As for the rest appealed,It issues from the rancor of a villain,A recreant and most degenerate traitor;Which, in myself, I boldly will defend;And interchangeably hurl down my gageUpon this overweening traitor's foot,To prove myself a loyal gentleman,Even in the best blood chambered in his bosom.
As for the rest appealed,It issues from the rancor of a villain,A recreant and most degenerate traitor;Which, in myself, I boldly will defend;And interchangeably hurl down my gageUpon this overweening traitor's foot,To prove myself a loyal gentleman,Even in the best blood chambered in his bosom.
As for the rest appealed,It issues from the rancor of a villain,A recreant and most degenerate traitor;Which, in myself, I boldly will defend;And interchangeably hurl down my gageUpon this overweening traitor's foot,To prove myself a loyal gentleman,Even in the best blood chambered in his bosom.
As for the rest appealed,
It issues from the rancor of a villain,
A recreant and most degenerate traitor;
Which, in myself, I boldly will defend;
And interchangeably hurl down my gage
Upon this overweening traitor's foot,
To prove myself a loyal gentleman,
Even in the best blood chambered in his bosom.
King Richard II.
So soon as the court was opened on the following morning, to the astonishment of all parties, and to that of no one, as it would seem, more than of the grand justiciary himself, Kenric was again introduced; but this time heavily ironed, and in the charge of two ordinary constables of the hundred.
"Ha! what is this?" asked Ranulf de Glanville, sharply. "For what is this man brought here again in this guise? Judgment was rendered in his case, last night; and I would have all men to know, that from this court there is no appeal. Or is there some new charge against him?"
"In some sort, a new charge, my lord," replied the clerk of the court; "he was arrested last night, the moment he had left this court, on the complaint of Ralph Brito, next of kin to the deceased, for the murder of Ralph Wetheral, the seneschal of Waltheofstow, at the time and in the place, which your lordship wots of, having heard all about it, in the case decided yesterdayde nativo habendo!"
"Now, by my halidom!" said Glanville, the fire flashing to his dark eyes, "this is wonderful insolence andoutrecuidanceon the part of Master Ralph Brito, who is himself, or should be, under arrest for perjury——"
"So, please you, he hath entered bail for his appearance, and is discharged of custody."
"Who is his bondsman, and in what bail is he held?"
"So please you, in a hundred marks of silver. Sir Foulke d'Oilly is his bondsman."
"The bail is well enough; the bondsman is not sufficient. Let the proper officer attach the body of Ralph Brito. Upon my life! he has the impudence to brave us here, in court."
"Who? I not sufficient," cried Sir Foulke d'Oilly, fiercely, rising to his feet, as if to defy the court. "I not sufficient for a paltry bail of a hundred marks of silver? I would have you to know, Sir Ranulf——"
"And I would have you to know, sir," thundered the high justiciary, "that this is 'the King's court,' in the precincts of which you have dared to make your voice be heard; and that I, humble as I am, stand here inloco regis, and will be treated with the reverence due to my master. For the rest, I will speak with you anon, when I shall have dealt with this case now before me, which seems one of shameful persecution and oppression."
Sir Foulke d'Oilly had remained on his feet during the time the justiciary was speaking; and now, turning his eye to his barons and the knights of his train, who took the cue, and rose silently, he began to move toward the door.
"Ha! is it so? Close up, halberdiers; guard the doors! Pursuivants, do your duty. Sheriff of Lancaster, have you a guard at hand to protect the court?"
"Surely, my lord," replied Sir Yvo de Taillebois. "Without, there! pass the word to the proper officer, that he turn out the guard."
In a moment, the call of the bugles of the archery was heard, and was shortly succeeded by the heavy, ordered march of infantry, closing up to the doors, while the cavalry-trumpets rang through the narrow streets of the old city, and the clash of mail-coats and the tramp of chargers told that the men-at-arms were falling in, in great numbers.
Meanwhile, two of the pursuivants, in waiting on Clarencieux, had made their way to Sir Foulke d'Oilly, and whispered something in his ear, which, whatever it was, made him turn as pale as death, and sink down into his seat, without saying a word, while the pursuivants remained standing at his back. The nobles and knights of his train looked at him, and looked at one another, with troubled glances; but, finding no solution to their doubts or answer to their question, seated themselves in sullen discontent.
The multitude which filled the court-house, meantime, was in the wildest state of confusion and consternation; the call for the military force had struck terror into all, especially the feebler part of the crowd, the aged persons and women, many of whom were present; for none knew, in those stormy times, how soon swords might be drawn in the court itself or the hall cleared by a volley of cloth-yard arrows from the sheriff's Kendal archers.
After a while, however, by the exertions of the proper officers, order was restored; and then, as if nothing had occurred to interrupt the thread of his thoughts, de Glanville continued in the matter of Kenric, who still waited in custody of the sheriff's officers.
"Be there any other charges against this man, Kenric, beside this one of murder?"
"One of deer-killing, my lord, against the statute, in the forest court, at the same time, and in the same place, as stated yesterday."
"And on the same evidence, doubtless, on which the jury pronounced yesterday. In fact, there can be no other. In the last charge, who is the prosecutor?"
"Sir Foulke d'Oilly, my lord."
"Ah! Sir Foulke d'Oilly! Sir Foulke d'Oilly!" cried Sir Ranulf, looking lightnings at him, and then turning to the clerk. "Well, sir. This matter is not as yet in the province of this court. Let it go to the grand jury now in session, and see that they have copies of the warrants, and full minutes of all the evidence rendered in the casede nativo, and of the jury's finding, that they may have the power to judge if these charges be not purely malicious."
A solemn pause followed, full of grave expectation, while the officers were removing Kenric from the hall, and while the high-justiciary, his assessors on the bench, the high-constable, the earl mareschal, and the sheriff of the county were engaged in close consultation.
At the end of this conference, the high-sheriff formally appointed Sir Hugo le Norman to be his deputy, with full powers, by the consent of the court, invested him with his chain and staff of office, and, shortly afterward, appeared in his private capacity, in the body of the hall; and it was now observed, which had not been noticed while he wore his robes of his office, that he carried his right arm in a sling, and halted considerably in his gait, as if from a recent injury.
"Stand forward, now, Sir Foulke d'Oilly," exclaimed the justiciary. "Crier, call Sir Foulke d'Oilly into court."
Then, as the knight made his appearance at the bar, followed by the two pursuivants—
"Now, Sir Foulke d'Oilly," he proceeded, "what have you to say, why you stand not committed to answer for the murder of Sir Philip de Morville, and his esquire, Jehan de Morville, basely and treacherously by you and others unknown, on them, done and committed, in the forest of Sherwood, by the river of Idle, in the shire of Nottingham, on the sixth day of August last passed, as charged on good and sufficient evidence against you?"
