But hard midway upon the green surcoat,Sir Palamon's stout lance so truly smote,That, 'neath the shock, the bold Sir Thomas reeledAnd, losing stirrups, saddle, lance and shield,Down, down upon the ling outstretched he fellAnd, losing all, lost breath and speech as well.Thus, silent all, the bold Sir Thomas lay,Though much, and many things, he yearned to say,Which things his squires and pages might surmiseFrom the expression of his fish-like eyesE'en as they bore him from that doleful place;While, near and far, from all the populace,Rose shout on shout that echoed loud and long:“Sir Palamon! Sir Palamon of Tong!”So came these ten good knights, but, one by one,They fell before this bold Sir Palamon,Whose lance unerring smote now helm, now shield,That many an one lay rolling on the field.But each and all themselves did vanquished yield;And loud and louder did the plaudits grow,That one knight should so many overthrow.Even Sir Gui, within his silken tentScowled black in ever-growing wonderment.
But the Knight of Tong, his gaudy shield a little battered, his fine surcoat frayed and torn, leaped from his wearied steed and forthwith mounted one held by his tall esquire, a mighty charger that tossed proud head and champed his bit, pawing impatient hoof.
“Aha!” quoth the esquire, pointing to ten fair steeds held by ten fair pages. “Oho, good brother, most puissant Knight of Tong, here is good and rich booty—let us begone!”
“Nay,” answered the Knight, tossing aside his blunt tilting-spear, “here is an end to sportful dalliance—reach me my lance!”
“Ha, is't now the Red Gui's turn, brother? The Saints aid thee, in especial two, that, being women, are yet no saints yet awhile—see how they watch thee, sweet, gentle dames! Their prayers go with thee, methinks, brother, and mine also, for the Red Gui is forsooth a valiant rogue!”
And now, mounted on the great black war-horse, the Knight of Tong rode up the lists:
His scarlet plume 'bove shining helm a-dance,His bannerole a-flutter from long lance,Till he was come where, plain for all to spy,Was hung the shield and blazon of Sir Gui,With bends and bars in all their painted glory,Surcharged with hand ensanguined—gules or gory.
Full upon this bloody hand smote the sharp point of Sir Palamon's lance; whereupon the watching crowd surged and swayed and hummed expectant, since here was to be no play with blunted weapons but a deadly encounter.
Up started Sir Gui and strode forth of his tent, grim-smiling and confident. Quoth he:
“Ha, my Lord of Tong, thou'rt grown presumptuous and over-venturesome, methinks. But since life thou dost hold so cheap prepare ye for death forthright!”
So spake the Lord of Ells and, beckoning to his esquires, did on his great tilting-helm and rode into the lists, whereon was mighty roar of welcome, for, though much hated, he was esteemed mighty at arms, and the accepted champion of the Duchy. So while the people thundered their acclaim the two knights galloped to their stations and, reining about, faced each other from either end of the lists,
And halted thus, their deadly spears they couched,With helms stooped low, behind their shields they crouched;Now rang the clarions; goading spurs struck deep,The mighty chargers reared with furious leapAnd, like two whirlwinds, met in full career,To backward reel 'neath shock of splintering spear:But, all unshaken, every eye might seeThe bloody hand, the scarred gules falcons three.Thrice thus they met, but at the fourth essay,Rose sudden shout of wonder and dismay,For, smitten sore through riven shield, Sir GuiThudded to earth there motionless to lie.
Thus Sir Gui, Lord of Ells and Seneschal of Raddemore, wounded and utterly discomfited, was borne raging to his pavilion while the air rang with the blare of trumpet and clarion in honour of the victor. Thereafter, since no other knight thought it prudent to challenge him, Sir Palamon of Tong was declared champion of the tournament, and was summoned by the Chief Herald to receive the victor's crown. But even as he rode towards the silk-curtained balcony, a distant trumpet shrilled defiance, and into the lists galloped a solitary knight.
Well-armed was he in proud and war-like trim,Of stature tall and wondrous long of limb;'Neath red surcoat black was the mail he wore;His glitt'ring shield a rampant leopard bore,Beholding which the crowd cried in acclaim,“Ho for Sir Agramore of Biename!”
But from rosy-red to pale, from pale to rosy-red flushed the Duchess Benedicta, and clenching white teeth, she frowned upon Sir Agramore's fierce and warlike figure. Quoth she:
“Oh, sure there is no man so vile or so unworthy in all Christendom as this vile Lord of Biename!”
“Unless,” said Yolande, frowning also, “unless it be my Lord Gui of Ells!”
