And now old Glaucé began to speak wise words.
"Ye gentle knights," she said, "whom fortune hath brought to be spectators of the emotion which secret fate hath wrought in this fair lady, marvel not, and henceforth be not the prey of idle fears and jealous thoughts. Nor may you, Sir Artegal, again disdain the might of woman's arm, which hath twice conquered you, nor any longer be rebellious unto love, which is the crown of knighthood and the bond of noble minds. And you, fair lady knight," continued the old woman, "relent, and grant him your grace."
Britomart blushed deeply at her nurse's words, but Artegal rejoiced in his inmost heart, yet dared not make too sudden a change in his demeanour, nor show openly the love which her beauty and quiet dignity of manner, so grave and full of princeliness, inspired within him. But his passion grew the stronger from the very restraint imposed upon him.
Here Scudamour, whose heart had all this time been racked with fear and hope, interposed, with a request for tidings of Amoret. This Britomart at once granted, and went on to relate a sad tale: how, after freeing her from the enchanter, and guarding her with tender care and love for many a day, she had lost her in a wild desert, where from sheer weariness Britomart had fallen asleep.
Poor Scudamour was terribly cast down by these melancholy tidings, and only plucked up a faint hope when Britomart pledged herself to remain with him until together they found the missing dame.
Meantime the three combatants being thus reconciled one to another, mounted their steeds, and rode towards a certain resting-place known to Sir Artegal, where they were well received and cared for. Here they remained until their wounds were healed, and their weary limbs thoroughly rested.
And all the time they sojourned there, Sir Artegal served Britomart with meek service, watching continually how he might best please her. Thus day by day he made progress in his suit; and though Britomart in her womanly pride tried hard to conceal the love she bore him she could not quite succeed. So well did Artegal woo, so skilfully did he contrive, that at length he brought the noble damsel to bay and forced her to lay aside her seeming indifference and to hearken to his words. And as she listened to the vows with which he swore to love and guard her, Britomart's reserve gave way, and she yielded a glad consent to love and own him for her lord until marriage should unite them for ever.
But their marriage might not be yet, for Sir Artegal had been sent out from the court of Gloriana, Queen of Faeryland, on a hard adventure, and until it was achieved he might not turn aside from following after it. And now that his limbs were rested and his wounds were healed, the knight knew the time was come when he must leave Britomart and continue on his way, so he told her of the adventure on which he was bound. She, poor maiden, having just begun to taste of the rest and comfort of his presence, was sorely grieved and exceeding loth to be so soon parted from her "dearest love." But he, strong in the sense of duty, persuaded her to acquiesce, and with fresh vows of love and constancy, promised to return to her so soon as ever his enterprise was ended, which would not, he thought, be longer than three months.
Early next morning, Sir Artegal rose and pursued his way unattended, save by Britomart, who insisted on accompanying him a certain distance.
As they rode, she found first one, and then another excuse for delay, and talked of the perils he must encounter; perils of which the fearless maiden would have thought little for herself. But it was of no avail; all her stratagems but served to wear away the day; evening came, when they must part. Full often Britomart took leave of her lord, each time finding some last injunction to give, until at length she had spent all her words and could find no further pretext for delay, and so with right heavy heart she left him, and returned to fulfil her promise to Scudamour.
How Sir Artegal did at last return from his enterprise and marry the Princess Britomart, Spenser does not say, for he did not live to end all the tales he had begun. But we know that they were married and lived happily, for Merlin prophesied this when Britomart and Glaucé went together to his cave.
Once upon a time there lived a knight named Cambello, who had a sister called Canacée. This sister was very beautiful, and was the most learned lady of her day. She was skilled in the works of nature and in magic arts; she understood the virtues of herbs and the sounds of beasts and birds, and was as good as she was learned.
Now many lords and knights loved Canacée. She, however, showed favour to none; but the more difficult she was to gain, the more was she sought after. Then arose quarrels among her numerous wooers, who ofttimes fought for her in bloody combat.
When Cambello saw this, he perceived it would cause much mischief, and he set about to consider how to prevent these unseemly deeds.
So one day, when this bold and mighty company of knights were assembled together, and were quarrelling as usual, Cambello proposed that if they really loved his sister they should choose three from among their number as champions. These three were to challenge and fight him for his sister's hand, and the bravest was to become her acknowledged suitor.
This was a bold offer on Cambello's part, but Canacée employed her skill on his behalf. She sent him a ring, which, amongst its many virtues had the strange power of staunching the bleeding of a mortal wound. The properties of the ring were well-known, and when her lovers saw Cambello receive it, they began to falter and to wonder whether it were worth while to risk life against such odds for a lady of whose favour they were after all uncertain.
Amongst the knights were three brothers, Priamond, Diamond, and Triamond. These three were born on the same day and loved one another dearly. Each had his own way of fighting. Priamond fought on foot, and for weapons used a spear and cutlass, Triamond on horseback with spear and shield, while Diamond, who was equally at home on horse or foot, used only a cutlass. Bolder men never lived.