"By whom is the charge put in?" inquired the felon knight, who, now that he was certain of the worst, had mustered all his ruffian courage to his aid, and was ready to bear down all opposition by sheer brute force and determination.
"By Sir Yvo de Taillebois, Lord of High Yewdale, Hawkshead, Coniston, and Kendal, and High-Sheriff of this shire of Lancaster."
"The Knight of Taillebois," retorted the other, "can put in no such charge, seeing that he is not of the blood of the man alleged to be murdered."
"Ha! how say you to that, Sir Yvo de Taillebois?"
"I say, my lord," replied De Taillebois, "that in this, as in all else, Sir Foulke d'Oilly lies in his teeth and in his throat; and that Iamof the blood of Sir Philip de Morville, by him most foully and most treacherously murdered. May it please you, my lord, call Clarencieux, king-at-arms."
"Ho! Clarencieux, what knowest thou of this kindred of these houses?"
"We find, my lord," replied Clarencieux, "that in the reign of Duke Robert, father of King William the Conqueror, Raoul, Count of Evreux, in the Calvados, gave his daughter Sybilla in wedlock to Amelot, Lord of Taillebois, in the Beauvoisis. The son of this Raoul of Evreux was Stephen, invested with the fief of Morville, in Morbihan, who fought at Hastings, and for good service rendered there and elsewhere, received the fief of Waltheofstow in Sherwood. The son of Amelot of Taillebois and Sybilla was Yvo de Taillebois, the elder, who fought likewise at Hastings, and for good service performed there and elsewhere was enfeoffed of the lordships of Coniston and Yewdale; as his son became seized, afterward, of those of Hawkshead and Kendal, in right of his mother, sister and sole heiress of the Earls Morear and Edwin, and wife of Yvo de Taillebois, first Norman Lord of Kendal. Therefore, this Stephen de Morville, first Norman lord of Waltheofstow, was maternal uncle to Yvo de Taillebois, first Norman lord of Coniston and Yewdale. Now, Philip de Morville, deceased, was fourth in descent, in the direct male line, from Stephen, who fought at Hastings; and Yvo de Taillebois, here present, is third in descent, in the direct male line, from the elder Yvo, the nephew of Stephen, who also fought at Hastings; as is set down in this parchment roll, which no man can gainsay. Therefore, Sir Yvo de Tailleboisisof the blood of Sir Philip de Morville, deceased; and is competent to put in a charge of the murder of his kinsman."
"On what evidence does he charge me?"
"On that of an eye-witness," exclaimed Sir Yvo de Taillebois. "Let them call Eadwulf the Red."
"A fugitive serf, deer-slayer, and murderer!" cried Sir Foulke d'Oilly.
"But under the king's safe conduct, here in court," said Sir Ranulf, "and under proclamation of liberty and free pardon of all offenses, if by his evidence conviction be procured of the doers of this most foul murder."
Then Eadwulf was produced in court, miserably emaciated and half-starved, but resolute of mien and demeanor, and obstinate as ever. He had been discovered, by mere chance, in a cavern among the hills, half-frozen, and more than half-starved, by the foresters of High Yewdale, who had been instructed to keep a lookout for him; and, having been with difficulty resuscitated, and made acquainted with the tenor of the king's proclamation, had been forwarded, in a litter, by relays of horses, in order to give evidence to the murder.
But, as it proved, his evidence was not needed; for, so soon as he saw him in court, Sir Foulke d'Oilly pleaded not guilty, flung down his glove, and declared himself ready to defend his innocence with his body.
"The matter is out of my jurisdiction," said Sir Ranulf de Glanville. "My Lord High Constable, and you, Earl Mareschal of England, it is before your Court of Chivalry."
"Sir Yvo de Taillebois is the appellant," said the high-constable. "Do you take up the glove, and are you ready in like manner to defend your charge with your body?"
"I am ready, with my own body, or with that of my champion; for, unless the wager of battle be deferred these two months, I may not brook the weight of my armor, or wield a sword, as my leech has herein on oath testified;" and, with the words, he handed a scroll to the court.
"Thou hast the right to appear by thy champion. To defer the trial were unseemly," said the constable, after a moment's consultation with the mareschal. "Take up his glove, Sir Yvo de Taillebois."
De Taillebois took it up; and both parties being called upon to produce their pledges, Sir Yvo de Taillebois gave Lord Dacre and Sir Hugo le Norman, and Sir Foulke d'Oilly, Sir Reginald Maltravers and Sir Humphrey Bigod, who became their godfathers, as it is termed, for the battle. Whereupon, Sir Humphrey de Bohun, the high-constable, thus spoke, and the herald, following his words, made proclamation—
"Hear ye, Sir Yvo de Taillebois and Sir Foulke d'Oilly, appellant and appellee; ye shall present yourselves, you Sir Yvo de Taillebois, appellant, in your own person, or by your champion, to be by this court approved, and you, Sir Foulke d'Oilly, appellee, in your person, in the tilt-yard of this Castle of Lancaster, at ten o'clock of the morning of the third day hereafter, to do battle to the uttermost on this quarrel. And the terms of battle shall be these—on foot, shall ye fight; on a spot of dry and even ground, sixty paces in length, and forty in breadth, inclosed with barriers seven feet high, with no one within them, to aid or abet you, save God and your own prowess. Your weapons shall be a long sword and a short sword, and a dagger; but your arms defensive may be at your own will; and ye shall fight until one of you be slain, or shall have yielded, or until the stars be seen in heaven. And the conditions of the battle are these; if the appellee slay the appellant, or force him to cry 'craven,' or make good his defense until the stars be seen in heaven, then shall he, the appellee, be acquitted of the murder. But if the appellant slay the appellee, or force him to cry 'craven,' or if the appellee refuse to continue the fight, then shall he, the appellee, be held convicted of the murder. And whosoever of the two shall be slain, or shall cry 'craven,' or shall refuse to continue the fight, shall be stripped of his armor, where he lies, and shall be dragged by horses out of the lists, by a passage made in one of the angles, and shall be hanged, in the presence of the mareschal; and his escutcheon shall be reversed, and his name shall be declared infamous forever. This is the sentence of this court, therefore—that on the third day hence, ye do meet in the tilt-yard of this Castle of Lancaster, at ten o'clock of the morning, and there do battle, in this quarrel, to the uttermost. And so may God defend the right!"