“True, my Yolanda! Now, as thou dost hate Sir Gui so hate I Sir Agramore, therefore pray we sweet maid, petition we the good Saints our valiant singer shall serve my hated Sir Agramore as he did thy hated Sir Gui—may he be bruised, may he be battered, may—”
“Oho, 'tis done, my sweeting! A-hee—a-hi, 'tis done!” croaked a voice, and starting about, the Duchess beheld a bent and hag-like creature,
With long, sharp nose that showed beneath her hood,A nose that curved as every witch's should,And glittering eye, before whose baleful light,The fair Yolande shrank back in sudden fright.
“Nay, my Yolande,” cried the Duchess, “hast forgot old Mopsa, my foster-mother, that, being a wise-woman, fools decry as witch, and my ten grave and learned guardians have banished therefor? Hast forgot my loved and faithful Mopsa that is truly the dearest, gentlest, wisest witch that e'er witched rogue or fool? But O Mopsa, wise mother—would'st thou might plague and bewitch in very truth yon base caitiff knight, Sir Agramore of Biename!”
“'Tis done, loved daughter, 'tis done!” chuckled the Witch.
“He groaneth,He moaneth,He aileth,He waileth,Lying sighing,Nigh to dying,Oho,I know'Tis so.With bones right sore,Both 'hind and fore,Sir AgramoreDoth ache all o'er.
“He aileth sore yet waileth more—oho! I know, I have seen—in the chalk, in the ink, in the smoke—I looked and saw
“Sir Agramore,By bold outlaw,Bethwacked most soreAs told before—”
“Nay, but, good Mopsa, how may this be? Sir Agramore rideth armed yonder, plain to my sight.”
“Child, I have told thee sooth,” croaked the Witch. “Have patience, watch and be silent, and shalt grow wise as old Mopsa—mayhap—in time.
“For, 'tis written in the chalk,Sore is he and may not walk.O, sing heart merrily!I have seen within the smokeBones bethwacked by lusty stroke,Within the ink I looked and saw,Swathed in clouts, Sir Agramore;Dread of him for thee is o'er,By reason of a bold outlaw.Sing, heart, and joyful be!”
“Go to, Mopsa, thou'rt mad!” quoth the Duchess. “For yonder is this hated lord very strong and hale, and in well-being whiles thou dost rave! Truly thou'rt run mad, methinks!”
But the old Witch only mumbled and mowed, and cracked her finger-bones as is the custom of witches.
Meantime, Sir Agramore, checking his fiery charger and brandishing heavy lance fiercely aloft, roared loud defiance:
“What ho! Ye knights, lords, esquires, and lovers of lusty blows, hither come I with intent, sincere and hearty, to bicker with, fight, combat and withstand all that will—each and every, a-horse or a-foot, with sword, battleaxe or lance. Now all ye that love good blows—have at ye!”
Here ensued great clamour and a mighty blowing of trumpets that waxed yet louder when it was proclaimed that Sir Palamon, as champion of the day, had accepted Sir Agramore's haughty challenge.
And now all was hushed as these two doughty knights faced each other and, as the trumpets brayed, charged furiously to meet with thunderous shock of breaking lances and reeling horses that, rearing backwards, fell crashing upon the torn and trampled grass. But their riders, leaping clear of lashing hooves, drew their swords and, wasting no breath in words, beset each other forthwith, smiting with right good will.
Sir Agramore's leopard shield was riven in twain by a single stroke, Sir Palamon's scarlet plume was shorn away, but they fought only the fiercer as, all untiring, the long blades whirled and flashed until their armour rang, sparks flew, and the populace rocked and swayed and roared for very joy. Once Sir Agramore was beaten to his knees, but rising, grasped his sword in two hands and smote a mighty swashing blow, a direful stroke that burst the lacing of Sir Palamon's great helm and sent it rolling on the sward. But, beholding thus his adversary's face, Sir Agramore, crying in sudden amaze, sprang back; for men all might see a visage framed in long, black-curled hair, grey-eyed, but a face so direly scarred that none, having seen it but once, might well forget.
“Par Dex!” panted Sir Agramore, lifting his vizor.
“Pertinax!” gasped Duke Jocelyn. “O Pertinax—thou loved and lovely smiter—ne'er have I been so sore battered ere now!”
Hereupon all folk stared in hugeous wonderment to behold these two champions drop their swords and leap to clasp and hug each other in mighty arms, to pat each other's mailed shoulders and grasp each other's mailed hands. Quoth Sir Pertinax:
“Lord, how came ye in this guise?”