Now their mother, Agapé, was a fairy, and had the power of knowing secret things, and as her sons grew up and showed a love of daring, she feared lest they should thereby incur disaster. She therefore determined to visit the three sister Fates and to inquire of them concerning her sons. She had to leave the bright earth and go far underground to a deep dark abyss where was their dwelling.
Agapé found the sisters sitting round the fateful distaff, which Clotho held while Lachesis span the threads that measured out men's lives, and cruel Atropos cut them in twain. Saluting the Fates she sat by, and as she watched them spin and cut the threads, her heart grew sad, and she trembled as she told them the cause of her coming.
They at once consented to reveal to her the fate of her sons, and proceeded to spin out their threads. Agapé trembled still more to see how short and thin these were. She besought that they might be drawn out longer, but to this the sisters would not listen.
Then she craved another boon, and asked that when the eldest, whose thread was shortest, died, his life might pass into the second son, and that when the second died, both lives might pass into the third. This boon they granted, and Agapé went home to find her sons arrayed in armour ready for fight. She did not tell them their destiny, but warned them to beware of danger and exhorted them to love each other.
Now these three brothers were the champions chosen by Canacée's wooers to challenge Cambello.
The day of combat was appointed, and as soon as it was dawn the knights assembled in the field clad in shining armour. The lists were enclosed with rails to keep off the press of people; at one side sat six judges, while at the other, Canacée, beautifully dressed, was seated on a stage where she could both see and be seen by those who fought for her.
The first to enter the lists was Cambello, who walked with stately step and fearless countenance; soon after came the three brothers, bearing gilt shields and broad banners. They marched three times round the field, bowing low to Canacée each time they passed her stage, while trumpets sounded and clarions played.
This ceremony over, Cambello and Sir Priamond advanced from the opposite sides of the lists; a trumpet blew, and they met in fierce encounter. They were a well-matched pair, and it was hard for the on-lookers to say who was the better man.
At length Priamond struck so mighty a blow that it pierced Cambello's shoulder, and forced him to lower his shield. Yet no blood fell from the wound, and the pain of it only made Cambello fight the more fiercely. Driving his spear at Priamond, he smote him in the thigh so that the knight reeled in agony; then Cambello drove at him afresh, and this time fixed his spear so firmly that in drawing it out the head broke.
Mad with pain and rage, Priamond now charged, thrusting his spear through Cambello's beaver. The weapon broke in his hand, and Cambello, dragging out the broken head, flung it back with fury. It struck Priamond in the throat, and wounded him so that he died, whereupon his life passed into Diamond, as the Fates had predicted.
At once Sir Diamond rushed forth into his brother's place, and, accepting Cambello's challenge, the trumpets sounded, and the fight began again. Fiercely they fought, while blood flowed freely, and their weapons flashed fire as stroke fell on stroke; but for a long time the issue was uncertain.
At length Diamond heaved his axe at Cambello with such force that it must have killed him had he not seen it and swerved aside. Then Diamond, who was bowed almost to the ground with the weight of his own blow, slipped. Seizing his opportunity, Cambello with one dread stroke severed his opponent's head from his shoulders. And behold! his body remained upright for a time before it fell senseless to the earth. The spectators were much astonished, for they did not know the Fates' decree, nor that the lifeless trunk had been inhabited by a double soul, which lingered awhile before it passed to Triamond.
Then Triamond, filled with the life and grief of two, leapt forth to avenge his brothers' death. And, notwithstanding the hard fight and his many wounds, Cambello met him as fresh as if he had not fought at all, for the ring not only prevented his wounds from bleeding, but restored his wearied spirits and revived his powers.
But Triamond was a fearless foe, and fought so desperately that Cambello was forced to retreat, until from his very fury Triamond grew breathless. Then Cambello attacked him in turn, compelling him to retire. And so the fight went on until both were sorely wounded, and Triamond's strength gave way from loss of blood. But Cambello, through the virtue of the ring, grew ever stronger, and striking Triamond on the hauberk, pierced it through, and so wounded him that he fell, to all appearance, dead.
But only one of his three lives had gone from him, and, to the utter surprise of all beholders, he suddenly arose and began again to assail Cambello. Cambello was astounded at this strange sight, and in his amazement stood still and off his guard, until Triamond's repeated thrusts compelled him to defend himself. He now fought more cautiously than he had done before, as if his adversary were some uncanny thing, so that Triamond imagined the knight was getting faint-hearted, and that victory was at hand. So thinking, he upheaved his mighty blade and aimed a terrible blow at Cambello. He, seeing it come, leapt skilfully aside, and pierced Triamond under the arm, wounding him right through to the shoulder. But Cambello did not altogether escape the heavy blow, which, falling on his head, hurt him wofully. Both combatants fell to the ground, seemingly dead. Thereupon the on-lookers thought the tournament ended, and the judges rose from their seats. The field-marshals broke up the lists, and went to remove the armour from the slain warriors, and poor Canacée wailed aloud for her brother. When, behold! both knights started lightly from the ground, and once more began the combat.
