, and one or two others whom they had encountered on their way, were riding leisurely through the woods that led to Marinell's abode, when the fair Florimell dashed suddenly across their path. She had burst out from the brushwood, and rode as if for her life. Her hair streamed behind her, and she constantly looked back as if fearing pursuit. And sure enough, there appeared a rough forester, riding a jaded steed, which he was urging over bush and bank until the blood flowed from its sides.
Now, when the Prince saw this, he and a knight named Guyon hastened to Florimell's rescue, while Timias, the Prince's squire, followed the forester. Through thick and thin, over hill and plain, the Prince and the knight followed, but the poor damsel feared them as much as she feared the forester, and fled from them so swiftly, that when they reached a double way she was out of sight, and they could not tell which path to take. Each took a separate one, and that chosen by the Prince proved right. At length he came in sight of Florimell. Urging afresh his foaming steed, he approached the terrified damsel, and called on her to have no fear. She looked back, but, not recognizing Prince Arthur's arms or shield, paid no attention to his call. And so it fell that darkness came on, and the Prince was reluctantly obliged to give up all hope of helping her. Little did she think from how great and good a deliverer she fled, or into what miseries this flight would lead her.
Thus Florimell sped on, fearing every shadow and every sound, until when darkness fell, she grew so weary that her palfrey wrested the reins from her slack hold, and went where he would. At length even he could go no farther, and to her dismay, lay down. Florimell was now forced to alight and lead him.
After travelling slowly for some time, she came to a hill-side, and here she saw below her a little valley thickly clothed with wood. From amongst its high trees there arose a wreath of thin blue smoke, and encouraged by this sign of habitation, the maiden went on her way more hopefully. But she was very weary and worn when she reached the place from which the smoke proceeded. It was a cottage built of sticks and reeds, walled round with sods, where dwelt a witch, dressed in poor and dirty rags, and living wilfully in want. She dwelt in these dark woods because her deeds were evil.
Here poor Florimell entered, and found the hag seated on the ground, apparently busied in magic arts; she started up when she saw Florimell, stared at her, but said nothing. Very soon her fear, for such it seemed, turned to anger, and she asked the damsel who she was, and what ill fortune had sent her there, unwelcome and uninvited.
Florimell replied that she had lost her way, and prayed her not to be angry with one who was unwilling to intrude on her, and only begged shelter and rest for a little space. As she spoke, tears dropped from her eyes, and she sighed so gently and sadly that the wicked old woman could not help being sorry for her, and began in her rude way to show some kindly feeling; wiping the tears from Florimell's eyes, she bade her sit down and rest. Florimell gladly obeyed; she sat down on the dusty ground, put her torn garments into better order, smoothed her fair hair, and fastened it into its golden circlet. When the hag saw the rich ornaments in Florimell's hair, and beheld how beautiful she was, she wondered greatly, and feared lest a goddess had found her way to the hut.
This old witch had a son who was as wicked as herself. He was also lazy and good-for-nothing, loving to lounge in the sunshine, and sleep away his time. When he returned home, and found a fair lady sitting by his mother, he was so astonished at the sight of beauty in such a place, that he stood quite still, staring at Florimell, and saying never a word. At length he went up to his mother, and asked her in a whisper by what strange chance this vision had appeared. His mother only replied by a scared look, as if her wits were gone, and the two gazed first at Florimell, and then at one another.
By-and-bye, however, they grew accustomed to her presence. Her ways were so gentle that the witch's son became enamoured of her beauty, and brought her young birds and garlands of flowers, and a wild squirrel which he tamed. Florimell received his gifts courteously, but she feared him, and so, when an opportunity came, she saddled and bridled her palfrey, and early one morning made her escape. She went in great trepidation, for she was afraid that she might be followed and overtaken.
Now when the witch and her son awoke and found her gone, their grief was very great. Indeed, the son became almost frantic, and nothing his mother could do would pacify him. So she bethought herself of her wicked arts, and retiring to her secret cave, called up a hideous beast, monstrous and misshapen;—its back speckled with a thousand spots, and so swift that it could overtake the fleetest steed. Nothing like it had ever been seen, yet it more resembled a hyena than any other creature.