“My Pertinax, whence stole ye that goodly armour?”
“Lord, oath made I to requite one Sir Agramore of Biename for certain felon blow. Him sought I latterly therefore, and this day met him journeying hither, and so, after some disputation, I left him lying by the way, nor shall he need armour awhile, methinks—wherefore I took it and rode hither seeking what might befall—”
But here, Sir Gui, all heedless of his wound, started up from his couch, raising great outcry:
“Ha—roguery, roguery! Ho, there, seize me yon knave that beareth the cognizance of Tong. Ha—treason, treason!” At this, others took up the cry and divers among the throng, beholding Duke Jocelyn's scarred features, made loud tumults: “The Fool! The Fool! 'Tis the Singing Motley! 'Tis the rogue-Fool that broke prison—seize him! Seize him!” And many, together with the soldiery, came running.
“Lord,” quoth Sir Pertinax, catching up his sword, “here now is like to be a notable, sweet affray!” But even as these twain turned to meet their many assailants was thunder of hoofs, a loud, merry voice reached them, and they saw Robin hard by who held two trampling chargers.
“Mount, brothers—mount!” he cried. “Mount, then spur we for the barriers!” So they sprang to saddle and, spurring the rearing horses, galloped for the barriers, all three, nor was there any who dare stay them or abide the sweep of those long swords. Thus, leaping the barriers, they galloped away and left behind roaring tumult and dire confusion.
And amid all this, hid by the silken curtains of her balcony, the Duchess Benedicta uttered a joyous cry and, clasping Yolande in her arms, kissed her rapturously.
“Yolande!” she cried, “O dear my friend, thou didst see—even as did I—a sorry fool and a poor rogue-soldier at hand-strokes with each other—O wise Fool! O knightly Rogue! Come, let us fly, Yolande, let us to the wild-wood and, lost therein, love, True-love, methinks, shall find us. Nay—ask me nothing, only hear this. Be thou to thine own heart true, be thou brave and Shame shall fly thee since True-love out-faceth Shame! How say'st thou, Mopsa, thou wise witch-mother?”
“Ah, sweet children!” croaked the Witch, touching each with claw-like hand yet hand wondrous gentle. “True-love shall indeed find ye, hide where ye will. For True-love, though blind, they say, hath eyes to see all that is good and sweet and true. A poor man-at-arms in rusty mail may yet be true man and a fool, for all his motley, wise. To love such seemeth great folly, yet to the old, love is but folly. Nath'less, being old I do love ye, and being wise I charge ye:
“Follow Folly and be wise,In such folly wisdom lies;Love's blind, they say, but Love hath eyes,So follow Folly—follow!”
My daughter GILLIAN animadverteth:
GILL: “Stop! Your tournament, father, seems too long drawn out,With quite too much combating and knocking about.MYSELF: I hope you're wrong, my dear, althoughWho knows? Perhaps, it may be so.GILL: And such scrappy bits of love-making you write;You seem to prefer much describing a fight.All authors should write what their readers like best;But authors are selfish, yes—even the bestAnd you are an author!MYSELF: Alack, that is true,And, among other things, I'm the author of you.GILL: Then, being my author, it's plain as can beThat you are to blame if I'm naughty—not me.But, father, our Geste, though quite corking in places,Has too many fights and too little embraces.You've made all our lovers so frightfully slow,You ought to have married them pages ago.The books that are nicest are always the sortThat, when you have read them, seem always too short!If you make all your readers impatient like me,They'll buy none of your books—and then where shall we be?All people like reading of love when they can,So write them a lot, father, that is the plan.Go on to the love, then, for every one's sake,And end with a wedding—MYSELF: Your counsel I 'll take.I can woo them and wed them in less than no time,I can do it in prose, in blank verse, or in rhyme;But since, my dear, you are for speed,To end our Geste I will proceed.In many ways it may be done,As I have told you—here is one:
A short two years have elapsed and we find our hero Jocelyn tenderly playing with a golden-haired prattler, his beloved son and heir, while his beautiful spouse Yolande busied with her needle, smiles through happy tears.