For a long time they fought fiercely, recklessly, as if caring only to end the contest. No one could say who would win, and all were watching eagerly, yet sadly, for the death of one or both, when suddenly a great noise was heard, so great that the champions themselves stood still. And lo! driving at a furious speed, there appeared a chariot, drawn by lions and decked with gold and precious ornaments, in which there sat a lady of wondrous beauty. She was bounteous as well as beautiful, and learned in all magic arts, for she was Cambina, the daughter of Agapé, and sister of Triamond, to whose aid she came.
There was terrible confusion as she drove through the thick crowds, for the people pressed to see her, and her unruly steeds grew restive, and overthrew many of the mob.
In one hand she held a rod of wondrous power, in the other a cup filled with Nepenthe, a drink devised by the gods to take away anger from the hearts of men, and give peace in its stead. As she came up to the lists she touched the rail with her wand, and it at once flew open. Then she descended from her chariot, and bid "All hail!" first to her brother and then to Cambello. But they were eager to return to the combat, and paid her scant attention. Seeing this, she flung herself on the bloody ground, and with tears prayed them by all that was dear to them to cease. Her entreaty availing not, she touched them lightly with her wand, whereupon their swords fell from them, and as they stood doubtful whether or not to resume them, she handed them the soothing draught, and they being very thirsty, drank of it eagerly.
Then was a wonder wrought, for the two fierce combatants ceased fighting, and kissed each other, and plighted hands as friends for evermore. When the on-lookers beheld this fair sight they shouted aloud for joy, and Canacée descended in haste from her exalted seat, and came to see what the shout portended. When she found the fighting ended and the foes at peace, she greeted Cambina, the strange lady, and offered her love and friendship.
The trumpets sounded, and they all arose to depart. Cambina took Canacée in her chariot, and Triamond and Cambello returned home together, and the people rejoiced with great feasting in the land.
And after a time Triamond took Canacée, and Cambello took Cambina to be their wives, and no such friends or lovers were anywhere to be found.
You may remember that the good Prince Arthur had a squire named Timias. He it was who went in pursuit of the forester that so rudely followed Florimell. He thus became separated from his lord and had many adventures before he again saw Prince Arthur, who grieved sorely over the loss of his beloved squire.
Timias' first adventure was an encounter with the forester. He chased him through thick woods, a long and weary way, and more than once had nearly avenged the rude fellow's discourtesy towards Florimell. But the forester managed to escape, either because his horse was swifter or his knowledge of the woods better than that of Timias. He made his way to his two brethren, who dwelt with him in the wilds. To them he complained of the ill done him by the squire, and so excited their wrath that they determined to set out forthwith and aid him in making an end of Timias.
All three therefore repaired to a hidden glade, close by a narrow ford, difficult at any time to cross, and now swollen by recent rains. They knew that Timias must pass this ford, and here they lay in wait.
Things fell out just as the brothers expected. All unaware of danger the squire rode up, and began to cross the ford. The moment he did so, the forester stepped out upon the opposite bank, and daring Timias to move another step, threw a dart at him, which struck his habergeon. The blow did not harm him but it made him very angry, all the more so that the bank on which the forester stood was so high that Timias could not reach his antagonist.
At this moment one of the brothers shot a poisoned arrow out of the thicket, which wounded the squire, and caused him exceeding pain. Still he struggled on against all difficulties, and at length reached the opposite bank, where the third brother now attacked him with a bill-hook. Timias avoided the blow and killed the man with a thrust of his spear.
This increased the rage of the surviving brothers, who made a fresh attack with renewed energy. Timias, however, singled out one, and directing his whole force against him, struck a blow which cleft his head from skull to chin. Filled with rage and horror, the last brother shot an arrow at the squire, and immediately attempted flight, but Timias overtook him, and just as he entered the stream, struck off his head.
Timias was now freed from the three brothers, but his troubles were not over, for his poisoned wound bled so profusely that he soon fell from his horse in a deadly faint. He was in a sad plight all alone in the forest, but—
Providence heavenly passeth living thought,And doth for wretched man's relief make way.
Providence heavenly passeth living thought,And doth for wretched man's relief make way.
While he lay in the swoon, Belphœbe the huntress, she whom Braggadochio had seen, came where the squire lay. She found him lying in a pool of blood, his hair matted and tangled, his eyes fixed and his lips pale. She recoiled with horror at the sight, but she was a good and brave woman and looked again, and as she looked her heart grew pitiful, and stooping down she felt his pulse. Finding that it still beat she raised his head and rubbed his temples, and then unfastened his armour. This done, she hastened to the woods, where she found herbs, which she carefully prepared. The juice of the herbs she poured into the wound and then bound it with her scarf. By-and-bye Timias opened his eyes and saw the lady standing by him, her bow and golden quiver lying at her feet. He thought her an angel or a goddess, and addressing her as such, asked what service he could render in return for her care. To this Belphœbe replied that she was only the daughter of a wood-nymph and that she desired nothing but his recovery for reward.
By this time the damsels of the huntress arrived and were despatched to recover Timias' strayed steed. Having brought it back, they set him upon it and led him gently to their dwelling.