Before the court adjourned, a messenger came into the hall from the grand jury, and Kenric was re-conducted into the presence, still ironed, and in custody of the officers.
Sir Ranulf de Glanville opened the parchment scroll, and read aloud, as follows—
"In the case of Kenric surnamed the Dark, accused of deer-slaying, against the forest statute, and of murder, or homicide, both alleged to have been done and committed in the forest of Sherwood, on the 13th day of September last passed, the grand inquest, now in session, do find that there is no bill, nor any cause of process."Done and delivered in Lancaster Castle, this 6th day of December, in the year of Grace 1184."Walleran de Vipont,"Foreman of yeGrand Inquest."
"In the case of Kenric surnamed the Dark, accused of deer-slaying, against the forest statute, and of murder, or homicide, both alleged to have been done and committed in the forest of Sherwood, on the 13th day of September last passed, the grand inquest, now in session, do find that there is no bill, nor any cause of process.
"Done and delivered in Lancaster Castle, this 6th day of December, in the year of Grace 1184.
"Walleran de Vipont,"Foreman of yeGrand Inquest."
"Why, of course not," said Ranulf de Glanville. "Not a shadow of a cause. Strike off those irons. He stands discharged, in all innocence and honor. Go thy ways, sirrah, and keep clear of the law, I counsel you, in future; and, for this time, thank God and the laws of your country, that you are a freeman, in a whole skin, this evening."
"I do thank God, andyou, Sir Ranulf, that you have given me a fair trial and free justice."
"God forbid, else, man! God forbid, else!" said the justiciary; "and now, this court stands adjourned until to-morrow, in the morning, at six of the clock. Heralds, make proclamation; God save the King!"
"Then rode they together full right,With sharpe speares and swordes bright;They smote together sore.They spent speares and brake shields;They pounsed as fowl in the fields;Either foamed as doth a boar."
"Then rode they together full right,With sharpe speares and swordes bright;They smote together sore.They spent speares and brake shields;They pounsed as fowl in the fields;Either foamed as doth a boar."
"Then rode they together full right,With sharpe speares and swordes bright;They smote together sore.They spent speares and brake shields;They pounsed as fowl in the fields;Either foamed as doth a boar."
"Then rode they together full right,
With sharpe speares and swordes bright;
They smote together sore.
They spent speares and brake shields;
They pounsed as fowl in the fields;
Either foamed as doth a boar."
Sir Triamour.
The fatal third day had come about, and with it all the dreadful preparations for the judicial combat.
With what had passed in the long interval between, to those whose more than lives, whose very hearts and souls, whose ancient names and sacred honors, were staked on the event, it is not for us to know or inquire. Whether the young champion, for it was generally known that Sir Aradas de Ratcliffe, invested with the golden-spurs and consecrated with the order of knighthood, by the sword of the earl mareschal, in order to enable him to meet the appellee on equal terms, was appointed, with the full consent of the Court of Chivalry, champion for the appellant—whether, I say, the young champion ever doubted, and wished he had waited some fairer opportunity, when he might win the golden-spurs without the fearful risk of dying a shameful death, and tarnishing forever an unblemished name, I know not. If he did, it was a human hesitation, and one which had not dishonored the bravest man who ever died in battle.
Whether the young and gentle maiden, the lovely Guendolen, the most delicate and tender of women, who scarce might walk the earth, lest she should dash her foot against a stone; or breathe the free air of heaven, lest it should blow on her damask cheek too rudely—whethershenever repented that she had told him, "for this I myself will gird the sword upon your thigh," when she thought of the bloody strife in which two must engage, but whence one only could come forth alive; when she thought of the mangled corpse; of the black gibbet; of the reversed escutcheon; of the dishonored name; whether she never wept, and trembled, and almost despaired, I know not. If she did not, she was more or less than woman. But her face was pale as ivory, and her eyes wore a faint rose-colored margin, as if she had either wept, or been sleepless, for above one night, when she appeared from her lodging on that awful morning; though her features were as firm and rigid as if they had been carved out of that Parian marble which their complexion most resembled, and her gait and bearing were as steady and as proud as if she were going to a coronation, rather than to the awful trial that should seal her every hope on earth, of happiness or misery.
They little know the spirit of the age of chivalry, who imagine that, because in the tilt, the tournament, the joust, the carrousel, all was pomp and splendor, music and minstrelsy, and military glory, largesse of heralds and love of ladies,loson earth and fame immortal after death, there was any such illusion or enchantment in the dreadful spectacle of an appeal to the judgment of God by wager of battle.
In it there were no gayly decorated lists, flaunting with tapestries and glittering with emblazoned shields; no gorgeous galleries crowded with ladies, a galaxy of beauty in its proudest adornment; no banners, no heralds in their armorial tabards, no spirit-thrilling shouts, no soul-inspiring music, only a solitary trumpet for the signals; but, instead of this, a bare space strewed with sawdust, and surrounded with naked piles, rudely-fashioned with the saw and hatchet; an entrance at either end, guarded by men-at-arms, and at one angle, just without the barrier, a huge black-gibbet, a block, with the broad ax, the dissecting-knife, and all the hideous paraphernalia of the headsman's trade, and himself a dark and sordid figure, masked and clad in buff of bull's hide, speckled and splashed with the gory stains of many a previous slaughter, leaning against the gallows. The seats for the spectators—for, like all other tragedies of awful and engrossing interest, a judicial combat never lacked spectators—were strewed, in lieu of silken-hangings and sendal-cushions, with plain black serge; and the spectators themselves, in lieu of the gay, holiday vestments in which they were wont to attend the gay and gentle passages of arms, wore only their every-day attire, except where some friend or favorer of the appellant or appellee, affected to wear white, in token of trust in his innocence, with a belt or kerchief of the colors worn by the favored party.
Amid all this gloom and horror, the only relieving point was the superb surcoats and armor of the constable and mareschal, and the resplendent tabard of the king-at-arms, who sat on their caparisoned horses without the lists, backed by a powerful body of men-at-arms and archers, as judges of the field, and doomsters of the vanquished in that strife which must end in death and infamy to one or the other of the combatants.
From an early hour, long before the first gray dawn of day, all the seats, save those preserved for certain distinguished personages, had been occupied by a well-dressed crowd; all the avenues to the place were filled, choked, to overflowing; the roofs, the balconies, the windows of every house that commanded a view of the lists, the steeples of the neighboring churches, the battlements and the bartizans of the gray old castle, already gray and old in the second century of Norman dominion, were crowded with eager and excited multitudes—so great was the interest created by the tidings of that awful combat, and the repute for prowess of the knights who were pitted in it to meet and part no more, until one should go down forever.