This monster the hag sent after Florimell, charging it not to pause until it found her, and either to bring her back or slay and devour her. The moment she ceased speaking, it set off, and by the help of its keen sense, surely and swiftly traced the maiden. When Florimell saw the cruel monster, and perceived that it began to overtake her, her heart quaked with fear. Terror also seized her palfrey, who, as long as breath supplied him with strength, fled onwards. At length his pace began to slacken fatally, and then indeed, Florimell believed herself at the last extremity. But just as her horse's strength gave way, she reached the shore, and slipping hastily to the ground, sped towards the water, thinking to drown herself rather than have the monster seize her. All unexpectedly she found a little boat, with an old fisherman asleep in it, drawn up at the water's edge. Leaping into the boat, she seized an oar, and pushed it out from the land.
Her escape was none too soon, for the monster was close upon her, and ready to spring just as her boat left the shore. It gaped greedily at her, but durst not venture into the water, and turning back avenged its wicked spite upon the noble palfrey.
By-and-bye the good Sir Satyrane, who had delivered Una from the Satyrs, rode that way, and seeing the dead body of the horse, recognized it as belonging to Florimell. He feared some ill must have befallen the maiden, and his fears were confirmed when he found a golden girdle she was wont to wear lying on the sand. Full of grief and rage, he fell upon the speckled beast, and wounded it severely; but it managed to escape from him, and returned to the old hag, while Sir Satyrane was forced to go on his way. When the old woman saw the beast return, she believed that Florimell was dead, and rejoiced in her heart, but her son became more wretched than ever, and to comfort him, his mother made an image, and calling a wicked spirit into it, gave it such a likeness to Florimell that her son mistook it for her, and was comforted.
Meanwhile the true Florimell was in fresh straits. For a long time the fisherman slept on, so that she had to steer the boat as best she could, but this was an easy task, for the wind was light and the sky clear. But when the old man awoke, she discovered that he was rude and cruel, and would have made a slave of her if he could. It chanced, however, that Proteus, god of the seas, was abroad that day, and was roving over the foamy waves, drawn by his finny steeds. He came upon the little boat, and when he saw that the fisherman behaved roughly to the damsel, he beat the old man and took Florimell into his own chariot.
Now Proteus was an aged god, whose hoary hair was frozen, and on whose long beard icicles hung. He told the still affrighted Florimell who he was, and bade her no longer fear, and spoke so kindly to her that she was comforted and cheered. The sea-god bore her to his own dwelling, a hollow cave eaten out by the angry waves from under a mighty rock at the bottom of the sea. Here Proteus dwelt with no living being save an old nymph whose name was Panopè, and whose care it was to keep the cavern clean. He was very pleased to have Florimell, and thought to keep her there. But he soon discovered that she thought much more of Marinell than of anyone else, and that nothing he could do would make her forget the knight, or be content to remain in the ocean cave. At this he became very angry, and at last let her down into a deep dungeon, where he threatened to keep her until she died. And for seven long months the poor damsel was imprisoned there bound in chains, guarded by raging waves and grizzly ocean monsters.
Meantime Marinell still lingered in his mother's bower. By the aid of Tryphon, the sea-god's surgeon, he had been cured of the wound inflicted by Britomart. But so fearful was his mother lest further ill should befall her son, that sorely against his will she kept him in her cave almost as closely confined as if he had been a prisoner.
It happened at this time that all the sea-gods met to celebrate the wedding of the Thames and the Medway. A solemn feast in honour of the event was held at the abode of Proteus, and there Cymoent, with many others, was summoned. With her went Marinell, but, as his father was only a mortal, Marinell was not accounted a god, and might not banquet with immortals or eat of their food. Therefore, while his mother was within, he wandered about examining the strange abode, and, as he did so, there befel to him a strange adventure. From under a hideous overhanging cliff he heard a sad voice uttering such piteous lamentations that the cruel rocks and raging billows seemed moved in sympathy. It was Florimell, who, believing herself alone, bewailed her fate aloud. Though none could hear, she nevertheless spoke out her grief in the hope that the very recital might yield her some comfort, for
Heaven, that unto all lends equal ear,Is far from hearing of my heavy plight,And lowest hell, to which I lie most near,Cares not what evils hap to wretched wight,And greedy seas do in the spoil of life delight.
Heaven, that unto all lends equal ear,Is far from hearing of my heavy plight,And lowest hell, to which I lie most near,Cares not what evils hap to wretched wight,And greedy seas do in the spoil of life delight.