It lay in a pleasant glade, surrounded by mountains whose mighty woods cast great shadows, and in the midst of which a little stream murmured softly over a rocky bed. By the stream was a fair spot planted with myrtles and laurels, and among these stood a rich pavilion. Here they laid Timias on a soft couch, and here Belphœbe daily dressed his wounds until he became quite well and strong. And then, from gratitude for Belphœbe's care and admiration of her rare virtues, Timias gave up all thought of returning to the Prince, and remained in the forest as her faithful attendant.
One day when hunting with Belphœbe and her damsels, Timias, as often happens in the chase, got separated from his companions, and while wandering about in search of them, came suddenly upon a poor lady who was being carried off by a cruel giant. He instantly went to her rescue, and succeeded in freeing the lady. But he was himself in great danger when Belphœbe, attracted by the noise of the fight, came to his aid, and bending her bow pursued the giant to the door of his den, where she slew him with an arrow.
Meantime Timias, always kind and gentle, was filled with pity for the fair lady whom he had rescued. She had fainted from terror and was much bruised by the fray and the cruel grasp of the monster. The squire knelt by her side, examined her wounds with tender touch, wiped her dewy and unconscious eyes, and in his pitifulness kissed them. At that moment Belphœbe returned, and when she saw her faithful squire so tender towards the lady, her heart swelled with proud disdain. In her sudden passion she was ready to have killed both squire and lady with the very bow which had already slain the monster. She however restrained herself, and drawing near to Timias, exclaimed, "Is this the faith?" then turned and fled.
Distressed at her rebuke Timias instantly arose and followed her, but ever as he drew near she threatened him with her bow and would not permit him to approach her. After a long and fruitless pursuit the squire was forced to turn back with a sad heart. Finding a solitary part of the forest he chose a glade made gloomy with mossy trees, and there built a hut to live in. He broke his weapons and threw them away, vowing never again to fight nor ever again speak to a woman, but to live alone and deplore his grief. The better to keep his foolish vow he cut and spoiled his clothes, let his hair grow until it fell untended over his shoulders, ate only wild fruits and drank only running water. Thus he weakened himself until he was unfit to carry arms, and disguised himself until no one could recognize him.
Indeed it chanced that one day Prince Arthur came into that part of the forest and found Timias in this wretched plight. The Prince talked to him and tried to make out who he was, but never guessed he was all the time addressing his lost squire. Timias would not speak, but only bowed reverently, and the Prince was obliged to go away sad at heart. He thought the miserable man some love-lorn swain, for he saw the name of Belphœbe cut on many of the trees, and remarked how he brightened at the sound of the name and even kissed the ground where it was written.
Thus Timias dwelt alone, wasting his youth in selfish solitude, until one day, as he lay bemoaning himself, a turtle dove that had lately lost her mate happened to come that way. Seeing one so sad, she paused in her flight and began to mourn with Timias. She sat by his side and sang so pitiful and so human a ditty that the squire fancied he heard in it his own name; and as he listened, he shed many tears and beat his breast and tore his hair in his sadness.
Day by day the bird sat by him and sang; she showed no sign of fear and for guerdon of her song, he never failed to share with her his scanty meal.
Timias grew to regard her as a companion, and one day when looking at some mementoes given him by Belphœbe, he chose out a ruby, shaped like a heart, and bound it on the dove's neck. He expected to find some pleasure in gazing at it as he lay and listened to her song, but suddenly the dove finding herself thus decked flew away. Timias was now more sad than ever, for he had lost both the jewel which Belphœbe had given him and his companion.
Meantime the bird flew right through the forest until she came where Belphœbe rested after the chase. There she alighted and straightway began her mournful ditty, hoping thus to attract the maiden's attention. She succeeded, and after watching her for some time Belphœbe noticed on the dove's neck the well-known jewel. Rising hastily she attempted to grasp it, but the dove flew out of her reach, and when she saw that Belphœbe followed, lingered until the maid was near, when she again flew a little way forward, and thus flying and resting lured her far into the forest. They at length arrived near to the abode of Timias, when the dove flew straight into his hand. There she began a most piteous plaint, as if to force Belphœbe to understand who this was. The maiden, however, although sorry for this wretched-looking man, and wishful to do him any good she could did not recognize him. But Timias knew her: he said nothing, but fell humbly at her feet, and kissing the ground on which she trod, washed it with his tears and looked at her with wistful looks. She did not understand him, but wondered at his courtly manners, and pitying his misery, asked him whether heaven or the cruelty of man or his own wilfulness were its cause. When she ended speaking Timias broke his long silence and with it his vow, and replying that his suffering arose from all three, added that she herself had done the wrong.
He went on to pray her forgiveness and the sad words touched Belphœbe's proud heart when she found that it was Timias who thus addressed her.
Relenting from her severity she received him into favour again. For a long time he lived happily in the forest ever attending Belphœbe and forgetting the Prince, his rightful lord, who still sought for his lost squire.
By-and-bye men grew envious of the high distinction Timias received from the great Belphœbe, and said unjust and malicious things of him, but he behaved wisely and continued in her favour.
There were three men more anxious than any others for the overthrow of Timias. These were Despetto, Decetto, and Defetto. They tried all sorts of mean tricks by which to work his ruin, but in vain.