And now the shadow was cast upon the dial, close to the fated hour of ten, from the clear winter sun, to borrow the words of the greatest modern poet—
"Which rose upon that heavy day, And mocked it with its steadiest ray."
The castle gates rolled open on their hinges, grating harsh thunder; and forth came a proud procession, the high-justiciary and his five associate judges, with their guard of halberdiers, and the various high officers of the court, among these the sheriff, whose anxious and interested looks, and, yet more, whose pale and lovely daughter, hanging on his arm, so firm and yet so wan and woe-begone, excited general sympathy.
And when it was whispered through the multitude, as it was almost instantaneously—for such things travel as by instinct—that she was the betrothed of the young appellant, and that, to win her with his spurs of gold, he had assumed this terrible emprize, all other excitement was swallowed up in the interest created by the cold and almost stern expression of her lovely features, and her brave demeanor.
And more ladies than one whispered in the ears of those who were dearest to them; "If he be vanquished, she will not survive him!"
And many a manly voice, shaken in a little of its firmness, made reply;
"He may be slain, but he can not be vanquished."
Scarcely had the members of the Court been seated, with those of the higher gentry and nobility, who had waited to follow in their suit, when from the tower of a neighboring Cistercian house, the clock struck ten; and, now, as in that doleful death-scene in Parisina;
"The convent-bells are ringing, But mournfully and slow: In the gray square turret swinging, With a deep sound, to and fro, Heavily to the heart they go. Hark! the hymn is singing— The song for the dead below, Or the living who shortly shall be so; For a departing being's soul The death-hymn peals, and the hollow bells knoll."
While those bells were yet tolling, and before the echoes of the last stroke of ten had died away, two barefooted friars entered the lists, one at either end, each carrying a Bible and a crucifix; and at the same moment the two champions were seen advancing, each to his own end of the lists, accompanied by his sureties or god-fathers, all armed in complete suits of chain-mail; Sir Aradas as appellant, entering at the east, Sir Foulke at the left end of the inclosure.
Here they were met each by one of the friars, the constable and mareschal riding close up to the barriers, to hear the plighting of their oaths.
And at this moment, the eyes of all the multitude were riveted on the forms of the two adversaries, and every judgment was on the stretch to frame auguries of the issue, from the thews, the sinews, and the demeanor, of the two champions.
It was seen at a glance that Sir Foulke d'Oilly was by far the stronger-built and heavier man. He was exceedingly broad-shouldered, and the great volume of his humeral muscles gave him the appearance of being round-backed; but he was deep-chested, and long-armed; and, though his hips were thick and heavy, and his legs slightly bowed—perhaps in consequence of his almost living on horseback—it was evident that he was a man of gigantic strength, impaired neither by excess nor age, for he did not seem to be more than in his fortieth year.
Sir Aradas de Ratcliffe, on the contrary, was nearly three inches taller than his opponent, and proportionately longer in the reach; but altogether he was built more on the model of an Antinous than a Hercules. If he were not very broad in the shoulders, he was singularly deep and round in the chest, and remarkable for the arched hollow of his back and the thinness of his flanks. His arms and legs were irreproachable, and, all in all, he trod the firm earth with
"A station like the herald Mercury, New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill."
But it was from the features of the two men that most took their auspices, and that the friends of Aradas drew confident augury of his triumph.
The face of Sir Foulke d'Oilly was flaccid and colorless, with huge over-lapping brows shading his small keen eyes with a pent-house of grizzly bristles, large pendant cheeks, a sinister hooked nose, and a mouth indicative of lust, cruelty, and iron firmness—altogether, a sordid vulturine type of man.
The features of Aradas, on the contrary, were clean, clear, fleshless, and finely marked; a broad, smooth forehead, straight-cut black eyebrows, well-opened hazel eyes, with a tawny flash when excited, like to that of a lion or an eagle, a nose slightly aquiline, and a mouth not less benevolent than resolute. No one could look at him and his opponent, without thinking instinctively of the gallant heaven-aspiring falcon matched with the earthly, carrion vulture.
Nor was there less meaning or omen in the tone of their voices, as they swore.
Men paused to listen breathlessly; for among the lower classes on the field there were heavy bets pending on the issue, and the critical judges of those days believed that there was much in the voice of a man.
As each entered the lists, he was met by a friar, who encountered him with the question, "Brother, hast thou confessed thy sins this morning?"
To this, d'Oilly muttered a reply, inaudible to the questioner; but Aradas made answer, in a voice that rang like a silver bell, "I have confessed my sins, father, and, thanks to the Lord Jesus, have received absolution and the most holy sacrament of his body."
The questions were then put to both, to be answered with the hand on the evangelists and the lip on the crucifix—
"Do you hereby swear that your former answers and allegations are all true; that you bear no weapons but those allotted by the court; that you have no charms about you; that you place your whole trust in God, in the goodness of your cause, and in your own prowess?"
To this solemn query, Sir Foulke replied only by the two words, "I swear!" and those so obscurely uttered, that the constable called on him to repeat them.
But Sir Aradas raised his head, and looked about him with a frank and princely air. "I hereby swear," he said, "that which I swore heretofore—that Sir Foulke d'Oilly is a murderer, a liar, and a traitor—to be true, and on his body I will prove it; that I have not, nor will use any weapons save what the court allot me; that I wear neither charm nor talisman; and that, save in my good cause, my own right hand, and my trust in God, I have not whereon to rest my hope, here, or hereafter. So may He help me, or desert me at my utmost need, on whose evangelists I am now sworn."
Then the godfathers led the men up face to face, and each grasping the other by the mailed right hand, they again swore—
The appellant, "My uttermost will I do, and more than my uttermost, if it may be, to slay thee on this ground whereon we stand, or to force thee to cry 'craven'—so help me God, in his most holy heaven!"
And the appellee, "My uttermost will I do, and more, if may be, than my uttermost, to prove my innocence upon thy body, on this ground whereon we stand—so help me God, in the highest!"
The same difference was observed in the voices of the two men, as they again swore; for while the tones of Aradas had the steel-tempered ring of the gallant game-cock's challenge, the notes of Sir Foulke were liker to the quavering croak of the obscene raven.
Then the godfathers retired them, till they stood face to face, with thirty feet between them, and delivered to them the arms allotted by the court. These were—a dagger, with a broad, flat blade, eighteen inches in length, worn in a scabbard on the right side, behind the hip; an estoc, or short sword, of about two feet six, with a sharp point, and grooved bayonet-blade, hanging perpendicularly on the left thigh; and a huge two-handed broadsword, four feet from guard to point, with a hilt of twenty inches, and a great leaden pommel to counterbalance the weight of the blade in striking.