She mourned that while the beating of the waves pierced the hardest rocks, her piteous plaints only hardened the tyrant's heart against her. Then she prayed all the sea-gods to release her, or else to let her die at once, and ended by the words, "Know, Marinell, that all this is for thee." After this followed such an outburst of grief and weeping that it seemed as if poor Florimell's heart must break.
On hearing her sad complaint, Marinell, who had never yet been touched by pity for the misfortune of any, was filled with remorse and grief at the thought of Florimell's condition.
In his sorrow began the dawning of his love, and he set himself to devise the fair damsel's escape. He thought of suing Proteus for her release, but this he could not do without his mother's aid, and he remembered her charge against the love of women. For a moment he contemplated rescuing her by force of arms, but Proteus was a god, while he had only mortal's might. Then he bethought himself of carrying her off by stealth, but the damsel was surrounded by water, and he possessed no means of getting her to land. So he wandered sadly about the rock, blaming himself severely for not having acknowledged her goodness and beauty long ago.
At length the feast was over, and Marinell was obliged to accompany his mother home, and, sore against his will, leave Florimell in her sea-walled dungeon. Thinking of nothing but her sad fate, he was silent and disinclined for companionship, and so brooded over his secret sorrow that he could neither eat nor sleep. He pined and languished and wept until he grew so weak and ill that he could not stand upright, but was forced to lie upon his couch.
When his mother saw his miserable state, she was greatly troubled, and knew not what to think, for she could not discover the source of his malady. She fancied his old wound was the cause, and repaired to Tryphon, whom she chid sharply because of her son's distress. He returned with her and examined the wound, but said that Marinell's present discomfiture must have some other source, perhaps an unknown grief. At this Cymoent was more troubled than before, and went to her son, beseeching him to reveal to her what lay hidden in his heart, but he would not. Then forsaking the sea-gods as of no avail, she hastened to the heavens, and thence brought Apollo, god of healing, to see her son. He declared the disease to be love.
Cymoent grieved and fretted greatly when she heard this, and went to her son and prayed him in gentle words to tell her which one of the sea-nymphs he loved. She felt sure it must be a sea-nymph, and was the less concerned since the god's warning had been only against a mortal maid. She therefore promised, whoever it might be, to aid him in his suit. Great was her dismay when Marinell replied that he loved Florimell. But it was no time to indulge in fruitless grief, for her son lay in danger of his life. Cymoent therefore went straight to Neptune, and telling him of Proteus' cruelty towards Florimell, begged him to order her release. This Neptune at once did, and armed with his warrant she went to Proteus' cave, and there saw the maiden whom her son loved. The old sea-god read his monarch's mandate in moody silence, but was forced to obey, and therefore yielded his prisoner to Cymoent. She, charmed by Florimell's grace and gentle loveliness, took her by the hand, and welcomed her lovingly, rejoicing that her son should have so fair a wife. Then Cymoent showed her son the fair maiden, and his heart and spirit were so cheered within him that his strength gradually returned, and he became himself again. Nor was Florimell less glad.
After a time Marinell took her back to Faeryland, where he married her, and there was a great banquet held in honour of the wedding, and after the feast a tournament, in which Marinell did deeds of great renown, of which you shall hear more in the tale of Braggadochio.
Among the good and brave knights who fought in Faeryland was a false one named Braggadochio.
Wandering aimlessly about the forests, this man had one day come upon a noble horse, fully caparisoned, and a spear lying by its side. Here was his chance! He made no endeavour to find the owner of the steed, but straightway appropriated both horse and spear.
Finding himself thus armed and mounted, his ambition rose; he determined to call himself a knight, and to set out for the famous court of Gloriana.
He had not gone far when he saw a man sitting idly on a sunny bank. At this Braggadochio puffed himself out in order to look grand, pricked on his horse, and ran at the man full tilt. In terror the man fell flat upon the ground, and lifting up his hands, cried out piteously for mercy. Thereupon Braggadochio thought himself a great warrior, and thundered at his victim in a loud voice, calling him all sorts of names, and commanding him to yield or die, adding that he might think himself happy to be permitted a choice.
The man cried out that he yielded. Then Braggadochio told him, that if he would prostrate himself on the earth and kiss his stirrups he would accept him as his thrall. Immediately the coward cringed at his feet, and did him homage as his liege lord.
By-and-bye this craven thrall became emboldened, for he found out Braggadochio's character, and being full of cunning, resolved to keep in his master's favour by humouring his vanity.