At length they resolved to send the Blattant Beast to destroy him. This was a horrid monster, treacherous and cruel, given to turn suddenly on its pursuer, and bite with poisonous fangs.
On a day when Timias was hunting, these bad men sent the Beast into the forest, hoping that he would give it chase and so be led to destruction. Just as they expected, Timias charged the monster as soon as he saw it, and with such fury that the Beast turned and fled. As it turned it bit him; he, however, paid no attention to the wound, but hotly pursued the Beast, which led him into thick woods and rough places full of briers, and thus wore out his strength until it had him in a woody glade where his three foes lay concealed.
All three sprang out and attacked him fiercely, so that it required his utmost skill to defend himself. They closed round him and rained blows on every side and yet he contrived to withstand them all and even to make them yield before him. But after a long fight his strength began to fail before the heavy odds, and he feared he must soon yield. Just then he heard the trampling and neighing of a horse. The sound inspired him with fresh hope, and the next moment he saw a knight in full armour riding hastily to his rescue. Despetto, Decetto, and Defetto saw this also, and like the cowards that they were, fled precipitately into the thick brushwood whither the knight did not choose to follow. He turned instead to Timias, and in the sorely bested combatant, Prince Arthur, for he it was, recognized his long-lost squire. Exceedingly rejoiced the Prince took him in his arms and embraced him tenderly, and thus was Timias restored to his rightful lord.
Of all the knights that lived at Gloriana's Faery Court, there was none more gentle or more courteous than Sir Calidore. He was beloved by every one, for to his natural gentleness of spirit and grace of manner was added a manly bearing and courtesy of speech that stole men's hearts away. He was tall and strong, and much renowned for his bravery in battle, and he never employed his great gifts for mean purposes or flattered any one, for he loved simple truth and steadfast honesty.
Now about this time a very hideous monster was wandering about in Faeryland. This was the Blattant Beast, the same that attacked Timias, and so terrible a creature was it, that even the wicked race from which it sprang dreaded and hated it.
This monster had iron teeth, and within the iron teeth were a thousand tongues—of dogs, cats, bears, and tigers,—but the greatest number were human tongues, and these uttered cruel scandals, caring not when or where. There were also serpents' tongues, with three-forked stings, which spat out poison and said hateful things of any who interfered with the Beast. Indeed the delight of this horrid creature was to annoy and injure and destroy good men and women. It was the very plague and curse of mankind, whom it bit and wounded and tormented with its venomous teeth and wicked tongues.
Against the Blattant Beast Sir Calidore was sent, and he was commanded to give it incessant chase until he overtook and subdued it.
It was a hard quest, for the Beast never remained in one place, and Sir Calidore, without guide or good direction, had to go forth in untried ways, to unknown dangers, and to laborious effort.
At length after a weary search and many adventures, after permitting himself little rest either by night or by day, after pursuing the Beast from the court to cities, and from cities to country places, Sir Calidore came into open pasture land where shepherds watched their flocks.
Here he so nearly overtook the monster that he forced it to hide itself from him amongst empty sheds and huts. By the help of these it once more escaped the knight, who, as he still followed in pursuit, chanced to espy a group of shepherds singing and playing, whilst their sheep wandered among the fresh young plants, and nipped off their tender buds.
All tired and heated, Calidore went up to the shepherds, and asked them whether they had seen a Beast such as he described. They replied that they had neither seen it nor anything else to excite their alarm, and prayed God to deliver them from all such.
Then one of the shepherds seeing that Calidore perspired from the heat, offered him a draught to quench his thirst, and food to relieve his hunger. The knight courteously accepted their kindness, and, sitting down at their request, partook of their homely hospitality.
As he rested after the meal, Sir Calidore noticed at a little distance a fair damsel, dressed in home-spun, home-dyed green, with a crown of flowers tied with ribbon on her head. She sat on a little hillock higher than the others, and around her was a circle of fair companions, while beyond these the shepherds lay about, piping and singing her praises, delighting in her beauty, and shouting aloud for very wonder that so beautiful a maiden should be found amongst them. She was as good and modest as she was lovely, and they treated her as if she were a goddess, singing day and night of fairest Pastorella.
Many of the shepherds loved Pastorella, but one named Coridon loved her beyond all the others, and yet the maiden cared neither for him nor any of them. Now, while Sir Calidore looked at the fair damsel and noted the difference in her mien from that of her companions, his heart, all unawares, became drawn towards her, and he stood gazing on her, quite forgetful of his quest, and that the Beast was all this time getting farther and farther away from him. And after the repast was quite over, he still stayed talking to the shepherds, hoping all the time that Pastorella would overhear the adventures he recounted.
Thus the day wore on until night advanced, and the ground grew damp, so that the shepherds knew that it was time to take their flocks to rest. Then there came out to them an old man with silver locks, carrying a shepherd's crook in his hand, and he told Pastorella to arise. The old man's name was Meliboæ, and he was accounted by all, even by Pastorella herself, as her father, but he was only her adopted father, for he had found her as an infant in the fields and had brought her up as his own.