Their defensive arms were nearly similar. Each wore a habergeon, or closely-fitting shirt of linked mail, with mail sleeves, mail hose, poldron, genouillieres, and shoes of plated splints of steel; and flat-topped helmets, with avantailles and beavers. But the neck of Sir Foulke d'Oilly was defended by the new-fashioned gorget of steel plates, while Aradas adhered to the old mail-hood or tippet, hooked on to the lower rim of his beaver. And it was observed that while d'Oilly wore his small heater-shaped shield on his left arm, De Ratcliffe threw his over his shoulder, suspended from the chain which held it about his neck, so as to leave both his arms free to wield his mighty war-sword.
Beyond this, it was only noted that in the casque of Sir Aradas was a lady's glove, and on his left arm an azure scarf, fringed with gold, such as the pale girl on the seneschal's arm wore, over her snow-white cymar, crossing her left shoulder and the region of her heart.
And now the godfathers left the lists, and none remained within them save the two champions facing each other, like two pillars of steel, as solid and as motionless, until the word should be given to set on, and the two barefooted friars, crouching on their knees in the angles of the lists, muttering their orisons before the crucifixes, which they held close before their eyes, as if to shut out every untoward sight which might mar their meditations.
Then a single trumpet was blown. A sharp, stern, warning blast. And a herald made proclamation;
"Oyez! oyez! oyez! This ischamp clos, for the judgment of God. Therefore, beware all men, to give no aid or comfort to either combatant, by word, deed, sign, or token, on pain of infamy and mutilation."
Then the constable rose in his stirrups, and cried aloud—
"Let them go!"
And the trumpet sounded.
"Let them go!"
And, again, the trumpet sounded.
"Let them go! Do your duty!"
And the earl mareschal answered,
"And may God defend the right!"
And, the third time, the trumpet sounded, short and direful as the blast of doom; and at that deadly summons, with brandished blades, both champions started forward; but the first bound of Sir Aradas carried him across two thirds of the space, and his sword fell like a thunderbolt on the casque of his antagonist, and bent him almost to his knee. But that was no strife to be ended at a blow; and they closed, foot to foot, dealing at each other sweeping blows, which could not be parried, and could scarcely be avoided, but which were warded off by their armor of proof.
It was soon observed that Sir Foulke d'Oilly's blows fell with far the weightier dint, and that, when they took effect, it was all his lighter adversary could do to bear up against them. But, on the other hand, it was seen that, by his wonderful agility, and the lithe motions of his supple and elastic frame, Sir Aradas avoided more blows than he received, and that each stroke missed by his enemy told almost as much against him as a wound.
At the end of half an hour, no material advantage had been gained; the mail of either champion was broken in many places, and the blood flowed, of both, from more wounds than one; that of Aradas the more freely.
But as they paused, perforce, to snatch a moment's breath, it was clear that Sir Aradas was the fresher and less fatigued of the two; while Sir Foulke was evidently short of wind, and hard pressed.
It was not the young man's game to give his enemy time—so, before half a minute had passed, he set on him again, with the same fiery vigor and energy as before. His opponent, however, saw that the long play was telling against him, and it appeared that he was determined to bring the conflict to a close by sheer force.
One great stride he made forward, measuring his distance accurately with his eye, and making hand and foot keep time exactly, as he swung his massive blade in a full circle round his head, and delivered the sweeping blow, at its mightiest impetus, on the right side of his enemy's casque.
Like a thunderbolt it fell; and, beneath its sway, the baçinet, cerveilliere, and avantaille of Aradas gave way, shattered like an egg-shell. He stood utterly unhelmed, save that the beaver and the base of the casque, protecting the nape of his neck and his lower jaw, held firm, and supported the mailed hood of linked steel rings, which defended his neck to the shoulder. All else was bare, and exposed to the first blow of his now triumphant antagonist.
The fight seemed ended by that single blow; and, despite the injunction of the herald, a general groan burst from the assembly. Guendolen covered her face with her hands for a second, but then looked up again, with a wild and frenzied eye, compelled to gaze, to the last, on that terribly fascinating scene.
But then was it shown what might there is in activity, what resistless power in quickness. For, leaping and bounding round the heavy giant, like a sword-player, letting him waste his every blow on the empty air or in the impassive sawdust, Aradas plied his sword like a thrasher's flail, dealing every blow at his neck and the lacings of his casque, till fastening after fastening broke, and it was clear that d'Oilly, too, would be unhelmed in a few more moments.
The excitement of the people was ungovernable; they danced in their seats, they shouted, they roared. No heralds, no pursuivants, no men-at-arms, could control them. The soul of the people had awakened, and what could fetter it?
Still, wonderful as they were, the exertions of Aradas, completely armed in heavy panoply, were too mighty to last. The thing must be finished. Down came the trenchant blade with a circling sweep, full on the jointed-plates of d'Oilly's new-fangled gorget. Rivet after rivet, plate after plate, gave way with a rending crash; his helmet rolled on the ground. He stood bare-headed, bare-throated, unarmed to the shoulders.
But the same blow which unhelmed d'Oilly disarmed Aradas. His faithless sword was shivered to the hilt; and what should he do now, with only that weak, short estoc, that cumbrous dagger, against the downright force of the resistless double-handed glaive?
Backward he sprang ten paces. The glittering estoc was in his right, the short massive dagger in his left. He dropped on his right knee, crouching low, both arms hanging loosely by his sides, but with his eye glaring on his foeman, like that of the hunted tiger.
No sooner had Sir Foulke rallied from the stunning effects of the blow, and seen how it was with him, his enemy disarmed, and, as it seemed, at his power, than a hideous sardonic smile glared over his lurid features, and he strode forward with his sword aloft, to triumph and to kill. When he was within six paces of his kneeling adversary, he paused, measured his distance—it was the precise length for one stride, one downright blow, on that bare head, which no earthly power could now shield against it.
There was no cry now among the people—only a hush. Every heart stood still in that vast concourse.
"Wilt die, or cry 'craven?'"
The eye of Aradas flashed lightning. Lower, he crouched lower, to the ground. His left hand rose slowly, till the guard of his dagger was between his own left, and his enemy's right eye. His right hand was drawn so far back, that the glittering point of the estoc only showed in front of his hip. Lower, yet lower, he crouched, almost in the attitude of the panther couchant for his spring.
One stride made Sir Foulke d'Oilly forward; and down, like some tremendous engine, came the sword-sweep—the gazers heard it whistle through the air as it descended.