So they went forth. Braggadochio the knight, and Trompart the squire, a fitting pair.
Very soon after they had cast in their fortunes together, they met Archimago, the great and cruel wizard. Now Archimago had a secret grudge against certain knights, and was in search of some one to avenge his fancied wrong. Delighted to see so imposing a personage as Braggadochio, he inquired of Trompart what mighty man this was that rode on a golden saddle, yet carried no weapon save a single spear. Trompart replied that his lord was a great adventurer, who had lost his sword in a hard fight, and had sworn never to wear another until he had avenged himself of his loss. His master's spear, he alleged, was weapon enough to make a thousand combatants quake.
Archimago was much delighted, and he bowed low to Braggadochio, and told the story of his wrongs.
When Braggadochio heard it, he pretended to be very angry, and threatened the offending knights with instant death if Archimago would only tell him where to find them. This the enchanter at once did; but he warned Braggadochio that his enemies were two of the mightiest knights that lived, and begged him to arm himself with a sword as well as his spear.
But Braggadochio scorned his advice, laughed at the notion of measuring his might by the arms he bore, and taunted the enchanter with the weakness of old age, declaring that Archimago little knew what his right arm had done. At this the old man grew ashamed of his mistrust, yet could not dismiss it from his mind.
As he hesitated whether to speak again Braggadochio broke out into a loud boast, declaring that he had once slain seven knights with a single blade, and had then sworn never again to wear a sword unless it were that belonging to the noblest knight alive.
By this grand speech he thought to get rid of Archimago and his troublesome request. But not so, for the enchanter at once promised to bring him by next day the flaming sword of Prince Arthur, "noblest knight alive"; and as he spoke he vanished, leaving no trace behind.
And now the boaster began to fear, and to wonder who this strange man might be. His wonder soon changed to panic, and the bold champions, Trompart and Braggadochio, fled from the spot as if the very ground Archimago had trod would rise and pursue them.
They did not once look back until they reached a green forest, and there they concealed themselves. But their terror was by no means gone: every leaf that moved, every sound the wind made caused their valiant hearts to quake, while all the time they feigned that they were only pretending fear.
At length a shrill horn echoed through the wood, and some one was heard moving quickly in the thicket. This new cause of fright so overcame Braggadochio that he tumbled hastily from his horse and crept into a bush. Trompart waited to see what would happen. Presently there issued from the brushwood a lady in hunting dress. She was very beautiful: her habit was adorned with rich jewels, and her stately bearing showed her to be of princely birth. In her hand she carried a boar-spear, and at her back was slung a bow and a quiver full of steel headed darts.
When Trompart saw the lady, fear seized upon him, and he could not tell whether to flee away or to remain in hiding, but she soon spied him out, and asked whether he had seen a wounded hind pass by. Addressing her in most respectful terms, Trompart replied that he had not, and then begged of her to tell him which of the goddesses she was. She was on the point of replying when something moved in the thicket. It was Braggadochio, but the damsel thought it was her prey, and, bending her bow, would have made a speedy end of the boaster had not Trompart stayed her hand, and explained that his lord, far-famed for bold achievement, lay shrouded there.
As he spoke Braggadochio crept forth on hands and knees; then, rising up boldly, shook his helmet fiercely, trying to appear as if he had just been awakened from deep slumber. The sight of her beauty restored him to self-confidence, and he was beginning to resume airs of vanity when a vision of the weapons she carried cowed him. Her manner, however, again reassured him. She addressed him as a companion-in-arms, and Braggadochio, taking up the strain, recounted the wondrous deeds he had done, then boldly asked who she was that thus ranged the forest and did not dwell at court. To this she replied, that honour was only truly to be found in toil, and that he who idled at home need not hope to win it.
While she spoke Braggadochio, presuming on her graciousness, grew more and more insolent in his demeanour. Indignant, the goddess bent her javelin threateningly, then turned and fled apace. Braggadochio was at first dismayed, but was far too great a coward to pursue. So, concluding that he had better depart lest worse things should befall, he mounted his steed and rode away in so clumsy and untrained a manner that the noble animal chafed under him, and yearned to be eased of his burden.
Some time after this, as Braggadochio and Trompart, who now also possessed a steed, were going on their way, they saw a rude rustic seated on the roadside by a beautiful lady, richly decked with jewels. Now, these were no other than the false Florimell and her lover, son of the old witch who had sent the cruel beast after Florimell the true. Braggadochio thought a knight such as himself more suited to the fair lady than any rustic. He therefore couched his spear, rode up to the man, declaring that the damsel was his, and must be yielded to him on pain of death.