GILL: O, hush, father! Of course, that is simply absurd!Such terrible piffle—MYSELF: I object to that word!GILL: Well, then, please try a little verse.MYSELF: With pleasure:“My own at last!” Duke Joc'lyn fondly cried,And kissed Yolande, his blooming, blushing bride.“My own!” he sighed. “My own—my very own!”“Thine, love!” she murmured. “Thine and thine alone,Thy very own for days and months and years—”GILL: O, stop! I think that's even worse!MYSELF: Beyond measure.Then here's a style may be admiredSince brevity is so desired:So he married her and she married him,and everybody married each otherand lived happy ever after.Or again, and thus, my daughter,Versified it may be shorter:So all was marriage, joy and laughter,And each lived happy ever after.Or:If for High Romance you sigh,Here's Romance that's over high:Shy summer swooned to autumn's sun-burned arms,Swoon, summer, swoon!While roses bloomed and blushing sighed their pain,Blush, roses, blush!Filling the world with perfume languorous,Sighing forth their souls in fragrant amorousness;And fair Yolande, amid these bloomful languors,Blushing as they, as languorous, as sweet,Sighed in the arms that passioned her around:O Jocelyn, O lord of my delight,See how—GILL: Stop, father, stop, I beg of you.Such awful stuff will never do,I suppose you must finish it in your own way—MYSELF: I suppose that I shall, child, that is—if I may.GILL: But father, wait—I must insistWhatever else you doIt's time that somebody was kissedIt doesn't matter who—I mean either Yolande the FairOr else the Duchess—I don't care.MYSELF: In these next two Fyttes both shall kissAnd be well kissed, I promise this.Two Fyttes of kisses I will makeOne after t' other, for your sake.Two Fyttes of love I will inventAnd make them both quite different,Which is a trying matter ratherAnd difficult for any father—But then, as well you know, my Gillian,You have a father in a million;And Oh, methinks 'tis very plainYou ne'er shall meet his like again.
How Pertinax fell out with Robin and with Friar, Yet, in that very hour, came by his heart's desire.
The sinking sun had set the West aflame, When our three riders to the wild-wood came, Where a small wind 'mid sun-kissed branches played, And deep'ning shadows a soft twilight made; Where, save for leafy stirrings, all was still, Lulled by the murmur of a bubbling rill That flowed o'ershadowed by a mighty oak, Its massy bole deep-cleft by lightning stroke. Here Robin checked his steed. “Good friends,” quoth he,
My daughter Gillian suggesteth:Gill: That's rather good,But, still, I shouldIn prose prefer the rest;For if this fytteHas love in it,Prose is for love the best.All ord'nary lovers, as every one knows,Make love to each other much better in prose.If, at last, our Sir Pertinax means to propose,Why then—just to please me,Father, prose let it be.Myself: Very well, I agree!Then said Robin, quoth he:“Good friends, here are we safe!” And, checking his steed within thispleasant shade, he dismounted.
“Safe, quotha?” said Sir Pertinax, scowling back over shoulder. “Not so! Surely we are close pursued—hark! Yonder be horsemen riding at speed—ha, we are beset!”
“Content you, sir!” answered Robin. “Think you I would leave behind good booty? Yonder come ten noble coursers laden with ten goodly armours the same won a-jousting to-day by this right wondrous Fool, my good gossip—”
“Thy gossip, forsooth!” snorted Sir Pertinax. “But tell me, presumptuous fellow, how shall these ten steeds come a-galloping hither!”
“Marry, on this wise, Sir Simple Innocence—these steeds do gallop for sufficient reason, namely—they are to gallop bidden being ridden, bestridden and chidden by whip and spur applied by certain trusty men o' my company, which men go habited, decked, dressed, clad, guised and disguised as smug, sleek citizens, Sir Innocent Simplicity—”
“Par Dex!” exclaimed Sir Pertinax, scowling. “And who 'rt thou, sirrah, with men at thy beck and call?”
“Behold!” said Robin, unhelming. “Behold the king of all masterless rogues, and thy fellow gallow's-bird, Sir High Mightiness!”
“Ha, is 't thou?” cried Sir Pertinax. “Now a plague on thy kingdom and thee for an unhanged, thieving rogue—”
“E'en as thyself,” nodded Robin, “thou that flaunted thy unlovely carcass in stolen armour.”
“Ha!” roared Sir Pertinax, clapping hand on sword. “A pest—a murrain! This to me, thou dog's-meat? Malediction! Now will I crack thy numbskull for a pestilent malapert—”
“Nay, Sir Grim-and-gory,” laughed Robin, “rather will I now use thee as thou would'st ha' served me on a day but for this generous and kindly Fool, my good comrade!” And speaking, Robin sprang nimbly to the great oak tree and thrusting long arm within the jagged fissure that gaped therein drew forth a hunting-horn and winded it loud and shrill. And presently was a stir, a rustle amid the surrounding brushwood and all about them were outlaws, wild men and fierce of aspect, and each and every grasped long-bow with arrow on string and every arrow was aimed at scowling Sir Pertinax.