What followed, no eye could trace, no pen could describe. There was a wild cry, like that of a savage animal; a fiery leap through a cloud of whirling dust; a straight flash through the haze, like lightning.
One could see that somehow or other that slashing cut was glanced aside, but how, the speed of thought could not trace.
It was done in a second, in the twinkling of an eye. And, as the dust subsided, there stood Aradas, unmoved and calm as the angel of death, with his arms folded, and nothing in his hand save the dagger shivered to the guard. And at his feet lay his enemy, as if stricken by a thunderbolt, with his eyes wide open and his face to heaven, and the deadly estoc buried, to the gripe, in the throat, that should lie no more forever.
Pass we the victor's triumph, and the dead traitor's doom; pass we the lovers' meeting, and the empty roar of popular applause. That was, indeed, the judgment of God; and when God hath spoken, in the glory of his speechless workings, it is good that man should hold his peace before him.
"The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom,So fair a bride shall leave her home!Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,So fair a bride shall pass to-day."
"The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom,So fair a bride shall leave her home!Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,So fair a bride shall pass to-day."
"The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom,So fair a bride shall leave her home!Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,So fair a bride shall pass to-day."
"The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom,
So fair a bride shall leave her home!
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,
So fair a bride shall pass to-day."
Longfellow.
The dark winter months, with their alternate snows, sheeting the wide moorlands, and roofing the mighty mountain-tops of the lake country with inviolate white, and soft thaws swelling the streamlets into torrents, inundating the grassy meadows, and converting the mountain tarns into inland seas, had passed away; nor passed away all gloomily, or without their appropriate and peculiar pleasures, from the sojourners in Hawkshead Castle.
All over Merrie England, but in no part of it more than in the north country, was Christmas the gladdest and the blythest time of all the circling year; when every door stood open, from that of the baron's castle and the franklin's hall to that of the poorest cotter's cabin; when the yule log was kindled, and the yule candle lighted; when the furmety smoked on every English board, and the wassail bowl was spiced for all comers; when the waits sang Christmas carols under the clear cold moon in the frosty midnights, and the morris-dancers and the mummers rioted and reveled to the rude minstrelsy of the time, and made the most of the short-lived wintery sunshine; when ancient feuds were often reconciled, and ancient friendships riveted by closer ties; when families long dissevered were re-collected and re-united about the old ancestral hearth-stones; when the noble and the rich filled their abundant halls with sumptuous luxury and loud-rejoicing merriment, and the poor were not forgotten by the great.
Indeed, though there was much that was coarse and rude, much that was hard, cruel, and oppressive, in the social life of England, in those old and almost forgotten days, there was much also that was good and generous and genial, much that was sound and hearty, much that was brave and hale and masculine, which has vanished and departed from the world forever, with the vaunted progress of civilization and refinement,
In those old timesWhen the Christmas chimesWere a merry sound to hear,When the squire's wide hall,And the cottage small,Were full of good English cheer.
In those old timesWhen the Christmas chimesWere a merry sound to hear,When the squire's wide hall,And the cottage small,Were full of good English cheer.
In those old timesWhen the Christmas chimesWere a merry sound to hear,When the squire's wide hall,And the cottage small,Were full of good English cheer.
In those old times
When the Christmas chimes
Were a merry sound to hear,
When the squire's wide hall,
And the cottage small,
Were full of good English cheer.
Above all, there was this great redeeming virtue, conspicuous among the flagrant wrongs and innate evils of society under the feudal system, that between the governors and the governed, between the lord and his lieges, nay, even between the master and his serfs, there was then no such social gulf established, as now yawns, in these boasted days of civilizing progress and political equality, between castes and classes, separated by little else than their worth, estimated by the standard of gold—gold, which seems, daily and hourly, more and more to be over-riding all distinctions of honored ancestry, high name, noble deeds, personal deserts, nay, even of distinguished bearing, of intellect, of education, of accomplishment, much more of truth, integrity or honor.
During these wintery months, accordingly, there had been all the free, open-hearted hospitality of the day, displayed throughout the wide manors of Hawkshead, Coniston, and Yewdale, and in the neighboring demesnes of Rydal, and something more even than the wonted merriment and joviality of that sacred yet joyous season.
Many of the grand baronial families of the vicinity, attracted as much, perhaps, by the singular and romantic interest attaching to the great events, which had filled all the north country with the rumor of their fame as with the blast of a martial trumpet, as by the ties of caste and kindred, had visited the castle palace of Sir Yvo de Taillebois, almost in the guise of bridal guests; for the approaching nuptials of the fair Guendolen with Aradas the Brave were openly announced, although the ceremonial was deferred until the balmy days of spring-time, and the genial month of May. The Cliffords of Barden, the Howards, from Naworth and Carlisle, the Percy, from his already famous strength of Alnwick, the Scropes, the Umfravilles, the Nevilles, from their almost royal principality of Middleham on the Ure, had all in turn tasted the Christmas cheer, and shared the older sports of Yule, in the wild recesses of Kendale; had congratulated the young and noble victor on his double conquest, scarce knowing which was most to be envied, that of the felon knight in the black lists of Lancaster, or that of the soft ladye in the sweetest valley of the lone lake country.
But now, the wintery days had passed away, the snipe was heard drumming every where on vibrated pinions, as he soared and dived in mid-air over the deep morasses, in which he annually bred unmolested; the swallows had returned from their unknown pilgrimage to the spicy isles of ocean, or the central waters of untrodden Africa, and might be seen skimming with rapid wing, the blue mirror of Winandermere, and dimpling its surface in pursuit of their insect prey; the cuckoo had been heard in the birch-woods among the ghylls, and in the huge sycamores around the village garths; the heathcocks blew their clarion call of amorous defiance from every heath-clad knoll of the wide moorlands; the cushat had donned the iris hues which paint his swelling neck in the spring days of love and courtship; the meadows were alive with crocuses, brown-streaked and purple, white and golden; the snow-drops had raised their silvery bells, almost before the earth was clear of its winter covering; the primroses gemmed all the banks with their pale saffron blossoms, the air was redolent with the delicious perfume of the violets.
It was the eve of May, and as the sun was setting over the misty hills that keep guard over high Yewdale, amid a long and joyous train, dragged slowly by ten yoke of milk-white oxen, with nosegays on their horns, and branches of the fragrant May canopying their harness, escorted by troops of village girls, and stout hill shepherds, dancing along and caroling to the cadence of the pipe, the tabor, and the rebeck, the mighty Maypole was brought in triumph up the weary winding road to the green esplanade before the castle gates of Hawkshead; and there, before midnight, was swung into its place, crowned with garlands, and fluttering with gay streamers, and glad with the leafy garniture of Spring, "shrouds and stays holding it fast," holding it erect toward heaven, an emblem of that which never can, whatever fanatics and bigots may declare, be unacceptable on High, the innocent and pure rejoicings of humble loving hearts, forgetting toil and care, and casting away sorrow for one happy day, at least, the merriest and the maddest of the three hundred and sixty-five, which sum the checkered score of man's annual vicissitudes of labor and repose, brief merriment and lasting sorrow.