At his bidding she arose and gathered together her little flock of sheep, and the shepherds who had sat round her gathered theirs also, while they vied one with another in helping Pastorella; yet Coridon gave her most help.
When Meliboæ found Sir Calidore left alone, and night so near, he invited him to his cottage, which, though poor, was a better resting-place than the fields, and the knight accepted gladly. He was kindly welcomed both by Meliboæ and his wife, who invited him to lay aside his armour and to rest until supper was ready and Pastorella had returned from tending her sheep. When the frugal meal was ended, Pastorella removed the table, and Sir Calidore in his most courteous manner gave thanks to his host and hostess for their kindness, and praised the simple life which shepherds led. Meliboæ replied by dwelling on the delights of a country life, adding that in his youth he had sought a prince's court and had worked as a gardener at the palace; ten years spent there, however, made him return home more contented than before. Calidore listened much delighted, and anxious to stay on in the shepherd's hut, replied that the world's gay shows were but vanity, and that he wished that his lot were that of Meliboæ. "But," said the old man, "the mind is the true fortune, and happiness is in each man's power." "Then," said Sir Calidore, "let me make my happiness by staying here and resting awhile from the storms of fortune." And lest the expense of his stay should prove burdensome to the old man, he drew forth much gold with which to pay for his food. This offer Meliboæ refused but he granted Calidore permission to remain.
So he remained there, and saw Pastorella daily and offered her many courtesies; but she, unaccustomed to courtly ways, loved the kindness of the shepherds better than his. Calidore therefore laid aside his armour, and dressing as a shepherd, went out into the fields and helped Pastorella with her flocks.
At this Coridon became jealous, and whenever Sir Calidore was present, looked cross and angry; yet Sir Calidore was ever kind to Coridon, and when Coridon brought birds and squirrels from the wood to Pastorella, the knight praised their beauty. But the maiden ceased to care for Coridon's gift, for her heart was beginning to turn towards Sir Calidore.
One day, when the shepherds were in a merry mood, they called for music and began to dance. They invited Sir Calidore to lead the ring, for he was held to be first in Pastorella's favour. But Coridon frowned and bit his lips in anger, and seeing this, Sir Calidore courteously yielded to him the place of honour, and when Pastorella placed her garland on the knight's head, he put it instead upon Coridon.
Another day games were proposed by the shepherds, and Pastorella was chosen judge, and held the garland which was to be the victor's reward. Coridon, renowned for his skill in wrestling, challenged Calidore. But the knight was much stronger than Coridon expected, and easily threw him, whereupon the garland was awarded to Sir Calidore. In his never-failing courtesy the knight gave it up to Coridon, declaring him well worthy the honour.
Thus Calidore proved himself ever courteous, and won love and honour even from his rival, and Pastorella's heart was turned more and more towards him, but he still forgot the Blattant Beast and his vow to follow it without rest.
One day, as Sir Calidore, Coridon, and Pastorella were gathering strawberries in a green wood, a tiger rushed suddenly out of the forest, and with cruel jaws and wide open mouth ran straight at Pastorella. It happened that the others had wandered a little way from her, and the poor damsel, left defenceless, cried out for help. Coridon came running to her aid, but seeing the fierce beast, fled in terror, for his own life was dearer to him than hers. But when Sir Calidore came up and saw the tiger ready to tear Pastorella's limbs, rage, not fear, filled his soul, and with no weapon but his shepherd's hook, he ran at the wild beast and stunned it by his blow, and before it had time to recover he had struck off its head, which he laid at the feet of the trembling Pastorella. From that time she showed marked preference for Calidore, and a little after promised to be his bride.
But one dreadful day, whilst Calidore was hunting in the woods, a party of brigands came down upon the shepherds' dwellings, and spoiling their homes, murdered many of the occupants and carried off the others to sell as slaves. Amongst those taken captive were Meliboæ, Pastorella, and Coridon. They were carried off during the night, for the brigands wished no man to know where they dwelt. Now, their home was on an island, covered with brushwood, but there was no appearance of dwellers on the island, for the brigands lived in underground caves, dark and dreary, and lighted only by candles.
Here they brought their captives, meaning to sell them to the first merchants who passed that way. But they had not been long in the island before the captain of the brigands fell in love with Pastorella and wished her for his wife. Now Pastorella, being betrothed to Calidore, could not listen to his wish, and this made him angry, and yet he loved her so much that he continued to try hard to gain her affection. All this made her so unhappy that she became ill.
While Pastorella lay ill, a band of free-booting merchants arrived in search of slaves. The brigands came and told the captain who was watching near the sick maiden, and the news made him sorrowful, for he feared that his men would insist on Pastorella's being sold with the others. Yet he dared not refuse; so he showed the merchants old Meliboæ and Coridon and others. But one of the merchants had heard of the shepherdess, and demanded to see her also. At this the captain grew angry and declared that the maiden was his prize, and that, moreover, she lay sick; and to prove his words, he took them to see her. But the sight of her pale beauty only made the merchants still more desirous to have her, and they declared that unless they might buy Pastorella they would buy no one. Thereupon the brigands demanded her sale, but the captain stoutly refused and drew his sword, and a fierce fight began, in which blood was freely spilt.