“Per Dex!” quoth he, “and is this death, then?”
“Verily!” nodded Robin, “an I do speak the word.”
“So be it—speak!” growled Sir Pertinax. “Come, Death—I fear thee not!” And out flashed his long sword; but even then it was twisted from his grasp and Lobkyn Lollo, tossing the great blade aloft and, catching it very neatly, laughed and spake:
“Five times, five times tenAre we, all lusty men.An hundred twice and fifty deaths are we,So, an Rob speak, dead thou 'lt as often be.”
“Nay, hold a while, sweet lads!” laughed Robin, “the surly rogue shall sing for his life and our good pleasaunce.”
“Sing?” roared Sir Pertinax. “I sing! I? Ha, dare ye bid me so, base dog? Sing, forsooth? By Og and Gog! By the Seven Champions and all the fiends, rather will I die!” And here, being defenceless, Sir Pertinax clenched mighty fists and swore until he lacked for breath.
Then spake Jocelyn, gentle-voiced.
“Sing, Pertinax,” quoth he.
“Ha—never! Not for all the—”
“I do command thee, Pertinax. As Robin once sang for his life, now must thou sing for thine. Song for song, 't is but just! Sing, Pertinax!”
“Nay,” groaned the proud knight, “I had rather drink water and chew grass like a rabbit. Moreover I ha' no gift o' song—”
“Do thy best!” quoth Robin.
“I'm harsh o' voice—knave!”
“Then croak—rogue!” quoth Robin.
“No song have I—vermin!”
“Make one—carrion! But sing thou shalt though thy song be no better than hog-song which is grunt. Howbeit sing thou must!”
Hereupon Sir Pertinax gnashed his teeth and glaring balefully on Robin lifted hoarse voice and burst forth into fierce song:
“Thou base outlaw,Vile clapper-claw,Since I must sing a stave,Then, here and now,I do avowThou art a scurvy knave!Thy hang-dog airDoth plain declareThou 'rt very scurvy knave.“Rogues breed apaceIn each vile place,But this I will avow,Where e'er rogues beNo man may seeA viler rogue than thou,Since it were vainTo meet againA rogue more vile than thou.“As rogue thou art,In every part,Then—”
“Hold there—hold!” cried Robin, stopping his ears. “Thy voice is unlovely as thy look and thy song as ill as thy voice, so do we forgive thee the rest. Ha' done thy bellowing and begone—”
“Ha—not so!” quoth Sir Pertinax. “For troth I do sing better than methought possible, and my rhyming is none so ill! So will I rhyme thy every knavish part and sing song till song and rhyme be ended. Have at thee again, base fellow!
Since rogue thou artIn every part—part—
Ha, plague on't, hast put me out, rogue! I was about to hang thy every roguish part in rhyme, but my rhymes halt by reason o' thee, rogue.”
“Forsooth!” laughed Robin. “Thus stickest thou, for thy part, at my every part, the which is well since I am man of parts. Thus then rhyme thou rhymes upon thyself therefore; thus, thyself rhyming rhymes of thee, thou shalt thyself, rhyming of thyself, thyself pleasure thereby, thou thus rhyming of thee, and thee, thou. Thus thy thee and thou shall be well accorded. How think'st thou?”
But Sir Pertinax, astride his charger that cropped joyously at sweet, cool grass, sat chin on fist, lost in the throes of composition, nothing heeding, even when came the ten steeds with the ten suits of armour.
Now these ten horses bare eleven riders, tall, lusty fellows all, save one shrouded in hood and cloak and whom Jocelyn viewed with quick, keen eyes. And thus he presently whispered Robin who, laughing slyly, made signal to his followers, whereupon, by ones and twos they stole silently away until there none remained save only Sir Pertinax who, wrestling with his muse, stared aloft under knitted brows, all unknowing, and presently brake out singing on this wise:
“All men may seeA man in me,A man who feareth no man,Thus, fearless, INo danger fly—”
“Except it be a woman!” sang a soft, sweet voice hard by, in pretty mockery. Hereat Sir Pertinax started so violently that his mail clashed and he stared about him eager-eyed but, finding himself quite alone, sighed and fell to reverie.
“A woman?” said he aloud. “'Except it be a woman—'”
THE VOICE: Aye—a woman, O craven soldier!
SIR PERTINAX: Why here is strange echo methinks and speaketh—with her voice!
THE VOICE: 'O voice so soft and full of sweet allure!'