During the night deep silence and deep slumber fell like a shadow over keep and cottage, and not a sound disturbed the stillness of the vernal night, unless it were the quavering cry of some night-bird among the tufted woods, or the shrill bark of the hill fox from the mountain side, or the deep harmonious call "All's well," from the warder on the lofty battlements.
But long before the paly dawn had begun to throw its faint yellow glimmer up the eastern sky, while the moon was yet riding lustrous in the cloudless azure, with the morning-star flashing like a diamond by her side, many a cottage door in the silent hamlet, many a one on the gentle slopes of the green hill sides, many a one in the broad pastoral valley, was unbolted, and revolved on noiseless hinges, to send forth the peasant maids, in shy yet merry bands to gather, with many a mystic rite and ceremonial borrowed, unknown to them, from the mythology of other lands, when Flora ruled the month of flowers, to gather the puissant dews of May.
When the sun rose fair above the eastern hills,
"With blessings on his broad and burnished face,"
his appearance was welcomed by such a burst of joyous and hilarious music from the battlements, as never before had waked the echoes of Scafell and Skiddaw. In that triumphant gush of music there were blended, not only the resounding clangor of the Norman kettle-drums and trumpets, with the clear notes of the mellow bugle, but the tones of a thousand instruments, scarce known on English soil, having been introduced only by the Crusaders from those Oriental climates, in which music is indigenous and native, and from which the retainers of Sir Yvo de Taillebois had imported, not the instruments only but the skill necessary to give them utterance and expression, and the very airs to which, in the cedar-vales, and among the haunted hills of Palestine, they had of old been vocal.
The musical chime of many bells attuned, the silver clash of the cymbals, the roll of the Syrian atabals, the soft tones of the lute, and shrill strains of the Eastern reed-pipes, were blended strangely, but most sonorously with the stirring war-notes of the west. And instantly, as if awakened from sleep by that rejoicing strain, the little chapel bells of Bowness began to tinkle with small merry chimes, across the bright blue lake; and answering, yet further in the distance, though still clearly audible, so apt to the conveyance of sounds is the tranquillity and the clear vibrating air of those mountain regions, the full carillon of the magnificent Abbey of Kendal the stately ruins of which are still extant, as if to teach us boastful men of modern days, the superiority of our semi-barbarous ancestors, as we have the vanity to term them, rang out, proclaiming to the sparse population of the dales,
"How fair a bride shall wed to-day."
Around the Maypole on the green, already were assembled, not the vassals only of the great baron, his free-tenants and his serfs, rejoicing in one happy holiday, and in the prospect of gorging themselves ere nightfall throat-full of solid dainties and sound ale, but half the population of the adjacent valleys, hill-farmers, statesmen, as the small land-holders are still called in those unsophisticated districts, burghers from the neighboring towns, wandering monks and wandering musicians, a merry, motley multitude, all in their best attire, all wearing bright looks and light hearts, and expecting, as it would seem from the eager looks directed constantly toward the castle gates, the forthcoming of some spectacle or pageant, on which their interest was fixed.
Two or three Welsh harpers, who had been lured from their Cambrian wilds by the far-spread report of the approaching festivities, and by the hope of gaining silver guerdon from the bounty of the splendid Normans, were seated on a grassy knoll, not far from the tall garlanded mast, which made itself conspicuous as the emblem—as, perhaps, in former ages, it had been the idol—of the day, and from time to time drew from the horse-hair strings of their rude harps some of those sweet, wild, melancholy airs which are still characteristic of the genius of the Kymric race, which still recall the hours
"When Arthur ruled and Taliessin sung;"
but neither to them, nor to the indigenous strains, more agreeable perhaps to their untutored ears, of two native crowders of the dales, who were dragging out strange discords from the wires of their rude violins—nor yet to the more captivating and popular arts of three or four foreign jongleurs, with apes and gitterns—the Savoyards of that remote age, though coming at that day not from the valleys of the lower Alps, but from the western shores of Normandy and Morbihan—did the eager crowd vouchsafe much of their attention, or many of their pennies.
There was a higher interest awake, a more earnest expectation, and these were brought to their climax, when, just as the castle bell tolled eight, the wild and startling blast of a single trumpet rose clear and keen from the inner court, and the great gates flew open.
A gay and gallant sight it was, which, as the heavy drawbridge descended, the huge portcullis slowly rose, creaking and clanking, up its grooves of stone, and the iron-studded portals yawned, revealed itself to the eyes of the by-standers; and loud and hearty was the cheer which it evoked from the assembled multitude.
The whole inner court was thronged with men and horses, gayly clad, lightly armed, and splendidly caparisoned; and, as obedient to the signals of the officers who marshaled them, the vaunt-couriers of the company rode out, four by four, arrayed in Kendal green, with the silver badges and blue sarsenet scarfs of their lord, and white satin favors with long silver streamers, waving from their bonnets, the gleam of embroideries and the fluttering of female garments might be discovered within the long-withdrawing avenue. Four hundred strong, the retainers of the high-sheriff, swept forward, with bow and spear, and were succeeded by a herald in his quartered tabard, and a dozen pursuivants with trumpets.
Behind these came, in proud procession, six tall priests, nobly mounted on ambling palfreys, each bearing a gilded cross, and then the crozier of the abbot of Furness Abbaye, followed by that proud prelate, with his distinctive, hierarchal head-tire, cope, and dalmatique, and all the splendid paraphernalia of his sacred feudal dignity, supported by all his clergy in their full canonicals, and a long train of monks and choristers, these waving perfumed chalices, those raising loud and clear the hymns appointed for the ceremonial.
A hundred gentlemen of birth and station, on foot, bare-headed, clad in the liveries of the house of Taillebois, blue velvet slashed and lined with cloth of silver laid down on white satin, came next, the escort of the bridal party, and were followed by a multitude of beautiful girls, dressed in virgin white, strewing flowers before the feet of the bride's palfrey.