The rustic, greatly alarmed, and not daring to fight against so powerful-looking an enemy, let his lady go, and Braggadochio mounted her on Trompart's horse and led her off, a proud and happy man. As they journeyed he began to make love to her, but presently their love-making came to an abrupt end, for they encountered an armed knight, who advanced towards them on a heavy charger that trampled the ground with a sound like thunder.
The appearance of this knight greatly disconcerted Braggadochio, but he looked as fierce as he could, and made a show of cheering his lady, who also was afraid. The knight came on, fierce and powerful, and bade Braggadochio give up the lady or else do battle for her. This challenge made the boaster quake with terror, but he put on the best appearance of bravery he could, and addressing the stranger declared that man to be very foolish who sought to win with words what he had gained with blows. At this the knight grew angry, and told Braggadochio to prepare to fight.
"Then," said Braggadochio, "since die thou wilt, let us both turn our steeds, ride back a certain distance, and meet in equal tilt." They did as he suggested, and retired one from the other about a furlong's space, when Braggadochio, whose last intention was to fight, rode away, and without looking back, left his lady-love to take her chance, caring only for his own safety. Thus did his valour show itself!
After several further adventures, Braggadochio one day encountered a party of knights and ladies who were on their way to a great tournament. He rode up to them and they treated him courteously, and allowed him to accompany them.
Now, it happened that the fair but false Florimell whom Braggadochio had so basely deserted was of this company, and rode with a knight named Blandamour. No sooner did Braggadochio see her than he wished to have her back again. He therefore declared that he had before won her in battle and that she was his by right. But Blandamour would not listen to his claim, and taunting him with having lost his lady-love decreed that Braggadochio must fight for her once more if he wished to make good his pretended right. He further proposed that the false Florimell should stand side by side with a wicked old witch named Até, who was of their company, and that he who won the day should have the lady, and he who was beaten, the witch. The company were all pleased with this proposal, and false Florimell and the hag were brought forward, whereupon all began to laugh. Then Braggadochio, glad of any excuse which saved him from fighting, declared that he would be no party to any such bargain; if Blandamour liked to offer another lady as fair as Florimell, he would agree to fight, but he would not risk his life on the chance of gaining so poor a prize as Até. At this they all smiled, the false Florimell upbraided him with want of gallantry and Até, the witch, tried to urge him on, but he cared for none of them, and remained obstinate.
In order to keep the peace, a brave knight, Cambello, who chanced to ride with them, reminded the company that they were on their way to a great tournament, and had better not waste their strength in quarrelling on the way, but wait until they arrived where each could fight his fill and, if they wished, fight out this quarrel also. So they passed off Blandamour's proposal as a joke, and went on together; but all the way they mocked at Braggadochio and made a laughingstock of him.
Now, the tournament to which this company was going was one arranged by the good knight Satyrane, he who had picked up the lost girdle of the true Florimell.
It was to be held in her honour, and to last for three days. To the combatant who most distinguished himself the right was reserved of claiming the hand of the fairest lady present, and to that lady Satyrane would yield Florimell's golden girdle.
On the first day, Sir Satyrane himself was judged the victor. On the second, Braggadochio's opportunity arose; but when his turn came to fight, he looked so uncertain and fearful that the knight Triamond, indignant at his cowardly hesitation, stepped forward and took his place. The third day was no more favourable to the braggart, for a strange knight appeared within the lists, who bore all others down, and won the honours of the tournament.
Then followed a contest as to which was fairest of the many damsels who had graced the combat. Knight after knight advanced his lady, but of them all, Florimell the false was deemed most lovely, and to her the girdle was awarded.
Now, this girdle had been framed by magic skill, and could not be made to clasp upon falsehood of any kind. It would not therefore fasten on the false Florimell, who, however, insisted upon wearing it, although she was forced to tie it on.
And here fortune favoured Braggadochio, for there arose a great quarrel as to whose Florimell should be. The knight who had rightfully won her was no other than Britomart, who cared nothing for her prize. Then Braggadochio stepped forward and called Florimell to witness that he had before won her in battle. At his audacity the uproar grew more loud, for all the knights hated and despised Braggadochio. At length Sir Satyrane proposed that all should forego their claim, and that the false Florimell should be placed in their midst, and of her own free will choose her rightful lord. To this the knights agreed, and after looking long at each one, as if she would fain have pleased them all, Florimell turned to Braggadochio. The knights were almost mad with disappointment and anger at her choice, so Braggadochio, feeling rather uncomfortable and not very safe among them, bore her off in the night, and left them to complain.