SIR PERTINAX: O voice beloved that might my dolour cure!
THE VOICE: O craven soldier! O most timid wooer! SIR PERTINAX: Craven am I, yet lover—'t is most sure.
THE VOICE: But thou 'rt a man—at least meseemeth so.
SIR PERTINAX: And, being man, myself unworthy know,Yet must I love and my belovèd seekAnd, finding her, no words of love dare speak.For this my love beyond all words doth reach,And I'm slow-tongued and lack the trick of speech.Nor hope have I that she should stoop to bless,A man so full of all unworthiness.So am I dumb—
THE VOICE: And yet dost speak indeed,Such words, methinks, as any maid might heed.
“Ha, think ye so in verity, sweet voice!” cried Sir Pertinax, and springing lightly to earth, strode forward on eager feet. And lo! from behind a certain tree stepped one who, letting fall shrouding cloak and hood, stood there a maid, dark-haired and darkly bright of eye, very shapely and fair to see in her simple tire. And beholding her thus, the tender curve of scarlet lips, the flutter of slender hands, the languorous bewitchment of her eyes, Sir Pertinax halted.
My daughter GILLIAN interpolateth:
GILL:What, again? Father, that will never do.Don't make him halt again, I beg of you.Sir Pertinax has halted much too long,To make him do it here would be quitewrong!MYSELF:My child, I wish you would not interruptMy halting muse in manner so abrupt—GILL:But here 's a chance at last to let them kiss,And now you make him halt!MYSELF: Exactly, miss!
Sir Pertinax halted and bowed his head abashed.
My daughter GILLIAN persisteth:
GILL:Well, father, while he halts, then tell me,pray,Just what you mean by that line where yousay,'The languorous bewitchment of her eyes'?MYSELF:My child, no child should authors catechise,Especially, poor fellow, if, like me,Father and author both at once is he.Wise authors all such questions strictly ban,And never answer—even if they can.If of our good knight's wooing you wouldhear,Keep stilly tongue and hearken well, mydear.
Sir Pertinax halted and bowed his head, abashed by her beauty.
“Melissa!” he whispered, “O Melissa!” and so stood mute.
“O Pertinax!” she sighed. “Art dumb at sight of me? O Pertinax, and wherefore?”
“All have I forgot save only thy loveliness, Melissa!”
“Methinks such—forgetfulness becometh thee well. Say on!”
“Ah, Melissa, I—do love thee.”
“Why this I knew when thou didst sit a-fishing!”
“But, indeed, then I dreamed not of loving thee or any maid.”
“Because thou art but a man.”
“Verily, and being man, now came I seeking thee for Love's sweet sake yet, finding thee, know not how to speak thee. Alas, I do fear I am but sorry wooer!”
“Alas, Pertinax, I do fear thou art! Yet thou shalt learn, perchance. How—art dumb again, canst speak me no more?”
“Nought—save only this, thou art beyond all maids fair, Melissa!”
“Why, I do think thou'lt make a wooer some day mayhap, by study diligent. 'T will take long time and yet—I would not have thee learn too soon! And hast thought of me? A little?”
“I have borne thee ever within my heart.”
“And wherefore wilt love maid so lowly?”
“For that thou art thyself and thyself—Melissa. And O, I love thy voice!”
“My voice? And what more?”
“Thine eyes. Thy little, pretty feet. Thy scarlet mouth. Thy gentle, small hands. Thy hair. All of thee!”
“O,” she murmured a little breathlessly, “if thou dost so love me—woo me—a little!”
“Alas!” he sighed, “I know not how.”
“Hast ne'er wooed maid ere this, big soldier?”
“Never!”
“Thou poor Pertinax! How empty—how drear thy life. For this do I pity thee with pity kin to love—”
“Love?” he whispered. “Ah, Melissa, couldst e'en learn to love one so unlovely, so rude, so rough and unmannered as I?”
“Never!” she sighed, “O, never—unless thou teach me?”
“Would indeed I might, Melissa. Ah, teach me how I may teach thee to love one so unworthy as Pertinax!”
Now hearkening to his harsh voice grown soft and tremulous, beholding the truth in his honest eyes, Melissa smiled, wondrous tender, and reaching out took hold upon his two hands.