And first of all, the captives were slain, old Meliboæ, his aged wife, and many others. But Coridon escaped in the darkness, thinking nothing of his friends. All this time Pastorella was defended by the captain who stood between her and the enemy. He was slain at length, and fell with Pastorella in his arms, who fainted from fear and weakness. And as she lay there the fight continued, and those slain fell upon her, so that she was nearly stifled to death.
When the brigands found that their captain was gone, the fighting ceased, and the combatants became as eager to make friends as they were before to quarrel; so having agreed among themselves, they lighted candles and began the melancholy search for the dead. Their captain they found cruelly slain, and by him the dying maid. Seeing that there was still life in Pastorella, they used every means to restore her, and at length succeeded. But when she was able to look round, and saw her father and her friends lying dead, wringing her hands, she wept and wailed and wished herself of their number. However, as the brigands were very anxious that she should get well, they took care of her in their rude way. When they went out to plunder, they left one of themselves—the best, although all were bad—in charge of her, but he was of little use, scarce giving her food or rest.
Meantime Sir Calidore had returned from the chase and had found the desolation caused by the brigands. He was almost mad with grief and rage, and his anguish was increased by the sad fact that there was no one to whom he could speak, nor any of whom he could ask tidings. He sought everywhere, but in vain; the woods and the plain were alike silent and empty. Roaming about restlessly in his despair, he at length saw someone coming towards him. The new-comer was dressed in rags, his hair was standing on end, and he was running as if from great danger. As he came near, Sir Calidore saw that it was Coridon. Hastening up to him the knight asked where Pastorella and the others had been taken.
"Ah," said Coridon, sighing deeply, "would that I had never lived to see this day, but had died before I saw Pastorella dead."
"What," exclaimed Calidore, "Pastorella dead? How dared death touch her?" And then he persuaded Coridon to tell his sad tale; and Coridon told how he had seen Meliboæ die, and the captain defend Pastorella, but as he believed,—in vain.
On hearing these tidings, Sir Calidore's heart well-nigh broke; but after a time he recovered spirit and determined to rescue Pastorella were she still alive, or to avenge her, were she dead. He asked Coridon to show him the way to the Island, but he had great difficulty in inducing him to do so. At length Calidore prevailed upon him, and they went forth dressed as shepherds, although the knight wore armour under his peaceful garb.
As they neared the Island they came to a hill, on which they saw shepherds with their flocks. They determined to go and learn from them the latest tidings. Great was their surprise when Coridon recognized the flocks as the very ones that had been stolen from them, and these shepherds no other than the thieves. This discovery alarmed him greatly, and his heart began to lose all courage, but Sir Calidore reassured him as best he could and prevailed upon him to advance upon the men, who were all asleep. Coridon would have slain them, but Sir Calidore, who had another plan, prevented him.
Sitting down by their side, he wakened them gently, told them the time of day, and beginning to talk, asked them questions which would, he hoped, reveal the truth as to Pastorella. And when the brigands in turn questioned Sir Calidore and asked who he and his comrade might be, the knight replied that they were herdsmen who sought for hire. On hearing this the thieves at once offered them wages to take care of their flocks. Sir Calidore accepted the offer, and when night came, he and Coridon returned with the outlaws as their hired servants. They quickly learned all the secrets of the caverns, and to their great joy found that Pastorella still lived.
After a time of patient waiting Sir Calidore's opportunity came. The brigands had returned from a fray and slept soundly. In the dead of night Sir Calidore arose, and armed only with an old sword which he had found, made his way to the new captain's cavern. Coridon, too cowardly to join boldly with him, too fearful to be left behind, followed faltering. They found the doors fast closed, but Sir Calidore attacked them with all his force and burst them open. The noise awoke the chief brigand, who came rushing to the entrance, where in a few moments Sir Calidore slew him.
Meantime the sound of the fray struck terror into the heart of Pastorella, but when the well-known and much-loved voice of Sir Calidore called to her, joy and comfort took the place of misery and despair, and her spirit revived within her. His voice was to her as the sunshine to the wintry earth, and she who had longed for death felt the spring of life arise anew within her. Nor did Sir Calidore rejoice less: like one distraught he rushed to her, and taking her in his strong arms kissed her a thousand times.
But now the alarm had roused all the brigand camp, who came flocking to their captain's cavern. Sir Calidore stood in the doorway, and as they pressed forward, he slew them one by one until the entrance was fairly blocked by dead bodies. Then he rested until daylight dawned; and when there was sufficient light to see his way, he arose, chose from among the slain a trusty sword and went out into the open day. There a great crowd awaited ready to attack him. Then began a terrible fight. On every side the brigands set upon him, and sorely they oppressed him, nor did any spare him; yet so skilled and powerful was Sir Calidore that by the aid of his trusty brand he dispersed and scattered his enemies, slaying all that came into his way.
Then Sir Calidore returned to Pastorella his betrothed, and brought her forth to the light of day, which she had not seen since she was taken captive, and did all he could to make her forget the sorrows she had suffered. When he had thus comforted her he returned to the robbers' caves and took away their treasure. Bestowing the flocks they had stolen from old Meliboæ on Coridon, Sir Calidore went forth, taking with him Pastorella.