Soon after this the true Florimell was married, as you have already heard, to Marinell. Immediately after the wedding, Marinell held a great tournament, in which he and six friendly knights maintained Florimell's beauty against that of any lady all the world over.
The lists were open to all who cared to enter them, and many were the honours lost and won, but when the third day dawned, Marinell still wore the victor's laurel. This day was to end the tournament, and as the fight grew more and more fierce, Marinell became surrounded, and was in serious danger. At that moment the brave Sir Artegal, whom Britomart sought, entered the tilting-yard, and at the same time, Braggadochio, Trompart, and the lady. Sir Artegal saw Marinell's danger, and hastened to his aid, but not wishing to be recognized, he changed shields with Braggadochio before entering the lists. After a hard combat, he succeeded in rescuing Marinell from the opposing knights, and together they won every honour of the field.
The tournament ended, Sir Artegal returned his shield to Braggadochio, and the whole company repaired to the great hall, where the judges of the tilting match were to announce the name of him who had won the prize. There also stood the true Florimell, ready to greet every knight according to the deeds he had done. Then the judges called for the stranger knight who had rescued Marinell, but Artegal did not move, and in his stead Braggadochio advanced and showed his shield, which all recognized as that belonging to the victor. The trumpets sounded three times in his honour, the judges awarded him the prize, and Florimell came forth to greet him and to thank him for the honour he had done her name. But Braggadochio received her courteous words with scorn, declaring that what he had done had been for his own lady's sake, and not for hers.
At these rude words, Florimell turned aside, and Braggadochio, who had kept his lady veiled until now, brought her boldly forth before all the people, maintaining that she and not the other was Florimell the true. She was indeed fair, and for a moment the assemblage was stupified, and agreed that if this were not the Florimell famed throughout Faeryland, she was yet more beautiful. Even Marinell was dismayed, and knew not what to believe. Then arose Sir Artegal, and no longer able to contain his anger against Braggadochio, plainly discovered himself, and charging the boaster with utter falsehood, declared it was he and not Braggadochio who had rescued Marinell; for proof of which he pointed to the false knight's unused sword. He next called for Florimell, and leading her up to the other, caused the two to stand side by side. Behold, the false could not abide the presence of the true, and the false Florimell faded away before their eyes, and no trace of her was left but the empty girdle. The people were struck dumb with astonishment, and Braggadochio was seized with despair and remained as still as if he were lifeless. Artegal broke the silence, for he stooped and lifted the girdle, and presented it to Florimell. She fastened it on her waist, and it fitted perfectly; and all were convinced that this was indeed Florimell, and crowded around her, giving her tokens of their joy.
Meantime, a commotion arose in the hall. The knight Guyon, to whom the stolen horse belonged, had arrived, and seeing Braggadochio's horse recognized it as his own. Seizing its reins with one hand and drawing his sword with the other, he insisted on having it restored. Braggadochio refused, and a quarrel ensued, which bade fair to be a bloody one. Then Artegal came forward and asked Guyon whether he could prove the steed to be his own. Guyon replied that there was a mark inside the horse's mouth by which he could certainly recognize it. At this several of those present tried to open its mouth, and were severely bitten for their pains. Then came Guyon himself, and called his steed by its name, at which the horse broke loose from its bonds in its joy and followed Guyon, opening its mouth so that all could see whose he was.
Now Artegal was deemed the just, and all looked to him for judgment in the quarrel. He decreed the proof sufficient, and condemned Braggadochio to go on foot until he could obtain a horse honestly. Braggadochio raged and raved in fury, and made Artegal at length so angry that he three times laid his hand on his sword to kill him, but Sir Guyon stayed his anger, saying that Braggadochio was unworthy the vengeance of a true knight.
So was Sir Artegal pacified, but Talus, his servant, seized Braggadochio, and, dragging him out of the hall, shaved off his beard, reversed his shield, blotted out his device, broke his sword, and scattered his armour. Then, rushing after Trompart, who had tried to make away, he disarmed him also, and scourged him out of the court; and, amidst the laughter and scorn of the knights and their ladies, Braggadochio and his follower finally disappeared.
After leaving the abode of Busyran, the cruel enchanter, Britomart and Amoret met with many adventures, but in none of these did they encounter either Scudamour or Artegal. At length Britomart heard of Sir Satyrane's famous tournament, and to it, accompanied by Amoret, she repaired.
It was the last day of the tournament when they arrived. Many brave combats had already taken place, but for this day was reserved the most eager display of valour. Full many a knightly deed was wrought, and when fortune seemed to forsake the side of Satyrane, he himself was ever ready to assist his knights and uphold their honour, proving once again his far-famed prowess. Nor was there one that day who did not put forth his utmost strength, as might be well seen from the many wounds received, the shivered spears and broken swords, and horses that ran riderless. Still the knights of Sir Satyrane kept the ascendency. But when the day had dragged on a weary pace, there appeared from out the other side a stranger. Whence he came no man could say, nor could they discover aught from the arms which he bore. His steed was caparisoned with oaken leaves, his armour looked like wild weeds decked with wood mosses, and on his ragged shield was the strange device, "Salvagesse sans finesse." On entering the lists this new-comer levelled his spear at the first knight he met, and overthrew him at the first encounter. Knight after knight he vanquished, until his spear split, and then he drew his sword, and with it hewed and slashed at helmets until everyone began to shun the very sight of him as of death itself. And now all men wondered who this was, and whence he came, inquiring one of another by what name he was called, and when they could learn nothing they dubbed him the Savage Knight because of his wild appearance. He was, however, no knight of the woods, but Artegal, the brave and mighty.
Thus were Sir Satyrane and his knights dismayed by the sole power of Artegal, and none of them durst stand in the field before him, but were beaten back and chased about all the day, until evening came, and the sun began to slant downwards in the heavens. Then, again, there rushed out from the thickest press, an unknown knight, who in turn put to shame even the glory of Sir Artegal.
This was Britomart, who, eager to restore the day to Sir Satyrane, bent her powerful spear towards Artegal's helmet, and smote him so sore a blow that he fell from his charger, and was for a time unable to arise. Nor did others who crossed spears with the stranger fare better; and when the fighting was over, Britomart, content with having restored the glory of the field to Satyrane, went on her way with Amoret, ignorant that she had, all unawares, seen and fought with Artegal her love.
He, however, was sore at heart, by reason of his defeat, and eager to have his revenge on the unknown warrior.
Meantime, Scudamour still sought his wife. He had, by this time, heard of her rescue, but instead of feeling grateful to Britomart, he was jealous and suspicious of her, for the wicked hag Até had spoken ill of the noble maid, and tried to create enmity against her.
From being suspicious, Scudamour became unjust, and in his wrath against Britomart, had nearly slain old Glaucé, her faithful squire. In vain did the aged dame try to pacify his wrath; the more calmly she spoke, the more angry he grew, and yet their common interest held them together. At length, after various wanderings, they one day encountered an armed knight, who, when he saw them approach, rode rapidly towards them as if bent on an attack. Scudamour, perceiving his purpose, rode forward, ready for the combat, but, as the other knight came near and saw the arms which Scudamour bore, he checked his charger, and riding quietly up, addressed him courteously, calling him by his name, and praying to be pardoned for the offence against a friend which he had so nearly committed.
To this, Scudamour replied, that at worst it were a slight offence to try his sword with any venturous knight, and begged to know who it was that had thus called him by name.
"Call me the Savage Knight," said Artegal, "as others do."
"Then," said Scudamour, "interpret your name; have you taken it for some secret purpose, or only because your home is in the forest?"
"The other day," Artegal replied, "a stranger knight did me shame, and I wait to wreak revenge upon him when he shall pass this way."
At this answer, Scudamour asked who the stranger knight might be, and Artegal told him that he was one whose name was unknown, although his fame was far renowned. He was called the Knight of the Heben Spear, and having borne down all opponents in a great tournament lately held by Sir Satyrane, had departed, carrying with him the fairest lady ever seen.
When Scudamour heard mention of the dread spear, he knew it must be Britomart of whom Artegal spoke, and his rage kindling afresh, he exclaimed in angry accents—
"This is not the first uncourtly deed of which that knight is guilty; he hath stolen from me my true love, and if this hand can aid in the revenge you purpose, it shall not fail you when the time arrives."