“Kneel!” she commanded. “Kneel here upon the grass as I do kneel. Now, lay by thy cumbrous helmet. Now fold thy great, strong hands. Now bow thy tall, grim head and say in sweet, soft accents low and reverent: 'Melissa, I do love thee heart and soul, thee only do I love and thee only will I love now and for ever. So aid me, Love, amen!'” Then, closing his eyes, Sir Pertinax bowed reverent head, and, humbly folding his hands, spake as she bade him. Thereafter opening his eyes, he saw her watching him through gathering tears, and leaning near, he reached out eager arms, yet touched her not. Quoth he: “O maid beloved, what is thy sorrow?”
“'Tis joy—joy, and thou—thou art so strong and fierce yet so gentle and simple of heart! O, may I prove worthy thy love—”
“Worthy? Of my love?” he stammered. “But O Melissa, I am but he thou didst name harsh of tongue.”
“Aye, I did!” she sobbed.
“Hard of heart, flinty of soul, rude, unmannered and unlovely.”
“Aye—I did and—loved thee the while!” she whispered. “So now do I pray that I prove worthy.”
“Worthy? Thou? O my sweet maid—thou that art kin to the holy angels, thou so high and far removed 'bove me that I do tremble and—fear to touch thee—“.
“Nay, fear me not, Pertinax,” she sighed, “for though indeed I am all this, yet maid am I also and by times—very human. So Pertinax, thou great, fearless man-at-arms, lay by thy so great fears a while—I do beseech thee.” Then Sir Pertinax, beholding the tender passion of her eyes, forgot his fear in glad wonderment and, reaching out hands that trembled for all their strength, drew her to his close embracement.
And thus, kneeling together upon the sun-dappled sward, they forgot all things in this joyous world save only their love and the glory of it. And when they had kissed each other—
My daughter GILLIAN remonstrateth:GILL: But, wait, they haven't yet, you know!MYSELF: Indeed, they have, I've just said so.GILL: Then, father, please to tell me this:How can a person say a kiss?And so, since kisses can't be said,Please make them do it now instead.
Thus, cradled in his strong arms, she questioned him tenderly:
“Dost mind how, upon a day, my Pertinax, didst ask of me the amulet I bore within my bosom?”
“Aye,” he answered, “and sure 'tis charm of potent magic whose spell brought us out of the dungeon at Canalise—the which is great matter for wonder! But 'tis for thy dear sake I do cherish it—”
“Bear you it yet?”
“Here upon my heart.”
“And if I should ask it of thee again—wouldst render it back to me?”
“Never!” quoth he. “Never, until with it I give thee myself also!”
But presently she stirred in his embrace for upon the air was an approaching clamour, voices, laughter and the ring of mail.
“Come away!” whispered Melissa, upspringing to her feet. “Come, let thou and Love and I hide until these disturbers be gone and the sweet world hold but us three again.”
Now, as they stood, hand in hand, deep hidden 'mid the green, they beheld six merry woodland rogues who led an ambling ass whereon rode a friar portly and perspiring albeit he had a jovial eye. And as he rode he spake his captors thus in voice full-toned and deep:
“Have a care, gentle rogues and brethren, hurry not this ambulant animal unduly, poor, much-enduring beast. Behold the pensive pendulation of these auriculars so forlornly a-dangle! Here is ass that doth out-patience all asses, both four and two-legged. Here is meek ass of leisured soul loving not haste—a very pensive perambulator. So hurry not the ass, my brothers, for these several and distinct reasons or arguments. Firstly, dearly beloved, because I love haste no more than the ass; secondly, brethren, 't is property of Holy Church which is above all argument; and, thirdly, 't is bestridden by one Friar John, my very self, and I am forsooth weighty argument. Fourthly, beloved, 'tis an ass that—ha! O sweet vision for eyes human or divine! Do I see thee in very truth, thou damsel of disobedience, dear dame of discord, sweet, witching, wilful lady—is it thou in very truth, most loved daughter, or wraith conjured of thy magic and my perfervid imaginations—speak!”
“'T is I myself, Reverend Father!” laughed Melissa. “O my dear, good Friar John, methinks the kind Saints have brought thee to my need.”
“Saints, quotha!” exclaimed the Friar, rolling merry eye towards his several captors. “Call ye these—Saints? Long have I sought thee, thou naughty maid, and to-day in my quest these brawny 'saints' beset me with bow and quarterstaff and me constrained hither—but my blessing on them since they have brought me to thee. And now, sweet child and daughter, whiles the news yet runneth hot-foot or, like bird unseen, wingeth from lip to lip, I thy ghostly father have rare good news for thee—”
“Nay, Friar John, I will guess thy tidings: Sir Agramore of Biename lieth sorry and sore of a cudgelling.”
“How!” cried the Friar. “Thou dost know—so soon?”