Now all this time the Blattant Beast was ranging at will, no one stopping or restraining his course. And Sir Calidore deemed it high time to follow his quest once more, although he must first secure the safety of his love. He therefore took her to the Castle Belgard, where dwelt the good Sir Bellamour with Claribell, his wife, and there they were warmly welcomed and hospitably entertained, for Sir Bellamour knew Sir Calidore right well, and had loved him for his prowess ever since they had served together in the field. And Claribell was drawn towards the fair Pastorella, and tended her so lovingly that she soon grew strong and well. When Sir Calidore saw the maiden recover strength and health, he resolved to leave her in Castle Belgard, and to return to his quest, for he was ashamed to remember how long he had neglected the enterprise entrusted to him by Gloriana.
With ceaseless pains and toils Sir Calidore resumed his task. It was in some respects easier than before, for the Beast had gradually waxed more powerful, and wherever it went left traces of its spoil.
The knight found that it had invaded the homes of men of all conditions of life and in all had done great damage; that at length it had reached the clergy, and among them had wrought such spoil and havoc, and committed such thefts that to tell all would be impossible. And now Sir Calidore, who had followed its track with ceaseless care, came to a monastery, where he found the Blattant Beast destroying and despoiling with might and main. It had broken into the cloisters and scattered the monks hither and thither; it had pursued them into their cells and had not spared even the holy things of religion. For it broke into the church and robbed the chancel; threw down the desks and injured the altar, and cast everything into confusion.
Here Sir Calidore found it; and the Blattant Beast, knowing his power of old, at once fled, but the knight pursued with great swiftness and got nearer and nearer to the monster, until at length he overtook it in a narrow place. Attacking it fiercely, Sir Calidore forced the Beast to turn and face him. Then the knight struck it with his sharp steel, and in return it rushed savagely upon him, its ugly mouth wide open so as to expose the double row of iron teeth, and the thousand yelling, barking, back-biting tongues therein. Not one whit afraid, Sir Calidore fell upon the monster with such might that he obliged it to give way, and for a moment so mastered it that all it could do was to spit forth poisonous venom from its foaming, bloody jaws, threatening in vain to bite. Then rearing itself on its hind legs, it attacked him with its claws as if it would have rent him in pieces. But Sir Calidore was on his guard, and thrust his shield before him; then putting out all his strength he forced the creature back until it fell. Quick as thought the knight flung his shield upon it, and with all his strength held it down.
At this the Beast raged and roared most horribly, and foamed out bloody gore, and strove in vain to rear itself upright. The more it strove, the firmer the knight held it. It bit, and scratched, and threw out venom, and behaved like a very fiend, so mad was its rage that any should hold it under, and still Sir Calidore kept on, for the more its anger increased the greater became his power.
Then when the Beast felt it could do nothing against the knight, it began to reveal its deepest, most wicked nature, and used its tongue no longer to spit out blood or venom, but to speak reproaches and to utter wicked lies of Sir Calidore. But even these could not cause this true knight so to forget himself as to grow angry and release his hold for a single moment. He held on tighter and tighter until the Beast was almost strangled in his grasp. At length when he saw that the creature's power was growing less, he drew forth a muzzle made of the strongest iron, and with it closed its cruel mouth and shut in its blasphemous tongues. To the muzzle he fastened a long chain, and by this drew forth the Blattant Beast, cowed and captive. Never before had any dared to curb its will or restrain its tongues, and it greatly repined at its bondage, inwardly chafing under a restraint which nevertheless it did not dare to withstand. It trembled under Sir Calidore's mighty hand, and like a beaten dog followed him where he went. Thus was the once powerful Beast led through all Faeryland, its former victims thronging out of the towns to see it captive and to praise and admire its captor. Thus then did Sir Calidore rid the world during his lifetime of a scandalous pest, although after his days the Beast broke its chain and ranged once more at liberty.
His quest ended, the knight returned to Pastorella, to whom a strange fortune had befallen.
Sir Bellamour and Claribell had known troublous days in their youth. In these days an infant daughter had been born to them, which, owing to the sad woes that had befallen them, Claribell was forced to send away from her. Her maid Melissa had borne the infant to the fields. With many tears she had laid it down and watched behind bushes until a shepherd coming to the spot lifted the babe and carried it away.
And now Melissa, who still lived with Claribell, recognized a certain mark on Pastorella's fair skin by which she was persuaded that the damsel was none other than the long-lost babe. She ran to her mistress with the glad tidings; at first Claribell could hardly believe her, and trembling with uncertain joy, hurried to Pastorella and asked her many questions. To all Pastorella gave satisfactory answers, and Claribell overcome with the gladness of a mother's love, tenderly embraced her child, and then went to tell her husband. Deeply rejoiced, he too acknowledged Pastorella as his daughter.
Thus was the fair shepherdess proved to be a right worthy bride for the mighty Sir Calidore by birth as well as by beauty and goodness, and we may be very sure that they were, as the old story-books say, "happy ever after."