But when she appeared, mounted on a snow-white Andalusian jennet, whose tail and mane literally swept the ground in waves of silver, in her robes of white sendal and cloth of silver, with the bridal head-tire of long-descending gauzy fillets floating around her like a wreath of mist about a graceful cypress, and her long auburn ringlets disheveled in their mazes of bright curls, powdered with diamond dust and garlanded with virgin roses, the very battlements shook to the shouts of applause, which made the banners toss and rustle as if a storm-wind smote them.
Two pages, dressed in cloth of silver, tended her bridle-reins on either hand, and two more bore up the long emblazoned foot-cloths of white and silver, which would otherwise have embarrassed the paces of the beautiful and docile steed which bore her, timing its tread to the soft symphony of lutes and dulcimers which harbingered the progress; while no less than six belted knights, with their chains of gold about their necks, bore the staves of the satin canopy, or baldacchino, which sheltered her fair beauties from the beams of the blythe May morning.
Twelve bridesmaids, all of noble birth, mounted like herself on snow-white palfreys, all robed and filleted in white and silver, and garlanded with pale blush roses, nymphs worthy of the present goddess, bridled and blushed behind her. And there, radiant with love and triumph, making his glorious charger—a red roan, with a mane and tail white and redundant as the surges of the creamy sea—caracole, and bound from the dull earth in sobresaults, croupades and balotades, which would have crazed a professor of equitation with admiration, apart from envy, rode Aradas de Ratcliffe, with his twelve groom's-men glittering with gems, and glorious with silk upon silk, silver upon silver.
Sir Yvo de Taillebois, with twenty or thirty of the greatest barons of the north country, his cotemporaries, and many of them his brothers-in-arms, and fellows at the council-table of their puissant Norman monarch, whom they admitted only to be first baron of the English barons,primus inter pares, brought up the rear of the procession, while yet behind them filed a long band of spears and pennoncelles, and again after these a countless multitude, from all the country side, rejoicing and exulting, to form a portion of the pageant which added so much to the customary pleasures of the Maying.
Thus, for miles, they swept onward through the pleasant meadow-land, tufted and gemmed with unnumbered flowers, between tall hedges white with the many-blossomed May, and overrun with flaunting clusters of the delicious woodbine.
Once and again they were met by troops of country girls scattering flowers, and as often rode beneath triumphal arches, deftly framed of green leaves and gay wild-flowers by rustic hands, in token of the heart's gratitude, until they reached the shores of the blue lake, where Sir Yvo's yacht awaited them, convoyed by every barque and boat that could be pressed into the service from all the neighboring meres and lakelets of the county.
The wind blew fair and soft, and swelled the sails of cloth of silver, and waved the long azure pennants forward, as omens of happy days ahead; and smoothly over the rippling waters, to the sound of the soft bridal music, galleys and horse-boats, barques and barges, careered in fair procession, while the great multitude, afoot, rushed, like an entering tide, through the horse-roads and lanes around the head of the lake, eager to share the wedding-feast and the wedding dance, at least, if not to witness the nuptial ceremonial.
At Bowness they took horse again, and escorted by the bailiff and burghers of Kendall, proceeded, at an increased pace, to the splendid Abbey Church, dim with the religious light which streamed through its deeply tinted window-panes, and was yet further obscured by the thick clouds from the tossed chalices of incense, through which swelled, like an angel's choir, the pure chant of girls and children, and the deep diapason of the mighty organ.
The nuptial ceremony was followed by a feast fit for kings, served up in the grand hall of Kendal Castle, wherein, before the Norman conquest, the proud Saxon Earls, Morcar and Edwin, maternal ancestors of the fair bride, had banqueted and rioted in state, and where, as tradition related, they had held revel for the last time on the eve of their departure for the fatal field of Hastings, fatal to Saxon liberty, but harbinger of a prouder era, and first cause and creatrix of a nobler race, to rule in Merrie England.
It needs not, here, to dwell on the strange dainties, the now long-disused and unaccustomed viands and beverages of those old days, more than on the romantic feudal usages and abstruse ceremonials of the day; suffice it that, to their palates, heronshaw, egret and peacock, venison and boar's-meat, and chines of the wild bull, were no less dainty than the choicest of our modern luxuries to the beaux and belles of the nineteenth century; and that hypocras and pigment, morat and mead and clary, made the pulses burn and the cheeks mantle as blythely and as brightly as Champagne or Burgundy. The ball, for the nobles in the castle-hall, for the commons on the castle-green, followed the feast; but not till the stocking had been thrown, and the curtain drawn, and the beautiful bride fairly bedded, was the nuptial ceremony esteemed fully ended, which gave the lovely Guendolen, for weal and not for woe, to the brave and faithful Aradas de Ratcliffe.
The raptures of lovers are not to be described; and if the pen of the ready-writer may gain inspiration to delineate the workings of strong mental passions, of intense moral or physical excitements, to depict stormy wrath, the agonies of hope deferred, the slow-consuming pangs of hopeless regret, there is one thing that must ever defy his powers of representation—the calm enjoyment of every-day domestic happiness; the easy and unvarying pleasures of contentment; the placid routine of hourly duties, hourly delights, hourly labors, hourly affections; and that soft intermixture of small cares and passing sorrows, with great blessings tasted, and great gratitudes due, which make up the sum of the most innocent and blessed human life.
And such was the life of Sir Aradas and the fair Guendolen de Ratcliffe, until, to borrow the quaint phrase of the narrator of those incomparable tales of the Thousand and One Nights, "they were visited by the terminator of delights, and the separator of companions. Extolled be the perfection of the Living, who dieth not!"
Sir Yvo de Taillebois lived long enough to see his child's children gathered to his knee; to prognosticate, in their promise, fresh honors to his high-born race; but not so long as to outlive his intellect, his powers to advise, console, enjoy, and, above all, to trust in God. Full of years and full of honors, he was gathered to his fathers in the ripeness of his time, and he sleeps in a quiet churchyard in his native valley, where a green oak-tree shades his ashes, and the ever-vocal music of the rippling Kent sings his sweet, natural requiem.
Eadwulf the Red never recovered from the starvation and exposure endured in his escape and subsequent wanderings; and, though he received the priceless boon of liberty, and the king's free pardon for his crimes, though he passed his declining days in the beautiful cottage nigh Kentmere, with his noble brother, his fair wife, and all the treasured little ones about him, who grew up like olive-branches round Kenric's happy, honored board, with every thing to soothe his stubborn heart and soften his morose and bitter spirit, he lived and died a gloomy, disappointed, bitter, and bad-hearted man, a victim in some sort of the vicious and cruel system which had debased his soul more even than it had degraded his body.
Yet it was not in that accursed system, altogether; for the gallant and good Kenric, and his sweet wife, Edith the Fair, were living proofs, even, as the noble poet sings—