So together they plotted vengeance on the unconscious and noble Britomart.
While they were thus talking, they saw far off, a knight, dressed in foreign arms and strange accoutrements, whom on nearer approach, they recognized as none other than this same Knight of the Heben Spear. Then Scudamour prayed Sir Artegal to let him make the first attack. Artegal granted the request, and Scudamour, preparing his spear for battle, ran fiercely against his foe. Britomart, seeing his intention, prepared to receive the onset, and so entertained Sir Scudamour, that presently both horse and rider were on the ground.
And now Artegal, beholding Scudamour's mischance, advanced his lance, and full of rage and vengeance, rode against the maiden; but lo! all unawares, Artegal also left his saddle, and to his great amazement, found himself on the ground. He leapt lightly up, and snatching his deadly blade, sprang upon Britomart, assailing her with such vigour that although she was mounted and he on foot, she was forced to give way before him. Now, as they fought, it happened that Britomart wheeled suddenly round, when Sir Artegal's sword struck a blow behind her crest, which falling backward, wounded her steed, and forced her to dismount.
Not a whit dismayed, she cast from her the enchanted spear, and betook herself to her shield and sword. So furiously did she fight that Artegal, exhausted by his long combat, had to yield before her, and her sword pierced through his armour and wounded him so that his blood flowed freely on the green grass.
But now the tide of battle began to change, for Britomart grew weary, while Artegal, through very fighting, seemed to gain rather than to lose strength. He showered blow after blow on his opponent as if he would tear her body from her soul, and then gathering together all his force, the Savage Knight upraised his arm to deal a stroke from which it seemed impossible that Britomart could escape with her life. Down came the cruel blow, and falling on her helmet, struck off the face-piece, then glancing aside, did no further hurt.
And now appeared the maiden's beauteous countenance, shining like the ruddy morn; and all around, her fair hair—loosened from its band by the stir of the fight—fell like a golden shower glistening as the shining sand. And as Sir Artegal once more raised his sword, thinking to deal the last deadly blow, his arm was suddenly arrested; and benumbed with secret fear, shrank from its revengeful purpose, while the cruel sword fell from his slackened fingers to the ground. Then Artegal, having gazed long on the fair and unexpected vision, fell humbly on his knee, thinking that she who stood before him was a heavenly goddess, and horror-struck with what he had done, prayed for pardon.
But Britomart, full of wrath because of the stroke that had revealed her face, still held her arm uplifted, and standing sternly over the knight, threatened to strike unless he would return to the combat, bidding him arise or he should surely die. But Artegal only prayed the more earnestly for pardon, or if that were refused him, besought that she would take her will and inflict on him what punishment she chose.
And when Scudamour, who now quaked with fear, watched her as she stood resolute, and beheld how fair and heavenly her countenance appeared, he crossed himself, and began to worship her as a celestial vision. And old Glaucé seeing this, and knowing that now all jealousy of Britomart would be at rest, was joyful at the thought of a good ending to her sore trouble, and greeting her lost nursling, prayed her as she loved her faithful squire to grant these warriors a truce. The maiden yielded to her request, and the knights raised their beavers to show who they were.
When Britomart beheld the face of Artegal in all its manly beauty, she saw that it was the countenance she had beheld in the magic mirror in her father's house; her angry courage gave way, her haughty spirit became subdued, and her upraised arm fell quietly by her side.
But the maiden was very proud, and cared not to show that she was conquered, so by-and-bye she tried to uplift her hand again, as if rage and revenge still remained in her soul, but it fell harmless, for she caught sight of Sir Artegal's fair countenance. Then she tried to force bitter, angry words from her tongue, but it too refused to obey her will, and instead of wrathful speeches, would utter only mild and gentle words.
And Scudamour, relieved from all his jealous fears by the vision of her loveliness, grew sportive in his speech, rallying Sir Artegal on his so sudden humble behaviour towards his late opponent.
"Indeed, Sir Artegal," he exclaimed, "I delight to see you, who were wont to despise all fair dames, become so suddenly a lady's thrall."
When Britomart heard the name of Artegal, she knew in very truth that this was the knight whom Merlin had told her she should wed. Her heart gave a great leap. She trembled for sudden joy and secret fear, while the blood rushed through her veins and mounted to her fair face. Then, fearful of betraying herself, she strove the harder to continue in her former angry mood, trying thus to hide her newly-awakened feeling.