“Verily, Reverend Father, nor have I or my worthy guardians aught to fear of him hereafter. And now have I right wondrous news for thee, news that none may guess. List, dear Friar John, thou the wisest and best loved of all my guardians ten; to-day ye are absolved henceforth all care of your wilful ward since to-day she passeth from the guardianship of ye ten to the keeping of one. Come forth, Pertinax, thou only one beloved of me for no reason but that thou art thou and I am I—as is ever the sweet, mad way of True-love—come forth, my dear-loved, poor soldier!” Out from the trees strode Pertinax but, beholding his face, Friar John scowled and, viewing his rich surcoat and goodly armour, fell to perspiring wonder and amaze.
“Now by the sweet Saint Amphibalus!” quoth he. “Surely these be the arms of Sir Agramore, dread Lord of Biename?”
“Most true, dear Friar John,” answered Melissa, “and by this same token Sir Agramore lieth sore bruised e'en now.”
“Aha!” quoth the Friar, mopping moist brow. “'T is well—'t is very well, so shall these two ears of mine, with eighteen others of lesser account, scathless go and all by reason of this good, tall fellow. Howbeit, I do know this same fellow for fellow of none account, and no fit mate for thee, noble daughter, love or no. A fierce, brawling, tatterdemalion this, that erstwhile tramped in company with long-legged ribald—a froward jesting fellow. Wherefore this fellow, though fellow serviceable, no fellow is for thee and for these sufficing reasons. Firstly—”
“Ha—enough!” quoth Sir Pertinax, chin out-thrust. “'Fellow' me no more, Friar—”
“Firstly,” continued Friar John, “because this out-at-elbows fellow is a rogue.”
“'Rogue,' in thy teeth, Churchman!” growled Sir Pertinax.
“Secondly,” continued Friar John, nothing abashed, “because this rogue-fellow is a runagate roysterer, a nameless knave, a highway-haunter, a filching flick-o'-the-gibbet and a—”
“Friar,” snorted Sir Pertinax, “thou 'rt but a very fat man scant o' breath, moreover thou 'rt a friar, so needs must I leave thee alive to make pestilent the air yet a little until thou chokest of an epithet. Meantime perform now one gracious act in thy so graceless life and wed me with this forest maiden.”
“Forest maiden, forsooth!” cried Friar John. “O Saints! O Martyrs! Forest maid, quotha! And wed her—and unto thee, presumptuous malapert! Ho, begone, thy base blood and nameless rank forbid—”
“Hold there, shaveling!” quoth Sir Pertinax, scowling. “Now mark me this! Though I, being very man, do know myself all unworthy maid so sweet and peerless, yet, and she stoop to wed me, then will I make her lady proud and dame of divers goodly manors and castles, of village and hamlet, pit and gallows, sac and soc, with powers the high, the middle and the low and with ten-score lances in her train. For though in humble guise I went, no nameless rogue am I, but Knight of Shene, Lord of Westover, Framling, Bracton and Deepdene—”
“How!” cried Melissa, pouting rosy lip and frowning a little. “O Pertinax, art indeed a great lord?”
“Why, sooth—forsooth and indeed,” he stammered, “I do fear I am.”
“Then thou 'rt no poor, distressful, ragged, outlaw-soldier?”
“Alack—no!” he groaned, regardful of her frown.
“Then basely hast thou tricked me—O cruel!”
“Nay, Melissa—hear me!” he cried, and, forgetful of friar and gaping outlaws, he clasped her fast 'prisoned 'gainst his heart. “Thee do I love, dear maid, 'bove rank, or fame, or riches, or aught this world may offer. So, an thou wouldst have me ragged and destitute and outlaw, all this will I be for thy sweet sake since life were nought without thee, O maid I do so love—how say'st thou?”
“I say to thee, Pertinax, that thy so great love hath loosed thy tongue at last, Love hath touched thy lips with eloquence beyond all artifice since now, methinks, it is thy very soul doth speak me. And who shall resist such wooing? Surely not I that do—love thee beyond telling. So take me, my lord, thy right hand in mine, the talisman in thy left—so! Now, my Pertinax, speak thy heart's wish.”
“Friar,” quoth Sir Pertinax, holding aloft the Crystal Heart, “as her love is mine and mine hers, wed and unite us in our love—by the magic of this jewel I do command thee!”
Here, beholding the talisman, Friar John gasped and stared round-eyed and incredulous.
“By Holy Rood!” he whispered, “'t is indeed the Crystal Heart!”
“And O!” sighed Melissa, “O Friar John, thou dost mind the saying: